CHAPTER ONE #2
She had just finished tying and twisting the ribbon that confined her soft brown hair out of the way in a convenient knot at the back, when a startling commotion broke out in the yard behind the house.
Grace distinctly heard a muffled shriek and a clatter as something fell. Jemima! What in the world was amiss?
Clumping as hastily as she could through the door on to the landing, Grace threw up the sash window at the back of the house and looked down into the yard.
A bucket had rolled away, its liquid contents sloshing over the cobbles, and the maid was facing the lean-to with both hands clapped over her mouth as if to stop herself from screaming.
Grace called down. “What is it, Jemima? What have you found?”
The girl looked up and saw her, instantly throwing up her hands to beckon madly, shushing at Grace the while. She pointed frantically into the lean-to, but from this angle Grace could not see anything, though she leaned out, craning her neck.
“You’d best come down, miss,” hissed Jemima, beckoning again.
The memory of last night’s fracas rushed in as Grace withdrew her head and shut the window. Something had come in last night. A fox or some such? Perhaps it had been shot at in the marsh and made its way here for shelter.
Moving as speedily as she could for the drag of her heavy boot, conscious of dryness at her mouth and a thrumming in her chest, Grace made her way downstairs and along the corridor that ran past the stairs to the inner back door letting into the lean-to.
The privy was in the corner to one side, but the rest of the space was taken up by the washtub, the huge tin jugs, and a plethora of bits and pieces that had no other place of storage.
Milk cans rubbed shoulders with brooms and a garden rake, and a coil of rope lay untidily over a pair of wooden clogs.
The moment Grace came through the open door, the reason for Jemima’s excitement became apparent.
Something had indeed come in, but it was not an animal.
To one end of the lean-to stood the crude stove of stone with its ash-laden fire, kept alight throughout the day to provide hot water, its smoke escaping through a simple flue behind.
Before it, collapsed in a folded heap, with one leg stretched out, lay the body of a man.
Shock held her momentarily mute, a hollow of nausea opening up inside her. She became aware Jemima had ventured back into the outer doorway, pointing, horror in her eyes and the whisper of her voice.
“Belike he’s drunk, miss. Or dead!”
“Keep that door wide to let in the light,” said Grace on a curt note. Thrusting down revulsion, she stepped with difficulty past the upended washtub and into the limited space the intruder was occupying. Steadying herself with one hand against the wall, she crouched down.
“Is he dead?” came fearfully from the maid.
“I can’t tell yet.”
It was difficult to tell anything, for the fellow’s face was hidden under one hand, the arm of which was tucked awkwardly into his chest. He was dressed in a greatcoat, extremely damp to the touch, and his boots were caked with mud. He wore no hat, and dark hair straggled across his cheek.
Grace swallowed and gingerly slid a hand under his arm, feeling for his heart.
She could not reach it through the thick material of his coat, and she was obliged to tug at its folds so that she could get a hand beneath it.
She felt not a heartbeat, but a deal of wetness.
Her mind froze, and the loud report cutting into the night reared back in her memory.
When she brought out her hand, Jemima shrieked from behind.
Grace’s fingers were covered with blood.
For a moment or two, she stared blindly at her reddened hand, her pulse jumping.
Dazed, she shifted her attention to the man’s hidden face.
Gently she moved his arm, afraid of doing more damage.
Then she brushed the hair away, revealing a profile deathly pale, and very still.
Trembling, Grace leaned right down to him, listening close.
The faintest of breaths was detectable, and when she put her fingers to his open mouth, she was able to feel the veriest hint of life. Grace shifted up again, becoming suddenly urgent. “He is still breathing!”
“’Sakes alive, who’d a’ believed it?”
Grace paid the maid’s comment no heed. “Jemima, run at once to the cottages and fetch Clem and Samuel. We must get him to bed at once, and fetch a doctor to him.”
Jemima seemed incapable of understanding. “Get him to bed, miss? Here?”
“Don’t stand there gaping! Fetch Clem and Samuel. They should be home by now, but if they are not, you must go into the fields and get them, do you understand? Go, Jemima!”
Thus adjured, the girl started as if from a dream, and disappeared.
Grace could hear her feet running on the cobbles.
It was but a few hundred yards to the cottages.
Grace prayed the men were back by this time for their breakfasts from their early work on the farm.
If not, she did not know what she would do.
She and Jemima could hardly manage to drag the injured man up the stairs.
Likely they would kill him in the process.
If only she was not cursed with this stupid leg, she might have been of more use.
For want of anything else to do for him, she began to chafe such parts of his body as she could reach, taking care not to jog his arm and shoulder for fear of making the wound bleed more.
The wonder was he had not bled to death.
That she had heard this man last night, seeking shelter, could not be in doubt.
He had likely disturbed the cottager’s cat, which had come in for warmth by the fire.
A slight groan emanated from the man, inert though he was. Grace left off her ministrations and shifted about to look at his face. She thought his head moved, and she bent closer, murmuring soothingly.
“Lie still, if you please. Hush now, pray. We will have you more comfortable directly.”
At this his head turned sharply, and he hissed a breath.
Grace was startled into silence at sight of him full face.
Pale he might be, but the features were comely.
Lean and shapely, with high cheekbones and a sculptured lip.
His eyes flickered open, showing green in the light that gleamed into the lean-to from the open door. A mutter came.
“De l’anglais! Où suis-je?”
“You are French,” said Grace, sustaining another shock. “Oh, dear Lord!”
He paid no heed to this, but tried to move again, tugging at the arm upon which he was lying, freeing his fingers. Grace became anxious.
“Pray don’t move. I’m afraid your wound will begin to bleed again.” She saw his eyes flicker back to her face. “Does he understand me, I wonder?”
His breath dragged and the handsome features winced. His eyes closed again, but his fingers clawed unavailingly at the folds of his greatcoat.
“Papers,” he muttered in accented English. “Hide…” The green eyes fluttered open once more, a pleading look within them. “I beg you … ces papiers … they have danger.”
Grace took his unquiet fingers within her own. “Where are the papers? In your pockets? Be calm, pray. I will find them.”
He lay quiescent while she searched, with quivering hands, trying not to disturb him.
A vague gesture indicated his uninjured side, and Grace felt inside his coat.
A crackling sound rewarded her. Not without difficulty, she removed from some inner pocket upon his person a small stack of folded papers, moist on the outside.
“I have them. You may rest easy now.”
A hand flew up, as if in salute, and then he sank once more into unconsciousness.
Grace stared at the white face. Who was he?
Was he genteel? The clothes he wore suggested it, together with the timbre of his voice.
A Frenchman, shot last night on the marshes — for had she not heard it?
— and anxious for the safety of his papers.
Her first thought was wholly unpalatable.
Likely a spy? England was at war with France.
Only why did he suffer her, an Englishwoman, to take away these dangerous papers?
Handling them gingerly, afraid of transferring to them the blood that clung to her hands, Grace opened the pack of papers and peeped at its contents.
Seals showed within, and what writing she could see was in French.
She would have to find a private moment to lay them out and try to decipher their contents.
Running footsteps penetrated her awareness: Jemima, returning with the farmhands.
Quickly refolding the package, Grace thrust it through the slit in her petticoats, stuffing it into the pocket beneath.
Not a moment too soon, for even as she withdrew her hand, Clem and Samuel thudded into the yard, Jemima in close pursuit.
Seated beside the bed in the spare chamber, Grace contemplated her uninvited guest with a good deal of concern.
It had been no easy task for the two farmhands to extract him from his position in the lean-to, entailing the removal into the yard outside of the washtub, the jugs and a number of implements liable to get in the way.
Even then, the exigencies of accommodating two large men who had to lift an inert body and bring it forth proved a labour of Hercules.
Much argument and trial had produced a fear of renewed bleeding in the victim, and a rubbing at Grace’s temper.
She had been obliged to take a hand and direct operations before the poor Frenchman died from Clem and Samuel’s well-meaning but disastrous efforts.