CHAPTER THREE #4
Henri thanked him and sank into the softness of the pillows banked behind him.
One was placed under his arm so that the newly fashioned sling did not cut into his neck with the weight of it.
Too weak to sit unaided, he welcomed the additional support that allowed him to contemplate his narrow world from a position other than supine.
From this angle, the sash window opposite gave on to pastures rather than sky, and he was able to take in the scant furnishings of the room.
Besides his wooden bed with its unadorned tester and an absence of curtains, there was a long chest to one side of the fireplace to his right, heaped with a pile of folded clothes.
On the other side was a small press. Little else, he noted, besides the bedside cabinet. She was not, then, a woman of means.
The realisation made him the more grateful for the food presently brought up to him by the young maid. She jibbed a trifle at finding him alert.
“Why, bless me, you’re almost up!”
Henri grimaced. “Alas, no. Reuben has to help me much.”
The girl recollected herself, flushing a little. “Begging your pardon, sir, only it fair shook me to see you looking half alive. Must be ’acos you’re clean-shaven. Makes all the difference to a man, that do.”
Distracted by a tantalising aroma issuing from the tray, Henri’s gaze went to a covered platter. “What is it you have there?”
“Breakfast. Miss Grace said as how you might fancy a mite more than gruel.”
Henri sighed his satisfaction as the cover was removed and he caught a glimpse of solid food. “Grace à Mademoiselle Grace! It is eggs, yes?”
“Omelette,” confirmed the maid. “I’ve put a morsel of cheese in, for Miss Grace said as how Doctor Ffrith ain’t given his say-so for you to have pork, or I’d ’a put in ham and all.”
To one whose diet had consisted of whey, gruel and broth bar a trifle of stewed chicken for more days than he cared to think about, the notion of cheese omelette had a heartening effect upon the appetite.
“Lead me there, mam’zelle Jemima! I am well hungry for your omelette.”
A giggle escaped the girl, but she obediently took up the platter and began to feed him. Henri endured this for a moment or two, and then rebelled.
“Laisse-moi!”
The girl blinked. “Sir?”
“Give me the fork that I may try to feed myself.”
She looked shocked. “I don’t know as how Miss Grace would like it.”
“But Miss Grace, she is not here,” Henri pointed out with a conspiratorial wink. He reached with his uninjured hand, and the maid gave up the utensil. “If you, Miss Jemima, will hold the plate close?”
Obligingly, she did so, and Henri found no difficulty in serving himself, with portions able to do justice to his quickening appetite. Half aware the girl eyed him in awe, he gave her scant attention until he had demolished the omelette. Then he grinned at her round-eyed look.
“Merci, Miss Jemima. You are a cook extremely good, I think.”
Which reduced the girl to blushing giggles, a finger snaking up to curl about the frizzy locks escaping from under her cap.
But she disclaimed nevertheless. “We’ll see if you think so when you’re able to eat more hearty.
An omelette ain’t no hardship. But we ain’t got no call for that there fancy Frenchified cookery in these parts. ”
Henri laughed. “But me, I am not at all fancy, Miss Jemima.”
“Lor’, sir, there ain’t no need for you to call me ‘Miss’. I ain’t no lady. ‘Jemima’ will do me.”
An odd clumping sounded, as if something was being dragged up the stairs, bumping on each one. Before Henri could enquire as to the cause, Jemima picked up the tray.
“There’s Miss Grace now.” She leaned down to him. “Don’t you tell her as I let you feed yourself.”
Henri answered merely with a shake of his head, preoccupied with the intelligence that the noisy approach signalled the arrival of his hostess.
What could she be bringing up that required so much effort?
But a faint recollection of a similar sound was beginning to penetrate his mind.
He had heard it before, at a distance and unregarded.
And closer at hand once or twice, a short, sharp sound.
Vaguely, he heard the maid exchange a word or two with the voice he knew was that of his saviour, his attention on the fact the clunking had ceased.
It started up again, and as she entered the room, it dawned on him for the first time that the sound accompanied Grace.
He stared at her in bewilderment, trying to work out what it was. And then her sweet smile appeared, and the question went out of his head.
“Oh, you do look better!”
Henri ran a hand over his smooth chin. “Sans doute, if I have been for so long without the shave.”
“I don’t mean that.” Again the smile, faintly rueful. “Though I will not deny it helps.” She perched on the bed. “You have more colour, Henri, and you are clearly gaining strength.”
“Then the compliment is to you.”
He reached out, but she did not lay her hand in his. Unable to reach her fingers, Henri was obliged to content himself with a light grasp of her supporting arm.
“I think you have saved my life, Grace, and I do not think I have given my thanks for this.”
“Then don’t,” came the rough reply. “Your life is my thanks.”
There was a silence. Grace eyed the green gaze, unable to read it.
It met hers unflinchingly, but there was no clue there to the thoughts behind.
For her part, she felt all too conscious.
Of the undeniably handsome features, unnaturally thin now, without the disguising growth of beard.
Of a ridiculous sense of betrayal, for having paid lip service to the circulating rumours and kept away from her patient’s bedside.
A feeling of guilt impelled her to speak of it.
“I have neglected you a little, Henri. There has been much to do, and — and you have been recovering so well.”
She expected denial, but it did not come. His fingers left her arm, but Grace yet felt their imprint. His gaze moved away from her face.
“I have brought much work upon you, I think.”
Grace shifted uncomfortably. “Yes, but don’t mind it. Besides, it is my own work I have been doing.”
He looked at her again. “It is work for money?”
She made pretence of smoothing her blue petticoats.
The dimity gown was once more fit to be worn owing to Jemima’s ministrations.
“Why, yes. I have a little money of my own, only I have found it possible to supplement it a little. I write — oh, all manner of things. Letters mostly. But there are treatises for the schoolmaster, for example, and notices for the parish, that sort of thing.”
Henri wondered how it came about that a young woman of obvious gentility was reduced to such a pass in this England, where those of good birth had not been hounded from their homes, stripped of their possessions, and slaughtered wholesale.
It was none of his affair, except that it made him reluctant to burden her with his presence. Which led him to a pertinent question.
“Do you know where are my clothes, Mademoiselle Grace?”
She was unreasonably hurt at his resumption of formal address. She gestured across the bed. “They have been cleaned, and are folded there on the chest, ready for you when you should be well enough to get up.”
Henri looked to the right, and saw the pile of clothing he had earlier noted without taking in the contents.
Now he recognised the dark folds that must be his coat and breeches, and the white linen shirt between.
He could see the tops of his boots, which must be resting on the floor.
Only his greatcoat was missing. Grace divined his thought.
“Jemima is still dealing with your greatcoat. It has dried, but it is stiff with mud and debris, and she is doing what she may to clean it. Though I fear it will never be as good again without thorough washing.”