CHAPTER FOUR #2
An unexpected thud from the room across the hall interrupted her thoughts. It was muffled, but Grace had no doubt of its origin. Too closely did it resemble that neglected sound that had signalled Henri’s arrival in her lean-to. He must have fallen!
She was out of bed on the thought, dragging back the curtains.
It did not occur to her to waste time hunting for her boot.
Nor did she trouble to stop to light a candle.
There was enough light filtering in from the edges of the drapes at the window for her to see her way.
Stumbling with the extreme limp that afflicted her barefooted, Grace made what haste she could, throwing herself across the landing and through the half-open door of Henri’s room.
The drapes were fully open, and in the grey light that spilled on to the floor beyond the foot of the bed, Grace saw him struggling to rise and cursing.
“Henri, what in the world are you doing?”
She was at his side in a moment, leaning to lend her shoulder as she slipped one arm about his bare back.
“Diable, but I am weak like a baby!”
“And had no business getting out of bed,” Grace scolded. “I should not have left you unwatched. Have you hurt your shoulder? Come, let me help you.”
But without her boot, Grace had no purchase, and Henri slipped from her grasp. She tried pulling on his good arm, but he proved too heavy for her.
“Leave me,” he panted. “I will rest a moment, and then try myself.”
A voice from the doorway interrupted them. “’Sakes alive, Miss Grace, what’s to do?”
“Jemima!” cried Grace, relieved. “Come and help us. Our patient has had the misfortune to fall.”
Reinforced by Jemima’s strong arm, the two women managed to heave the Frenchman on to his feet and guide him back to the bed, where he was glad enough to sink down. It was the maid who called Grace’s attention to his apparel.
“Bless me, sir, what was you thinking of? Half dressed he is, Miss Grace, and in the middle of the night!”
Grace stared in a bewildered way at the lower half of Henri’s body.
He was naked to the waist, but had managed to drag on his breeches.
The fall was fastened only on one side, his drawers showing beneath.
He must have fallen when he was attempting to do up the last buttons.
Her gaze rose to his face and found him frowning and conscious.
Realisation dawned and a wave of distress overspread her bosom, threatening to overwhelm her.
But Jemima was standing there in her dressing gown, blinking under her nightcap. Instinct came to Grace’s rescue, and she managed to control her tone.
“Jemima, go downstairs, if you please, and fetch up a glass of port.” She added, as the maid left the room, “I am sorry I have no cognac, but the port will serve to revive you, I hope.”
The change in her was not lost on Henri. He waited only until Jemima had left the room, and then caught at Grace’s hand.
“Do not look at me this way! I wished to spare you the trouble that comes.”
The hand wrenched out from his fingers. “You were going to go away in the night without telling me?”
“I confess it, ma chère. It is not fitting for you to be involved in this trouble of mine.”
Grace stared at him mutely, unable to say the hot words rising to her tongue. She found others, inadequate to express the storm raging in her breast. “Where did you have it in mind to go? What would you do in your condition? You don’t even know how to make it to the next village.”
He was silent, the frown causing a groove between his brows. Frustrated beyond bearing, Grace flung away, heedless of the inelegant drop and carry of her lumbering walk. Hardly aware of her own muttered words, Grace lumped about the room, driven by a confusion of fury and distress.
“Where could he go? How far before he collapsed? Does he have money? Where would he hide? Has he thought of any of this? No, I don’t think so. Of all the pigheaded, senseless —”
Henri heard no more, his attention catching on the cumbersome movements.
Compassion swamped him. Without the protective boot, Grace’s disability was unmercifully obvious.
He had seen worse, had witnessed unspeakable horrors these few years past that had inured him to such sights.
Or so he had thought. But the vision of Grace floundering about his bedchamber had an unforeseen and deeply felt effect.
Her spirit he had learned to admire. Now he was moved beyond bearing by her courage.
Almost as if she felt his thought, Grace halted in the midst of an unwieldy turn, her eyes flying to his face.
She froze, instantly and horribly aware of herself.
Was he sorry for her? It was the last thing she wanted.
The thought flitted through her mind that what she did want, she could never have.
But it was gone before it was fully formed, and she was left with embarrassment.
A horrid rise of unaccustomed bitterness drove her to reckless speech. “Pity me if you must. Your commiserations ought to rest with my parents, who little knew until too late how inappropriately they had christened me.”
Henri’s gaze did not waver. She read reproach in it, and felt abashed, thrusting ineffectually at the soft brown locks that fell, unfettered, about her face.
Jemima, with consummate timing, arrived at that moment carrying the glass of port. Henri’s attention shifted, and Grace was able to breathe again. But the protests she had been voicing had vanished. She felt cold suddenly, and desolate.
Long habit came to her rescue. “You may go back to bed, Jemima. I shan’t need you any more.” She was amazed to hear the normality in her own voice.
The maid yawned and grinned at Henri. “Long as he don’t go falling over again when he tries to get back into bed.”
“Merci, Jemima, but I will not fall again.”
Grace waited until the girl had left the room, and then thrust forward to the bedside, trying to ignore the repugnance she felt at her own inelegance.
Henri was watching her over the rim of the glass.
There was no clue to his thoughts in his face.
She spoke with as little emotion as she could, aware of a tremor in her voice.
“If you wish to leave, I will not prevent you. Only you must l-let me re-bandage your wound and — and supply you with provisions. You must take food with you, and drink. And a coat. Yours is unwearable. If I can find it — it may be in the box room above — there is a greatcoat left here by my brother, and forgotten. You are welcome to take it.”
Henri reached out, and Grace stepped back quickly, almost falling. She grabbed at the door to steady herself. When she faced him again, she found the frown etched strongly, and his lips tight. The green eyes reproached her.
“You talk to me as a stranger, Grace.”
“It is better so.” The curt note in no way expressed her real feelings.
“For me, or for you?”
His acuteness pierced her, and she winced. “It is what you want to be, Henri.”
“Because you limp, enfin? For what do you take me?” There was anger in his tone now. “In France I have seen things more ugly. It is a time of ugly things there. Do you think I am discomposed to see you like this?”
Grace looked away, dreading the threatening tears and fighting to thrust down the lump in her throat. It might not discomfit him, but he was both shocked and sympathetic. She could bear neither. Only she could not say so.
Henri finished the wine and set down the glass. A laugh escaped him. “It was most welcome, your port.”
“I am glad,” she managed.
His tone softened. “Grace, I have no wish to leave here. I am yet weak, and you protect me well, I know. If these men do not take me, I will remain longer one day, perhaps two. Then I must go.”
“Why?” She had not meant to say it.
“Your reputation is one thing.”
“Has Mab been talking to you?”
“It is not needed to speak with her. It is not good that I make people talk of you this way. But there is more danger than this.”
Yes, from the Frenchmen who sought him. Grace sighed, and ever practical, looked about for his nightshirt. He had thrown it to one side on the covers.
“Will you manage to undress again?”
“If not, I will sleep so and wait for Reuben in the morning.”
“Sleep well, then.”
She turned to go. Henri’s voice stopped her before she could get around the door.
“Un moment!”
Grace turned her head, and saw a light in Henri’s eyes that set up a pattering at her bosom. “Yes?”
“I wish you to know how I admire you. You are a woman brave beyond any I have met. I have come here with a wound deep and not only of the body, and it is from you I gain courage to live on.” A smile crept into his features. “As it is said, I ‘take heart of Grace’. I do not have words to thank you.”
It was ample reward, and Grace felt pricking at her eyes. But the desolation on her heart rose up again to taunt her. She forced a smile, and retreated. As she made her way to her chamber, she was acutely aware, as she never had been before, of the hateful inadequacy of her own body.
It was a relief to be lying once more in her bed, where she felt as like any ordinary woman as it was possible for her to feel.
What had been normality felt alien in the remembrance of Henri’s open reference to her deformity.
She was unused to such plain speaking. Her acquaintance were more in the habit of pretending not to notice, or behaving as if her awkward thumping tread did not exist. Or perhaps they were too accustomed to see it to pay undue attention.
Upon first meeting her, most people were apt to make an unnatural effort not to look, once they had seen and schooled their startled features to disinterest. Only urchins in the street were unselfconscious enough to stare.
And only Henri Rousselle had asked her about it outright.