CHAPTER FOUR #3
She ought to be glad of his lack of artifice, of the assumption of intimacy that allowed him to speak of it.
But all she was able to feel was an intensity of bitterness that was utterly out of character.
Grace had never been bitter. Brought up to believe in the omniscience of the Almighty, she had accepted Papa’s dictum that God had his reasons for thus afflicting her.
She had known she was valued in despite of it, she had known she was loved.
A pang caught at her breast. Grace sternly dismissed it.
She had nothing for which to be bitter. On the contrary, she had independence and a life that had been the fulfilment of all her ambition.
Had been. The words echoed flatly in her mind.
Grace rebelled against the rise of despondency, lashing herself into resentment.
What, was she so easily seduced into intolerable yearnings?
What had she to hope for? Merely because a stranger had thrown a modicum of excitement into her life, was she to fall victim to idiotic dreams?
He was handsome, true. She might go so far as to say he was the embodiment of those foolish fancies any young woman must experience.
But she, Grace Dovercourt, was no longer young.
Nor was she the sort of woman who could excite the amorous interest of such a man as Henri Rousselle.
Even if she were — forlorn hope! — what would it avail her when he would very soon be gone from here?
And to the Lord alone knew what dread fate.
It would be better for her to learn indifference, and that right speedily. If he survived, she had done her Christian duty, and made reparation for the neglect that might well have ended his life. That must suffice her.
Besides, Henri wanted to leave. That much was plain.
In her interests, he would have her believe.
Grace cared neither for her reputation, nor for the danger, if keeping him here would keep him safe.
An incipient memory gave her his words again: I take heart of Grace.
They sang an echo in her bosom and a deeper knowledge told her that if she would secure her own peace of mind, she must let Henri go.
A decision blasted upon the following morning, when three Frenchmen turned up on her doorstep.
The spokesman was a man outwardly of similar cut to Henri.
He was more than passably good-looking, if not the equal of his compatriot above stairs, with brown eyes set in symmetrical features and a somewhat full-lipped mouth.
At sight of Grace, moving in as Jemima stepped aside for her, he removed his hat, revealing brown locks tied in the nape of his neck, and introduced himself in almost fluent English as one Loriot, engaged upon the business of the French government.
Grace thrust down on the tattoo hammering in her chest. She could feel tension in the maid hovering behind her, but she would not let her own anxiety appear in her face. Had she not prepared for this moment? She raised haughty eyebrows.
“French? French? Are you aware, sir, this country is at war with France?”
“Yes, mademoiselle,” came the curt response. “But we are engaged upon the affairs diplomatic. You wish to see my papers?”
Shrugging, Grace rejected this offer. “I should suppose they must be in order, or Mr Wooferton would not tolerate your being in the area. What do you want with me?”
The fellow inclined his head. “It is a matter internal, mademoiselle. We seek one of our countrymen.”
“Here? What would a Frenchman be doing here?”
“Seeking shelter, perhaps,” said Loriot, apparently impervious to the inflection of astonishment. “He was wounded.”
“Wounded?” Grace gave an exaggerated start, glancing quickly over her shoulder at Jemima. “You mean he was French? Lord, and I never guessed it!”
Interest sprang up in the fellow’s face and he straightened. His two companions, less neatly garbed than the first in unmatched coats and breeches, had hung back upon the path looking bored. No doubt these questions had been asked fifty times already. Grace saw them shift and glance at each other.
Sure that Henri’s pursuers must inevitably come, she had toyed with the notion of denying his presence, and decided with reluctance that it would not serve.
There was no saying how far the news had spread that a man lay wounded in her house, and though she would vouch for it most of her acquaintance would scorn to betray it to these foreigners, she was no fool.
Gold, if they had any, might turn a stout English heart as soon as any other.
She elected the more dangerous course, which would at least permit her to weave a tale of half-truths among the lies.
“You have seen him?” came eagerly from the leader.
“If you are referring to a fellow whom we found half dead in my lean-to the other morning, yes indeed,” said Grace, assuming an indignant tone.
Loriot’s eye gleamed. “What day was this, mademoiselle, if you please?”
“Going on for a week, I should think. Was it Wednesday last, or Thursday?” She looked back at Jemima again.
“Was it Thursday?” The maid nodded, her initial fright now replaced with belligerence, arms akimbo and glaring.
Grace turned back to the men. “Yes, last Thursday. Not quite a week, then. But we had no idea he was French, if he was the man you are looking for.”
The man glanced briefly at his henchmen, with a low-voiced word or two in French. Eagerness filled their faces as they looked at Grace. She schooled her features to a frown over the flurry of her pulse, staring back at them.
Loriot’s brown gaze became keen. “Describe him to me, if you please.”
Grace shook her head. “Really, I don’t know that I can. He was bleeding so dreadfully I’m afraid my whole attention was taken up with seeing to his needs. He was dark-haired, I believe. Like you, sir.”
Loriot’s gaze narrowed. “How is it that you keep a man in your house and you do not know how he looks?”
Grace made her eyebrows shoot up again. “Keep him in my house? When there is only myself and my maid on the premises?”
It was the Frenchman’s turn to frown. The two men muttered behind him, exchanging puzzled glances. Plainly their grasp of English was insufficient to enable them to follow much of what she said.
“He is not then here?” asked Loriot.
“Certainly not.”
“But you have said that you attended his wound, no?”
“That, yes. I hope I am a woman of ordinary Christian charity, sir. But as for keeping him here, I had no such intention.”
“Then he was in your house for how long?”
“Oh, less than a day.”
It was hard to maintain the airy unconcern with the hollow anxiety gnawing in her bosom. But Henri’s life depended upon putting them off the scent. She pretended to be racking her brains for the memory, as she mentally expunged from the story such details as she wished to keep hidden.
“I sent Jemima here for the apothecary from East Hall. Oh, and we had help from the farmhands nearby. We had to get the fellow inside, for the lean-to is none too large, you must know. Dunmow came, and —”
“Dunmow?”
“The apothecary. He removed a bullet from the man’s shoulder.”
“Ah, then he was not fatally injured,” said Loriot without expression.
Grace experienced a flare of rage, and instantly turned it to advantage.
“I cannot possibly tell you, sir. If you are thinking to lay the blame upon me for the man’s death, I will thank you to remember we did our best for him.
Not that I meant him to remain here, and indeed I had every intention of handing him over to the parish authorities.
Mr Mayberry would have taken him at once, let me tell you, but for the fact Doctor Ffrith insisted he was too weak to be moved. ”
“But is he then dead?”
To her secret satisfaction, the man Loriot was looking bewildered. She pressed her advantage, allowing indignation to colour her tone.
“I have no notion. And I must say, I think it is a great deal too bad, sir, for you to be taking a high hand with me. It is not my blame if the stupid man chose to go off in the night. If he has died of his wound, he has only himself to thank. And now you tell me he was French, I have only to say I am glad I did not know at the time that I was harbouring one of England’s enemies in my home. Good day to you.”
Throwing up her chin, she prepared to withdraw into the house, pushing Jemima back into the passage. But the Frenchman quickly moved forward, staying her with a gesture. “A moment, if you please, mademoiselle.”
Grace glared at him. “Well?”
“When was it that the man left your house?”
“But I told you, did I not? He disappeared the very same night. I have not seen hide nor hair of him since. And all I can say now, sir, is good riddance.”
She prepared once more to withdraw, but was again halted. This time, the Frenchman went so far as to take hold of her arm. Grace looked at his hand and back up to his face.
“How dare you, sir? Let me go at once!”
Loriot released her, but he moved to join her on the step. “Pardon, mademoiselle. I wish you no harm, but it will be convenient if you will allow us to search the house.”