Henri was still surprised that Doctor Clarkson - a kind, sensible, and observant man - had not seen through his ruse, for he had never been very good at playacting. But war, he supposed, made men more willing to accept what in another time might have been suspicious. When Henri had showed up at the hospital door with a half-formed story of lost luggage and terrible travel conditions, the good doctor had welcomed him and and set him to work. Perhaps his honest face had helped, or perhaps the hospital was so short-staffed that any pair of hands was welcome, no matter how they had come to be there.

They were short-staffed, and thankfully, work had distracted Henri enough to keep his mind away from thoughts of his precarious situation. Only when, as evening fell, Doctor Clarkson had called him over and asked if he would like to meet the Lord Grantham and his family, who would certainly be pleased to hear about the visitor’s travels, that he was once again forced to dwell on his predicament. He must have stammered out some sort of affirmative answer, for the doctor had assured him that he would find the proper evening dress and said they would depart at seven.

Which was how he had found himself here, in a grand dining room, much too far away from Sybil and struggling not to look in her direction, with servants deftly refilling his wine glass and disappearing before he even had the chance to thank them. “Merci,” he managed to one of them, though he received not even a look in return. Sybil’s sister was speaking again, he realized belatedly. “You must have had a terrible journey. I cannot imagine traveling on the continent with this war on."