Zipporah’s Daughter

Philippa Carr

Contents

The Rejected

The Procuress

Disaster in a Paris Square

The Return of Lisette

Griselda

The Wager

A Tutor Comes

A Visit to Eversleigh

Farewell France

Preview: Voices in a Haunted Room

The Rejected

ON THE DAY WHEN the Comte d’Aubigné arrived at Eversleigh I had been out riding and when I came into the hall he was there in close conversation with my mother. I was aware at once that we had a very distinguished visitor. He was not young—about my mother’s age, perhaps a few years older—and he was most elegantly dressed in a manner not quite English; his frogged coat of dark green velvet was a little more fancy than I was accustomed to seeing, the fringed waistcoat more delicate, the striped breeches fuller, and the buckled shoes more shining. He wore a white wig which called attention to his flashing dark eyes. He was one of the most handsome gentlemen I had ever seen.

‘Oh, there you are, Lottie,’ said my mother. ‘I want you to meet the Comte d’Aubigné. He is going to stay with us for a few days.’ She put her arm through mine and thus presented me to him. ‘This,’ she went on, ‘is Lottie.’

He took my hand and kissed it. I was aware that this was no ordinary meeting and that something very important was taking place. Knowing my mother well, I guessed that she was very anxious for us to like each other. I did like him immediately, mainly because of the way in which he kissed my hand and made me feel grown-up, which was just how I wanted to feel at this time, for the fact that I was not quite twelve years old was a great irritation to me. If I had been older I should have eloped by now with Dickon Frenshaw, who occupied my thoughts almost exclusively. There was a family connection between Dickon and myself. He was the son of my grandmother’s cousin and I had known him all my life. It was true he was about eleven years older than I but that had not prevented my falling in love with him, and I was sure he felt the same about me.

Now there was a lilt in my mother’s voice. She was looking at me earnestly as though to discover what I thought of our guest. He was watching me intently.

The first words I heard him say, and he spoke in English with a strong foreign accent, were: ‘Why, she is beautiful.’

I smiled at him. I was not given to false modesty and I knew that I had inherited the good looks of some long-dead ancestress whose beauty was notorious in the family. I had seen a portrait of her and the likeness was uncanny. We had the same raven black hair, and deep-set dark blue eyes which were almost violet; my nose might have been a fraction shorter than hers, my mouth a little wider, but the resemblance was striking. She had been the beauty of the family. Her name had been Carlotta, and it added to the mystique that before this likeness was apparent, I should have been christened Charlotte, which was so similar.

‘Let us go into the winter parlour,’ said my mother. ‘I have sent for some refreshment for our guest.’

So we did and the wine was brought, over which he talked in a way which I found both exciting and amusing. He seemed determined to charm us and it was clear that he knew how to do that very well. He told us a great deal about himself in a short space of time and I felt he was presenting himself to me, even more than my mother, and wished to make a good impression. He need not have had any doubt about that. He was a spellbinding talker and seemed to have led a varied and most vivid life.

The time sped by and we parted to change for dinner. I had certainly not been so amused and interested since I had last seen Dickon.

During the next few days I spent a great deal of time in his company. Often I rode with him, for he said he was eager for me to show him the countryside.

He talked to me about life in France where he was attached to the Court as some sort of diplomat, I gathered. He had a château in the country and a house in Paris, but he was often at Versailles where the Court was mostly, for, he told me, the King scarcely ever went to Paris … only when it was impossible for him to avoid going.

‘He is very unpopular because of the life he leads,’ said the Comte; and told me about King Louis XV and his mistresses, and how heartbroken he had been on the death of Madame de Pompadour, who had not only been his mistress but virtually ruler of France.

The glimpses of life in France fascinated me and I was delighted that the Comte talked openly to me as though he were unaware of my youth, which my mother was constantly stressing ever since she had known of my feeling for Dickon.

The Comte described the fantastic entertainments which were given at Versailles and which he was expected to attend. He talked so vividly that he made me see the exquisite gentlemen and beautiful ladies as clearly as I could the life in the country to which he escaped now and then.

‘I hope,’ he said, ‘that one day you will do me the honour of visiting me.’

‘I should like that,’ I replied enthusiastically, and that pleased him very much.

It must have been about three days after his arrival. I was in my bedroom getting dressed for dinner when there was a gentle tap on the door.

‘Come in,’ I called, and to my surprise my mother entered.

There was a glow about her which I had noticed lately. I guessed she was pleased to have a visitor and I was glad, because we had had enough tragedy lately and she had been so unhappy since my father’s death. Following that she had lost a very dear friend in the doctor who had attended my father. He had suffered a horrible death in a fire at his hospital. That had been a terrible time, for my governess was burned to death in the fire also. Such events had had a sobering effect on us all, but most of all on my mother. Then of course there was the matter of Dickon, about which she was very upset and this worried me a great deal, for as much as I should like to comfort her, I could not, because doing so meant promising to give up Dickon. So I was very relieved that she was lifted out of her depression, if only temporarily.

‘Lottie,’ she said, ‘I want to talk to you.’

‘Yes, Mother,’ I replied, smiling at her.

‘What do you think of the Comte?’ she asked.

‘Very grand,’ I answered. ‘Very elegant. Very amusing. In fact a very fine gentleman. I wonder why he called on us? I think he must have been here some time. I get the impression that the place is not quite strange to him.’

‘Yes, that’s true.’

‘Was he a friend of Uncle Carl?’

‘A friend of mine,’ she said.

She was really behaving rather oddly, fumbling for words. She was usually so direct.

‘So,’ she went on, ‘you do … like him?’

‘Of course. Who could help it? He is most interesting. All that talk about the French Court and the château. All those grand people. He must be very important.’

‘He is a diplomat and works in Court circles. Lottie, you do … er … like him?’

‘Mother,’ I said, ‘are you trying to tell me something?’

She was silent for a few seconds. Then she said quickly: ‘It was long ago … before you were born. … It had to be before you were born. I was very fond of Jean-Louis.’

I was astonished. It seemed strange that she should call my father Jean-Louis. Why did she not say ‘your father’, and in any case she did not have to tell me how fond she had been of him. I had seen her nurse him through his illnesses and witnessed her grief at his death. I knew more than anyone what a loving and devoted wife she had been.

So I said: ‘Of course!’ a little impatiently.

‘And he loved you. You were so important to him. He often said what joy you had brought into his life. He said that when you came into it you made up for his affliction.’

She was staring ahead of her; her eyes were bright and I thought that at any moment she would start to cry.

I took her hand and kissed it. ‘Tell me what you want to, Mother,’ I said.

‘It was thirteen years ago when I came back to Eversleigh after all those years. My … I call him uncle but the relationship was more involved than that. Uncle Carl was very old and he knew he had not long to live. He wanted to leave Eversleigh in the family. It seemed that I was the next of kin.’

‘Yes, I know that.’

‘Your father was unable to come. He had had that accident which ruined his health … so I came alone. The Comte was staying at Enderby and we met. I don’t know how to tell you this, Lottie. We met … and became … lovers.’

I looked at her in amazement. My mother …with a lover in Eversleigh while my father was lying sick at Clavering Hall! I was overwhelmed by the realization of how little we knew about other people. I had always thought of her as strictly moral, unswerving in her adherence to convention … and she had taken a lover!

She was gripping my hands. ‘Please try to understand.’

I did understand, in spite of my youth, far better than she realized. I loved Dickon and I could understand how easy it was to be carried away by one’s emotions.

‘The fact is, Lottie, there was a child. You were that child.’

Now the confession had taken on a fantastic aspect. I was not the daughter of the man whom I had always believed to be my father but of the fantastic Comte. I was incredulous.

‘I know what you are thinking of me, Lottie,’ my mother rushed on. ‘You are despising me. You are too young to understand. The … temptation overwhelmed me. And afterwards your father … I mean Jean-Louis … was so happy. I could not have told him. I couldn’t have confessed my guilt. It would have wounded him mortally. He had suffered so much. He was so happy when you were born and you know how it was between you. You were also so good to him … so sweet, so gentle, so considerate … and that meant a great deal to him. He had always wanted children … but apparently he could not have them. I could, as I proved and so, Lottie, now you know. The Comte is your father.’

‘Does he know this?’

‘Yes, he knows. That is why he has come here … to see you. Why don’t you say something?’

‘I … can’t think what to say.’

‘You are shocked?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘My darling Lottie, I have broken the news too abruptly. He wants you to know. He has become so fond of you in a short time. Lottie, why don’t you say something?’

I just looked at her. Then she took me into her arms and held me tightly.

‘Lottie … you don’t despise me …’

I kissed her. ‘No … no …. Dear Mother, I just don’t know what to say … what to think. I want to be by myself. I want to think about it all.’

‘Tell me this first,’ she said. ‘It makes no difference to your love for me?’

I shook my head. ‘Of course not. How could it?’

I kissed her fondly and she seemed like a different person from the one I had known all my life.

My feelings were so mixed that I could not sort them out. It was a startling revelation. I suppose everyone receives some sort of shock some time, but to discover that a man you have believed all your life to be your father is not and to have another introduced into that role was to say the least bewildering.

The Comte was such a dazzling figure that I felt proud as surely anyone would have to be to acknowledge him as a father. That emotion was immediately followed by shame when I thought of poor Jean-Louis, so kind, gentle and self-sacrificing. He had cared so deeply for me and it was not in my nature to be indifferent to such devotion. His eyes used to light up when I appeared and when I sat beside him his eyes would glow with a tenderness which warmed me. I had made a great show of looking after him just to see his pleasure in my presence. One cannot lightly dismiss such a father and rejoice in his replacement. When he had died I had been desolate—so had my mother for that matter. She had loved him too. People’s emotions were too deeply involved for me at my age to understand then, but try as I might I could not suppress the excitement my mother’s revelation had aroused in me.

Strangely enough I did not connect the Comte’s fortuitous reappearance with my involvement with Dickon. If I had thought about it, I would have accepted the fact that he had not come to England by chance after all those years.

When I went down to dinner I was composed. My mother watched me anxiously and there was a constrained atmosphere throughout the meal which the Comte did his best to disperse by telling us accounts of amusing happenings at the Court of France.

When we rose from the table my mother pressed my hand and looked appealingly at me. I smiled at her, kissed her hand and nodded. She understood. I accepted my new father.

We went into the punch room to drink some after-dinner wine and my mother said: ‘I have told her, Gerard.’

He swept aside all embarrassment and, coming to me, took me into his arms; then he held me away from him.

‘My daughter,’ he said. ‘I am so proud. This is one of the happiest moments of my life.’

And after that all the embarrassments were gone.

I spent a great deal of time in his company. My mother arranged it, I believe. Very often she left us alone together. She seemed very anxious that we should get to know each other. He talked constantly about my visiting France and said he would not be content until he had shown me his château and I said I should not be content until I had seen it.

I was fascinated by him—everything about him pleased me: his easy manners, his gallantry, even what we in England might call his dandyism. It enchanted me. But most of all I was delighted by the fact that he treated me as a grown-up, and because of this it was not long before I was telling him about Dickon.

I loved Dickon. I was going to marry Dickon. Dickon was the most handsome man I had ever seen.

‘I think,’ I said, ‘that you must have been rather like him … once.’

‘Ah,’ he replied, laughing, ‘you see what the years do. I am no longer handsome like Dickon. My only consolation is that Dickon will come to this pass one day.’

‘What nonsense!’ I cried. ‘You are as fascinating in your way. Dickon is just younger … although he is a lot older than I. About eleven years older ….’

My father put his head on one side and said: ‘Poor old man.’

I knew that I could talk to him about Dickon as I never could to my mother.

‘You see,’ I explained, ‘she hates him. It has something to do with tricks he played when he was a boy. He was very mischievous, as most boys are. I am sure you were just as bad.’

‘I dare say,’ he agreed.

‘So it is rather silly to have prejudices about people …’

‘Tell me about Dickon,’ he said.

So I tried to describe Dickon, which wasn’t easy. ‘He has beautiful blond hair which curls about his head. I think it is what is called hyacinthine. I have always liked hyacinths for that reason. His eyes are blue … not dark blue like mine, but lighter. His features look as though they have been sculpted by a great artist.’

‘Apollo has returned to Earth,’ said the Comte lightly.

‘He is very charming.’

‘So I gathered.’

‘In an unusual way,’ I said. ‘He never seems to take things seriously … except us. I think he takes that seriously. He has a quick wit which can be cruel sometimes … though never to me. Somehow that makes me love him more. He would be too perfect without it.’

‘A little imperfection makes the charm irresistible,’ said the Comte. ‘I understand.’

‘If I tell you something, you won’t tell my mother, will you?’

‘I promise.’

‘I think she is a little jealous of him.’

‘Really?’

‘Well, you see, it is due to her mother … my dear grandmother, Clarissa. She is a darling. Long before she married my mother’s father, she had a romance—very brief but very memorable—with a young boy. It was very—’

‘Innocent?’

‘Yes. He was transported because of the ’15 Rebellion. Then she married my grandfather and my mother was born. The young man returned years later after my grandfather was dead, but instead of marrying my mother he married her cousin Sabrina, then he was killed at Culloden. Sabrina had his child and that was Dickon. He was brought up by my grandmother and by Sabrina and they both doted on him. They still do. I have always thought that my mother believed her mother loved Dickon more than she did her … her own child. It’s a bit complicated, but do you see?’

‘I do.’

‘Therefore she hated Dickon.’

‘Isn’t there a stronger reason than that?’

‘Oh, reasons build up, don’t they? You only have to start by disliking people and then you can find all sorts of reasons why you should.’

‘I see you are something of a philosopher.’

‘You are laughing at me.’

‘On the contrary, I am overcome with admiration. If I smile it is because I am so happy that you should confide in me.’

‘I thought perhaps you might influence my mother.’

‘Tell me more.’

‘Dickon and I are in love.’

‘He is many years older than you.’

‘Only eleven. And people grow up.’

‘An indisputable fact.’

‘And when I am forty he will be fifty-one. We shall both be old then … so what does it matter?’

‘True, the gap lessens with the passing of the years, but alas, it is the present that we must consider. I think he has been a little premature with his proposal of marriage.’

‘Well, I don’t. Queens are betrothed in their cradles.’

‘True again, but often those betrothals come to nothing. In life one often has to wait and see. What do you want to do? Marry Dickon now … at your age!’

‘I suppose everyone would say I’m not old enough. But I would wait until I am fourteen, say.’

‘Still very young, and what is it … two or more years away?’

I sighed. ‘We shall have to wait till then, and when I am fourteen nothing—just nothing—is going to stop me.’

‘Perhaps then no one will want to.’

‘Oh yes, my mother will. I tell you she hates Dickon. She says he wants Eversleigh, not me. Oh, you don’t know. But Eversleigh belongs to my mother. It was left to her, you see, and I am her only child therefore presumably it would come to me in time. That’s why, she says, Dickon wants to marry me.’

‘And you, what do you think?’

‘I know he wants Eversleigh. He is managing Clavering at the moment, but it is not nearly as big as this place. He says that when we are married he will come to Eversleigh. It is all very natural, isn’t it? He’s ambitious. I shouldn’t want him to be otherwise.’

‘And your mother thinks that, but for Eversleigh, he would not wish to marry you.’

‘That’s what she says.’

‘And,’ he added, looking at me quizzically, ‘there is no way of finding out.’

‘I don’t want to find out. Why shouldn’t he want Eversleigh? I know it has a part to play in his wanting me. How could it be otherwise? To like someone because they own a house is no different from liking someone because they have pretty hair or eyes.’

‘I think it might be considered rather different. The eyes and hair are part of a person … a house is not.’

‘Well, never mind about that. I am going to marry Dickon.’

‘And I can see that you are a young lady of great determination.’

‘I wish you could persuade my mother. After all … you are a member of the family now, aren’t you? As my father, you should have a say in the matter, though I warn you nobody’s say is going to have any effect on me.’

‘I can well believe that, and as an only recently recognized member of the family circle and one whose right to his daughter’s regard is as yet fragile, I would not venture to attempt to persuade her. I could only offer advice, and advice, as we know, even if we listen to it, is something we only take when it agrees with what we intend to do. So I will only say to you what I would to anyone with a problem and that is: wait and see what happens.’

‘How long?’

‘Until you are of an age to marry.’

‘And if it is really Eversleigh he wants?’

‘You have said that you know he does.’

‘But more than me, I mean.’

‘The only way to find out is for your mother to leave Eversleigh to someone else and then see if he wants you.’

‘She would have to leave it in the family.’

‘No doubt some long-lost relative will appear.’

‘Dickon is a member of the family. My Uncle Carl wouldn’t leave it to him because his father was what he called “a damned Jacobite”. Uncle was a trifle illogical because my mother’s grandfather was one too. But perhaps he felt that wasn’t so bad, being a generation earlier.’

‘It brings us all back to the golden rule. Wait and see. And after all, my dearest Lottie, when you consider the facts there is little else you can do.’

‘You don’t think I’m too young to know my own mind … which is what my mother says.’

‘I think you are mature enough to know exactly what you want from life. I’ll tell you another golden rule. Take it, if you must, but when the reckoning comes, pay up cheerfully. It’s the only way to live.’

I looked at him steadily and said: ‘I’m glad you came back. I’m glad to know the truth. I’m glad you’re my father.’

A smile of satisfaction spread across his face. There was nothing sentimental about my new father. Jean-Louis’s eyes would have filled with tears if I had said anything like that to him.

My father said: ‘This is the time to offer my invitation. I shall have to leave shortly. Will you come back with me … for a little visit? I should love to show you something of my country.’

I was proud to travel with him and revel in that special treatment he received wherever he went. He was rich and powerful in his own country, of course, but he had a natural air of distinction which was not lost on those whom we encountered. He commanded the best service naturally as though it were his right, and people presumed it was and gave it to him unquestioningly.

A new world was opening to me and I realized how quietly we had lived in the country. True, there had been the occasional visits to London, but they had been few and I had never been to Court, though I believed our Court, presided over by good but homely King George and his plain consort Queen Charlotte, was very different from that of the profligate Louis XV of France. It was a cynical commentary on life that the virtuous—and none could deny our King and Queen were that—should be jeered at while the immoral—and Louis XV’s Court was undoubtedly that—should be admired. Well, perhaps not exactly admired, but considered interesting and a good place to be in.

My new father was determined to enchant me, to lure me, as I see now, to an appreciation of his country and his way of life. And I was willing enough to be charmed.

We took the journey to Aubigné fairly slowly, breaking our journey at night in delightful inns. The Comte proudly called me his daughter and I shone in reflected glory.

‘We shall visit Paris and perhaps Versailles later,’ he said. ‘I shall not let you go until you have seen a great deal of my country.’

I smiled happily. None could have been more eager to see than I.

He was delighted with my prowess on horseback, for he said it was a more interesting way of travelling than by coach. They were golden days, riding side by side with him, still marvelling at the fact that he was my father, still feeling twinges of remorse that I should be so pleased about it, chattering away blithely with less restraint than I showed towards my own mother or ever had to Jean-Louis. The reason was, I suppose, that the Comte was a man of the world and his attitude towards me was that I was aware of the basic facts of life. He implied that he saw no reason for attempting to protect me from what a person of my intelligence must already know. It made it easy for me to talk to him about Dickon. He seemed to understand my feelings and never insulted me by suggesting that I could not feel as deeply as I said I did because I was too young. I felt no longer a child in his company and that was one of the reasons why I enjoyed being with him so much.

It was not until we were in France that he told me of his family and whom I should meet. Strangely enough, until that time I had not thought of his having a family. He had talked so much about his life at Court, and I could not imagine him in the heart of domesticity.

He began: ‘My daughter Sophie would be a year or so older than you. I hope you will be friends.’

‘Your daughter!’ I cried as the realization dawned upon me. ‘Why … she is my sister!’

‘Half-sister,’ he corrected. ‘Her mother died five years ago. She is a good girl. She will become your friend, I am sure. In fact, I shall insist that she does.’

‘A sister …’ I murmured. ‘I do hope she likes me. All your insistence won’t be able to make her if she doesn’t.’

‘She has been brought up to obey … a little more strictly, I imagine, than you have been.’

‘Sophie,’ I murmured. ‘How interesting. Oh, I do look forward to seeing her.’

‘I want you to be prepared for our household. I also have a son, Armand, Vicomte de Graffont. Graffont is a small estate we have in the Dordogne district. Armand will, of course, have my title when I die. He is five years older than Sophie.’

‘So … I have a brother, too. How exciting! I wonder how many people have families they don’t know about.’

‘Thousands. Life is not always lived to a regular pattern, you know. I suppose almost everyone has a secret tucked away somewhere.’

‘It is fascinating. Oh, I do so long to meet them. Will they be at the château or in Paris?’

‘Sophie will be at the château with her governess. I cannot speak for Armand. He leads his own life.’

‘It sounds so interesting.’

‘I trust you will find it so.’

‘I am so excited. It grows more fascinating every minute. First a new father … and now a sister and brother. Are there any more relations?’

‘Distant ones who won’t concern you. That is all my immediate family circle.’

I was so excited I scarcely noticed the countryside. We had come to France by way of Le Havre and travelled to Elboeuf and then spent a night at Evreux, the capital of Eure, in which province the Château d’Aubigné was situated.

When we reached Evreux, the Comte sent two of the grooms on to the château to warn them of our coming, and very soon we were making our way southwards, for, said the Comte, now that he was so near home he had an irresistible urge to be there.

As we approached, I had my first glimpse of the castle, which was set on a slight incline; built of grey stone it was overpoweringly intimidating with its buttresses and corbelled watch-towers. I gazed in wonder at the imposing edifice with its pepperpot-like roofs on either side of the gatehouse.

The Comte saw how impressed I was and said: ‘I am gratified. I think you like my château. Of course it is no longer as it was originally. Once it was just a fortress. What you see now is as it became in the sixteenth century, which was when French architecture was at its best.’

Dusk was falling and in the half light the château looked mysterious, almost forbidding, and excited as I was when I rode into the courtyard, I felt a sudden shiver of apprehension as though I was being warned of a certain menace.

‘In the morning I will show you the inside of the chateau myself,’ said the Comte. ‘I am afraid you will find me rather boastful and over-proud.’

‘Anyone would be,’ I told him.

‘Well, it is your family now, Lottie,’ he replied.

I stood in the hall with the Comte beside me, his hand on my shoulder while he watched me closely to see the effect his home was having on me. Needless to say, I was overcome with mixed emotions. It was so grand, so redolent of the past; I could believe that I had stepped into another century; there was a pride in my knowledge that I belonged to the people who had lived here for centuries, and after what had happened to me I was prepared for anything. But there was that. faint feeling of unease which persisted and which I could not understand.

I looked at the ancient walls hung with tapestries depicting what appeared to be scenes of battle, and where there was not tapestry there were gleaming weapons; several suits of armour stood in darkened corners like watching sentinels and I could easily have convinced myself that they moved and that there was something here in this hall which was assessing me in the same way as I was this house. On the long oak table were two candelabra—one at each end—and the candles threw flickering light on the vaulted ceiling.

A man came hurrying into the hall; he looked very important in his blue and green livery with heavy brass buttons. He greeted the Comte obsequiously.

‘Everything is prepared, Monsieur le Comte,’ he said.

‘Good,’ said my father. ‘Does the Vicomte know I have returned?’

‘Monsieur le Vicomte was out hunting when your messengers arrived. He had not yet returned.’

The Comte nodded. ‘Mademoiselle Sophie …’

‘I will send someone to her apartment, Monsieur le Comte.’

‘Do so, with all speed.’

The man disappeared and the Comte turned to me.

‘It is best for you to meet Sophie first. She can make sure that everything is all right.’

‘What will they say when they know?’

He looked at me questioningly and I went on: ‘When they know who I am … our relationship.’

He smiled blandly. ‘My dear child, it is not for anyone to question my actions.’

At that moment I had my first glimpse of Sophie.

She was coming down the beautiful staircase which was at one end of the hall. I studied her eagerly. There was no physical resemblance between us whatsoever. She was short in stature with dark brown hair and olive skin. She was certainly not very pretty—in fact she was what kindly people call homely and those less kind call plain. She was overweight and too dumpy to be attractive, and her blue gown with its tightly laced bodice and large hooped skirt, which stood out round her like a bell, did nothing for her.

‘Sophie, my dear,’ said the Comte, ‘I want you to come here and meet Lottie …’

She came forward hesitantly. I guessed she was greatly in awe of her father.’

‘I want to explain to you about Lottie … She is going to stay with us for a visit and you are to make sure she is comfortable while she is with us. I have something very important to tell you about her. She is your sister.’

Sophie’s jaw dropped a little. She was astonished and that did not surprise me.

‘We have just discovered each other. Now, Sophie, what have you got to say?’

Poor Sophie! She stammered and looked as though she were going to burst into tears.

I said: ‘I am very pleased to have a sister. I always wanted one. It’s like a miracle to me.’

‘There, Sophie, listen to your sister,’ said the Comte. ‘I am sure you feel the same. You will get to know each other in the next few days. In the meantime, Lottie is tired. She wants to get out of her riding habit and wash, I dare say. Sophie, you know where she is sleeping. Take her there and make sure she has everything she wants.’

‘Yes, Papa,’ said Sophie.

‘A room has been prepared for her?’

‘Yes, Papa, the grooms said you were bringing a young lady.’

‘All is well, then. Lottie, go up with Sophie. She will show you the way.’

I felt sorry for Sophie. I said: ‘I shall have to learn to find my way about the château. It’s vast, isn’t it?’

‘It is large,’ she agreed.

‘Take her up then,’ said the Comte, ‘and when she is ready bring her down, and we will eat then. Journeys make one hungry.’

‘Yes, Papa,’ said Sophie quietly.

He laid his hand on my arm. ‘You and Sophie must be friends,’ he said. I glanced at Sophie and guessed that for her that was a command. I did not take such commands. But I did want to make the acquaintance of my sister. I wanted to be friends, but we should only be so if friendship came naturally; and at the moment I could not tell what she was thinking of me.

‘Please come with me,’ said Sophie.

‘Thank you,’ I replied and was glad that Jean-Louis had taught me French. His mother had been French and although he was very young when she left him, he had a natural aptitude and had kept it by reading in that language; and he taught me to speak and write it. My mother had been eager for this. I saw now that it was because my real father was French. This now enabled me to converse easily with Sophie.

I followed her up the staircase and finally we came to my room. It was very grand, with a four-poster bed, the curtains of which were moss green with a tracery of gold thread; they matched those at the windows and the colours were brought out in the Aubusson carpets which added such luxury to the room.

‘I hope you will be comfortable,’ said Sophie formally. ‘Here is the ruelle where you will make your toilette.’

This was a curtained-off alcove in which was all that was needed for my comfort.

‘The saddle horses had already come with your baggage. It has been put here.’

I had an idea that she was trying to act as normally as possible to hide her astonishment at the revelation of our relationship.

I wanted to know how she felt and I couldn’t resist asking: ‘What did you think when your father told you who I was?’

She lowered her eyes and fumbled for words, and I was suddenly sorry for her because she seemed afraid of life—something I promised myself I would never be—and she was also afraid of her father with whom I had quickly become on easy terms.

I tried to help her. ‘It must have been a great shock to you.’

‘That you should exist?’ she said. ‘Well … no … These things happen. That he should bring you to the castle and introduce you like that’ she lifted her shoulders ‘well, yes. I was a little surprised because …’

‘Because I have only come on a short visit?’

‘That’s what I mean. If you had been going to live here with us …’

She paused. She had an irritating habit of not finishing her sentences; but perhaps that was due to the shock she had received. She was right. As I was merely a visitor I could have been introduced as such at first and then if the Comte wanted to break the news of our relationship he might have done so less abruptly.

‘I find it all wonderfully exciting,’ I said. ‘To find I have a sister is so thrilling.’

She looked at me rather bashfully and said: ‘Yes, I suppose it is.’

At that moment the door opened and a face appeared.

‘Oh, it’s you, Lisette,’ said Sophie. ‘I might have guessed.

A girl came into the room. She could not have been much older than I—a year or two at the most. She was very pretty with fair curling hair and sparkling blue eyes.

‘So she is here …’ Lisette tiptoed into the room and surveyed me.

‘Oh,’ she said. ‘You’re beautiful.’

‘Thank you,’ I replied. ‘I am delighted to be able to return the compliment.’

‘You speak … prettily. Doesn’t she, Sophie? Not quite French but none the worse for that. Is that your first visit to France?’

‘Yes.’ I looked from her to Sophie. ‘Who are you?’

The girl answered: ‘Lisette. I live here. I am the niece of Madame la Gouvernante, the Femme de Charge. La Tante Berthe is a very important lady, is she not, Sophie?’

Sophie nodded.

‘I have been here since I was six years old,’ went on Lisette. ‘I am now fourteen. The Comte is very fond of me. I take lessons with Sophie and although I am merely the niece of La Gouvernante I am an honoured member of the household.’

‘I am delighted to meet you.’

‘You are very young to be a friend of the Comte. But they say the King sets the fashion and we all know how it is at Versailles.’

‘Hush, Lisette,’ said Sophie, flushing hotly. ‘I must tell you what Papa has just told me. Lottie is … his daughter. She is my sister …’

Lisette stared at me; the colour flooded her cheeks and her eyes shone like sapphires.

‘Oh no,’ she said. ‘I don’t believe it.’

‘Whether you do or not, it makes no difference. He has told me and that is why she is here.’

‘And … your mother?’ Lisette was looking at me questioningly.

‘My mother is in England,’ I told her. ‘I have just come for a visit.’

Lisette continued to look at me as though she saw me in a new light.

‘Did the Comte visit her often?’

I shook my head. ‘They hadn’t seen each other for years. I only knew he was my father when he visited us a short time ago.’

‘It is all so odd,’ said Lisette. ‘I don’t mean your being a bastard. Heaven knows there are plenty of them about. But not to see you all those years and then to bring you here and make no secret about it.’

‘My father feels he does not have to keep secrets,’ said Sophie.

‘No,’ said Lisette quietly. ‘He acts as he wishes and everyone must accept that.’

‘Lottie wants to wash and change. I think we should leave her now.’

With that she took Lisette’s arm and led her out of the room and Lisette seemed to have been so overcome by the news of my identity that she went docilely.

‘Thank you, Sophie,’ I said.

I found a dress in my baggage—hardly suitable to the grandeur of the château but it was of a deep blue shade which matched my eyes and I knew was becoming. In due course Sophie arrived to take me down. She had changed, but her dress did no more for her than the one in which I had first seen her.

She said: ‘I don’t know what you thought of Lisette. She had no right to come in as she did.’

‘I thought her interesting, and she is very pretty.’

‘Yes.’ Sophie looked rueful as though regretting her lack of claim to that asset. ‘But she does give herself airs. She is only the housekeeper’s niece.’

‘I gather the housekeeper is a very important person in the château.’

‘Oh yes. She looks after the domestic side … the kitchens and the maids and the running of the whole place. There is a good deal of rivalry between her and Jacques, who is the major-domo. But my father has been very good to Lisette, having her educated here. I think it is part of the bargain he made when Tante Berthe came. I always call her Tante Berthe because Lisette does. Actually she is Madame Clavel. I don’t think she is really Madame but she calls herself that because it is better for a position of authority than Mademoiselle. She is very stern and prim and no one could imagine her ever having a husband. Even Lisette is in awe of her.’

‘Lisette is not the least bit reserved.’

‘Indeed no. She pushes herself forward on every occasion. She would love to join us at table but Armand would never have that. He has strong ideas about the servants and that is all Lisette is … in a way. I think she has to do quite a lot of things for Tante Berthe. But it was just like her … pushing in as she did. She was astounded to hear you were …’

‘Yes, I gathered that. But I suppose a great many people would be.’

She was thoughtful. ‘My father does exactly what he wants, and quite clearly he is proud of you and wants everyone to know he is your father. You are very good-looking.’

‘Thank you.’

‘I don’t need thanks for saying it. I always notice people’s looks. I suppose it is because I am so plain myself.’

‘But indeed you are not,’ I lied.

But she just smiled at me. ‘We should go down,’ she said.

The first meal in the château was rather a ceremonious occasion. I don’t remember what we ate. I was too excited to notice. The candles on the table gave a touch of mystery to the room—tapestried like the hall—and I had an eerie feeling that I was being watched by ghosts who would appear at any moment. Everything was so elegant: cutlery, silver goblets, and silent-footed servants in their blue and green livery gliding back and forth, whisking away dishes and replacing them with a speed which was like magic. What a contrast to Eversleigh, with the servants trudging in and out with their tureens of soup and platters of beef and mutton and pies!

But it was, naturally, the company which demanded my attention. I was presented to my brother, Armand, a very worldly young man about eighteen years old, I imagined, who appeared to be greatly amused to discover who I was.

He was very handsome and very like the Comte in appearance though lacking that firmness of jaw which perhaps came later in life, for I was sure Armand would be just as intent on having his own way as his father was, but perhaps had not yet found how to get it on every occasion. At least that was my impression of him. He was fastidious, that much was obvious; his dandyism was more pronounced than that of his father. I sensed this by the manner in which he lightly adjusted his cravat and touched the silver buttons on his jacket. His expression was one of haughtiness and his manner was intended to remind everyone that he was an aristocrat. His eyes rested on me with some approval and I felt a glow of pleasure; those striking looks which I had inherited from my ancestress Carlotta were a passport to approval wherever I went.

The Comte sat at the head of the table and Sophie at the extreme end. She seemed pleased because of the distance between them. I was on the Comte’s right and Armand was immediately opposite me, but it was such a large table that we all seemed a long way apart.

Armand asked me a great many questions about Eversleigh and I explained how my mother had fairly recently inherited it and that I had spent the greater part of my life at Clavering in another part of the country.

Sophie said nothing and everyone seemed to forget that she was there, but I was drawn continually into the conversation and was able to make a contribution until they talked of Court matters, to which I was only too ready to listen.

Armand had returned from Paris in the last few days and he said that the attitude of people was changing there.

‘It is always in the capital that such changes are first visible,’ said the Comte, ‘though Paris has hated the King for a long time now. The days are well past when he was known as The Well Beloved.’

‘It is the Well Hated now,’ added Armand. ‘He refuses to go to his capital unless it is absolutely necessary.’

‘He should never have built that road from Versailles to Compiègne. He should never have lost the regard of the people of Paris. It is downright dangerous. If only he would change his way of life there might be time yet …’

‘He never would,’ cried Armand. ‘And who are we to blame him?’ Armand’s eyes slid found to me rather maliciously, I thought. I knew what he meant. He was accusing my father of resembling the King in his morals. It wasn’t fair. I felt a great urge to defend my newly-found father against his cynical son. ‘But,’ went on Armand, ‘I believe the Parc aux Cerfs is scarcely in use now.’

‘It is because he grows old. However, I think the situation is becoming more and more dangerous.’

‘Louis is the King, remember. No one can change that.’

‘Let us hope no one tries to.’

‘The people will always be dissatisfied,’ said Armand. ‘There is nothing unusual about that.’

‘There have been riots in England,’ I put in. ‘It is said to be because of the high cost of food. They brought in the soldiers and several people were killed.’

‘That’s the only thing to do,’ said Armand. ‘Bring in the military.’

‘We should make the economy stronger,’ said the Comte. ‘Then we should not have these areas of poverty. The people, when roused, can be a formidable force.’

‘Not while we have the army to keep them in check,’ said Armand.

‘The people may try to raise their voices one day,’ the Comte went on.

‘They’ll never dare,’ retorted Armand lightly. ‘And we are boring our new sister Lottie with this dreary talk.’ He spoke my name with the emphasis on the last syllable which made it sound different and rather charming.

I smiled at him. ‘No, I am not in the least bored. I am finding everything too exciting for that and I like to know what is going on.’

‘You and I will ride together tomorrow,’ said Armand. ‘I will show you the countryside, little sister. And, Papa, I suppose you are proposing to show Lottie Paris?’

‘Very soon,’ said the Comte. ‘I have promised myself a jaunt to town.’

The meal seemed to go on for a long time but in due course it was over and we went into a little room where we drank wine. Even excited as I was, I was so tired that I found it difficult to keep my eyes open. The Comte noticed this and told Sophie to take me to my room.

The days were full of new impressions and yet how quickly they slipped past! I was enchanted by the château itself; a magnificent piece of architecture which was the more fascinating because it bore the mark of several centuries. It was necessary to be some distance from it to see it in all its glory and during those first days it was a delight to ride away from it and then halt to look back at the steep-pitched roofs, the ancient battlements, the pepperpot towers, the corbelled parapet supported by more than two hundred machicolations, the cylindrical keep overlooking the drawbridge, and to marvel at its sheer strength and apparent impregnability.

I felt moved to think that this was the home of my ancestors and then again I was aware of that twinge of remorse because I had been so happy in dear comfortable Clavering with my mother and Jean-Louis, which was all I asked for then.

But how could anyone help being proud of being connected with the Château d’Aubigné!

At first I believed that I should never learn the geography of the inside of the château. In those early days I was continually getting lost and discovering new parts. There was the very ancient section with its short spiral staircases; in this were the dungeons and there was a distinct chill in that part of the building. It was very eerie and I should have hated to be there alone. I knew that fearful things had happened there, for there the family’s enemies had been imprisoned. I could guess at the dark deeds which had been perpetrated in those gloomy dungeons. The Comte himself showed them to me … little dark cells with great rings attached to the walls to which prisoners had been manacled. When I shivered he put his arm round me and said: ‘Perhaps I should not have brought you here. Will it make you like the château less? But, Lottie, my dear, if you are going to live life to the full, you must not shut your eyes to certain features of it.’

After that he took me to those apartments where, in the past, he and his ancestors had entertained kings when they travelled in the district. In these rooms with their elegant furnishings, I was shown a different aspect of the château.

From the battlements one looked for miles over beautiful country to the town some way off with its shuttered houses and its narrow streets. There were so many impressions to absorb in a short time and I often thought: I will tell Dickon about this when we meet. He would be most interested and I was sure he would be in his element looking after an estate like this one.

But it was the people around me who interested me more than anything.

I was frequently with the Comte, for it seemed as though he could not have enough of my company, which considering the way in which he ignored Sophie was remarkable. I had obviously made a great impression on him, or it may have been that he had really loved my mother and I reminded him of that long-ago romance. I wondered. She must have been very different from the people he would have known. I had seen a portrait of his wife and she was just like Sophie, timid and nervous-looking. She had been very young obviously when the portrait had been painted.

Sometimes Sophie would come to my room and Lisette would join us. I felt sometimes that Sophie wanted to forbid the girl’s intrusion but she seemed afraid of her, as she was of so much.

I myself was rather pleased when Lisette came, for her conversation was lively and in spite of the fact that I was growing fond of Sophie, I did not find her company very enlivening.

I had caught a glimpse of the formidable Tante Berthe, a big woman with a stern face and tight lips which looked as though they would find it very difficult to smile. I had heard that she was very pious and kept the serving girls in order, which, Lisette told me, was quite a task as the men were always trying to seduce the girls.

‘You know what men are,’ said Lisette, laughing at me. ‘They are torn between their desire for the girls and their fear of Tante Berthe. If any of them were caught in what they call flagrante delicto, which means caught in the act, she would insist on their being dismissed.’

‘Surely the Comte would not allow that to happen.’

‘You mean in view of his own inclinations.’ Lisette continued to laugh. She did not seem to care what she said about anyone and I was sure she would never restrict her own behaviour. It was true that she had the redoubtable Tante Berthe behind her and that lady would surely not allow her own niece to be turned away.

Lisette liked to talk about lovers and I thought she did it to tease Sophie. I quickly came to the conclusion that she very much enjoyed showing her superiority in wit and looks over poor Sophie.

‘One day a husband will be found for me,’ she said, ‘just as yours will be, Sophie.’ Her mouth hardened. ‘The difference will be that yours will be a nobleman and mine a good solid member of the bourgeoisie who finds favour with Tante Berthe.’

Sophie looked apprehensive as she always did at the mention of marriage.

‘It might be very pleasant,’ I told her.

‘I know it will be awful,’ she replied.

I told them about Dickon and they listened avidly, especially Lisette.

‘Trust you,’ said Lisette, who enjoyed treating me with a mingling of familiarity and camaraderie, as though we were two of a kind.

‘It can’t be long now,’ said Sophie mournfully. ‘I shall be taken to Court. Papa thinks I shall be perfectly safe there. The King likes young girls but he won’t look at me.’

‘I sometimes think,’ said Lisette, ‘that I should like to be selected by the King’s pander to minister to His Majesty’s delight.’

‘Lisette!’

‘Well, it would be better than being pushed off to some boring old gentleman who has a little money but not too much, for being the niece of a housekeeper—even such a housekeeper—does not warrant too much.’

‘You mean you would like to go the Parc aux Cerfs?’ asked Sophie incredulously.

‘They say it is most luxurious and when the King grows tired of the girls they are given a good dowry and can marry, which they do, the dowry making them very desirable. Those dowries, they say, are more than an average husband can earn in a very long time. So those girls—and their husbands—are lucky. Don’t you think so, Lottie?’

I pondered it. ‘I believe a lot of people starve here and in England,’ I said. ‘But from what I hear it is worse in France. If those girls please the King in that way of their own free will and are paid for it, it may be it is better than living in dire poverty all their lives.’

‘You talk like Armand,’ said Sophie. ‘He is very loyal to the King and would like to live just as he does. He loathes the complaining poor—especially when they riot. He says they will never be content whatever they have so why bother to make conditions better for them.’

‘It is hard to pass an opinion on those girls,’ I temporized. ‘One would have to experience the sort of places they come from. Perhaps we are complacent … and lucky never to have known hardship.’

Lisette was studying us thoughtfully, but she did not speak which was unusual for her.

‘At least,’ said Sophie, ‘they can choose their own husbands.’

Poor Sophie, she was always uneasy when marriage was talked of.

I had been at the château a week when the Comte announced that he was going to take me to Paris and perhaps if possible give me a glimpse of the Court at Versailles.

I was greatly excited, but when he said that Sophie should accompany us she was thrown into a state of apprehension because she was afraid a husband would be found for her.

A few days later we were in Paris. I was so fascinated by this great and enchanting city that I did not think of Dickon for two whole days before I realized the omission and reproached myself for it.

We went first to the Comte’s magnificent town house—one of the mansions situated in the Rue Saint-Germain which were called hôtels and belonged to the country’s most wealthy noblemen. With their emblazoned pediments these tall buildings were very grand and impressive. The house was as luxuriously furnished as some parts of the château but in the style which had become so popular during the reign of Louis XV—a combination of classic severity and the rococo. I knew little of such things than I learned later. All I was aware of at that time was that the exquisite beauty overwhelmed me, and it gave me infinite pleasure merely to look at the beautiful chairs upholstered in Gobelin tapestry and the unusual sofas called sultanes, the carved cabinets and the inlaid tables. The rugs and carpets were of delicate colouring and toned beautifully with the paintings which adorned the walls. The Comte pointed out with pride his Boucher and Fragonard—two painters who had just been making their way when he had bought their pictures and were now Court Painters for the King, who might be profligate and given more to erotic pursuits than matters of state, but certainly had an appreciation of art. This had been encouraged by Madame de Pompadour when she had been alive and ruled the country through her lover.

I was enchanted by the mansion but even more so by what was inside it.

Then there was Paris itself—city of charm, noise, gaiety, mud and … contrasts. Perhaps it was the last of these which struck me more than anything else, when I come to look back—those few glimpses I had of the squalor and horror which existed side by side with the utmost elegance and richness.

The Comte was determined that I should love Paris. I was to discover later that there was a motive in this and that he and my mother were planning to divert my thoughts from Dickon. At that time I put it down to an intense national pride. And indeed he had much to be proud of in that respect.

So he was determined to show me everything, but first he took us to a fashionable dressmaker so that Sophie and I might have dresses made for a presentation at Versailles.

‘I want you to be acknowledged by the King,’ he told me, ‘because without that you cannot go to Court. It may be that you won’t be. We have to wait and hope that he will appear. All you have to do is curtsey lower than you ever have done before and if he addresses you, answer him clearly. It would be a brief encounter and if he should speak to you I will make it known that you are on a short visit to France in case he should ask someone to make plans for you. There will be others present all hoping for the honour of being addressed—however briefly—by the King, and he will be passing through the ante-room on his way to some engagement.’

‘And for this we must have new dresses?’

‘You must do me credit,’ said the Comte.

‘It seems a great deal of formality.’

‘That,’ said the Comte, ‘is France.’

So we went to the dressmaker—a very soignée woman—who seemed very old and was so patched and powdered that her face was scarcely visible. It was as though she were wearing a mask. She brought out bales of material which she caressed with long white fingers as though they were loved ones; she summoned her assistants and they turned me about, unpinning my hair and treating me as they might have done a bundle of merchandise; and all the time the dressmaker’s piercing eyes studied me. They glinted as she said: ‘She is a child … as yet … but we will do something.’

And to me: ‘When you are older … when you have become a woman eh? … then it will be a joy to dress you.’

They decided on rich peacock blue silk for me. ‘Very simple,’ she cried. ‘We show the child … but the woman to come.’

She spent a lot of time with me, less with Sophie. It was blue for her too, a light turquoise shade.

I laughed when we came out. ‘She takes her dresses very seriously,’ I said.

‘She is one of the greatest dressmakers in Paris,’ Sophie told me. ‘She once made for Madame de Pompadour.’

I was impressed, but more interested in the sights of Paris than the forthcoming visit to Versailles which was the reason for so much planning.

The Comte and I were often alone. He seemed to want that and poor Sophie was often excluded from our expeditions. We did not always use his coach but for fun would take the little carriages which were called pots de chambre because of their shape, and although they exposed us to the weather we did not mind that in the least. In these we would ride round Paris. Whenever I hear the clip-clop of horses’ hooves on a road, I can be transported to those days which seemed to hold a special magic for me.

The Comte wanted me to understand the life of Paris. He wanted me to hear the people coming in through the barriers from the country in the early morning bringing the produce they sold in the markets. It was a city which awoke early and at seven o’clock, although there were no carriages on the roads, people began to stir and go to their business. I was most amused when the waiters from the lemonade shops came running to the various apartment houses with their trays of coffee and rolls for the petit déjeuner of the people who lived there. The various trades seemed to have their special times for making themselves seen and heard. At ten o’clock the legal practitioners went to the Châtelet and, wigged and gowned, they made an extraordinary spectacle with those whose cases they were going to try running along beside them. At midday it was the stockbrokers. But at two o’clock all was quiet. That was the dinner hour and it was not until five that the city became lively again. Then it was at its most noisy, for the streets were blocked with carriages and pedestrians.

‘The most dangerous time is when it begins to get dark,’ said the Comte. ‘No lady must ever be out alone at that time. Thieves abound … and worse. The Watch is not yet on duty and no one is safe. Later on when the streets become full of people it is not so bad.’

The play started at nine and after that the streets quietened down a little until round about midnight when carriages carrying people from supper and gambling parties would go rumbling through the streets.

I loved it all. I wanted to get up early to see the peasants arrive with their fruit, flowers and provisions of all sorts as they made their way to Les Halles. I wanted to see the bankers of Gonesse bringing in their bread. I wanted to buy coffee from the coffee women who stood on the street corners with their tin urns on their backs; it was two sous a cup and served in earthenware vessels but it tasted like nectar to me. I loved the street singers, some of them singing sacred hymns and others specializing in obscenity.

I think the Comte enjoyed those days too and perhaps saw Paris more intimately than he ever had before. He would dress very simply when he took me walking and he always held my arm firmly. I was touched by the way he always protected me from the splashing of carriages, for the Paris mud was notorious and contained an element of sulphur in it which would burn holes in one’s clothes if not removed at once. He took me to Notre Dame, that great landmark of a great city. How it inspired me with its grandeur, but most of all by its antiquity. We went inside and when he had shown me the glorious wheel window in the north transept and the rose window over the organ and we had climbed the three hundred and ninety-seven spiral steps of the turret to look at Paris from the top of the Cathedral, we sat inside in the gloom and the Comte told me of some of the events which had taken place in the history of Notre Dame. Afterwards we looked at the gargoyles which decorated the walls of the Cathedral and somehow my mood changed. They were such strange faces … so wicked … so cunning.

‘Why did they put them there?’ I demanded. ‘They have spoiled its beauty.’

All the same I could not stop looking at those hideous faces … saturnine … evil, but what struck me most was that they seemed to be leering, revelling.

‘In what are they revelling?’ I asked.

‘The follies of human nature, I always thought,’ answered the Comte.

He must have been impressed by the effect this had on me, but he was determined to show me everything possible during our tours of the city. Our rides took us past various prisons. Two stand out in my memory—the Conciergerie on the Quai de l’Horloge whose circular towers could be seen from the bridges and bank of the river; and the Bastille at the Porte St-Antoine with its grim bastions and towers. I shuddered at the sight of the gallery from which cannon projected.

‘They are not all criminals who are imprisoned there,’ the Comte explained. ‘Some are victims of their enemies … men whose politics have betrayed them … or perhaps they have become too dangerous through Court intrigue.’

He then told me of the infamous lettres de cachet, which were warrants of imprisonment issued by the Kings of France. Although they were countersigned by a minister they had to be signed by the King. ‘There is no redress,’ said the Comte. ‘Any man can receive his lettre de cachet and never discover the reason why, for once he is incarcerated in the Bastille, he has little hope of ever getting out.’

Looking up at those grim walls I wondered about the people who were living behind them. ‘But it is so unfair … so unjust!’ I cried.

‘Life often is,’ said the Comte. ‘One has to be always wary to make sure one does not take a false step which could end in disaster.’

‘How can you be sure of that?’

‘One can’t. One has to walk carefully and one does learn as one gets older. In one’s youth one can be rash.’

He did not want me to be too depressed and that evening we went to the play; and how I loved to see those people’s elegant clothes and the women’s magnificent coiffures, all laughing and calling to each other.

Sophie was with us. She obviously enjoyed the theatre and when we returned to the hôtel I stayed in her room for a while and we discussed the play and laughed over the evening’s entertainment. I did believe I was getting to know Sophie better and beginning to understand that she had been rather lonely, and that she wanted to confide was really rather glad that she had found a sister.

We shall be great friends, I told myself. But then I remembered that I should shortly be returning to England and wondered when we should meet again. When she marries, I promised myself, I shall visit her; and she will visit me.

There came the great thrill of our visit to Versailles. Oddly enough, after the exploration of Paris it did not impress me as greatly. Perhaps I had become satiated by so much splendour and luxurious extravagance. Of course I thought it was wonderful and the Le Notre gardens superb; the terraces and the statues, the bronze groups and ornamental basins from which the fountains rose and fell—they were like fairyland; the orangery had been built by Mansard, the Comte told me, and was reckoned to be the finest piece of architecture in the whole of Versailles and I could well believe that; and it was impossible not to be impressed by the great central terrace and stretch of grass called the tapis vert. But what I remember most about Versailles was that crowded ante-chamber, named the oeil de boeuf because of its oval window, in which I, with Sophie and the Comte, waited for the King to appear from his apartments.

Everyone was very elaborately dressed, and the Comte, I supposed because he was an important person at Court, stood in a prominent position near the door with me on one side and Sophie on the other.

There was an air of suppressed tension in that room and such eagerness on the faces of everyone. They were all so anxious that the King should notice them on his passage through the room. I kept thinking of those people in the Bastille who had been despatched there for something of which they might well be unaware, and just because they had displeased someone who had the power to put them there. But hadn’t the Comte said the lettres de cachet had to be signed by the King?

There was a sudden hush, for a man had come into the room. The King of France! He was followed by several men but I had eyes only for the King. I think I should have known him for the King anywhere. He had an air of great distinction in a way which I can only describe as aloof. It was a handsome face, certainly marked by debauchery but the good looks remained. He moved with grace and he was most exquisitely dressed; diamonds glittered discreetly on his person. I could not take my eyes from him.

He was close to us now and the Comte had caught his eye. I felt myself propelled forward and curtsied as low as I could. Sophie did the same and the Comte bowed low.

‘Ah, Aubigné,’ said the King; his voice was low and musical.

‘I would present my daughters, Sire,’ said the Comte.

I could feel those weary looking eyes on me. A very charming smile appeared on the King’s face and for a few seconds he looked straight at me.

‘You have a very pretty daughter, Comte,’ he said.

‘On a visit from England, Sire. She returns there soon to her mother.’

‘I hope we shall see her at Court before she goes.’

The King had passed on. Someone else was bowing with the utmost servility.

The Comte was delighted. As we rode back to Paris in the carriage he said: ‘It was a great success. The King actually spoke of you. That’s why I told him you were here only on a visit. He liked you. That was clear. Aren’t you flattered?’

‘I have heard that he likes young girls.’

‘Not all,’ said the Comte with a laugh, and I noticed that Sophie shrank into a corner of the carriage. I felt sorry for her because the King had scarcely glanced at her.

When we reached Paris the Comte said that he wanted to speak to me and would I go into the petit salon where he would join me shortly.

I changed into a simpler dress and went down to the room where he was waiting for me.

‘Ah Lottie,’ he said, ‘flushed with success, I see.’

‘It was a very brief glory,’ I reminded him.

‘What did you expect? An invitation to sup with him? God forbid. I should not have taken you if that had been possible.’

‘I didn’t expect anything. I was just surprised that he looked at me for what was it?—two seconds?’

‘You are a beautiful girl, Lottie. You stand out in a crowd. It means that now the King has spoken to you … or been aware of you … you could go to Court if the occasion arose. It is always well to be in a position to go.’

‘Well, I shall be on my way home soon. I suppose I should be thinking of my return now. I only came for a short visit, didn’t I?’

‘And you have enjoyed that visit?’

‘It has been wonderfully exciting and different from anything I ever knew before.’

‘I don’t intend to lose you now that I have found you, you know.’

‘I hope you won’t.

He looked at me steadily. ‘I think, Lottie, that you and I understand each other well. We stepped easily into the roles of father and daughter.’

‘I suppose we did.’

‘I am going to tell you something. I have written to your mother asking her to marry me and she has consented.’

I stared at him in amazement. ‘But …’ I stammered. ‘Her … her home is at Eversleigh.’

‘When a woman marries she leaves her home and goes to that of her husband.’

‘You mean she will come to live here?’

He nodded. ‘And it is your home too,’ he added.

This was bewildering. First a father appearing, then the scenes I had witnessed during the last weeks, and now … my mother was going to marry the Comte.

‘But …’ I said because I had to go on talking in the hope of collecting my wits meanwhile …‘you … er … you haven’t seen each other … for years before you came to England.’

‘We loved each other long ago.’

‘And then … nothing happened.’

‘Nothing happened! You happened. Moreover we are both free now. Neither of us was then.’

‘It seems to me so very sudden.’

‘Sometimes one knows these things at once. We did. You don’t seem very pleased. Are you wondering about yourself? Lottie, it is my earnest wish and that of your mother that you will be with us. This is your home now.’

‘No … My home is in England. You know about Dickon.’

‘My dear, you are so young. You know there can be no thought of a marriage yet.’

‘But I do know I love Dickon and he loves me.’

‘Well, you have to grow up a little, don’t you? Why shouldn’t you do that growing up here?’

I could not think of anything to say. I wanted to be alone to ponder this new turn in affairs and to ask myself what effect it was going to have on my life.

The Comte was saying: ‘Your mother is making arrangements to come to France.’

‘She can’t leave Eversleigh.’

‘Arrangements will have to be made. In fact she has been making them for some time. We agreed to this two weeks ago. We both decided that having found each other we were not going to risk losing each other again. Lottie, I can never explain what a joy it has been to find you … and your mother. I thought of her over the years and it seems she did of me. What is between us is something which rarely comes.’

I nodded and he smiled at me fondly, realizing that I was thinking of Dickon; and although he believed that I could not possibly understand, he did not say so.

‘Now we have a chance to regain what we have lost. We both realize that. Nothing is going to stand in our way. Your mother will be coming here soon. We shall be married then. I wanted you to hear it first from me. When your mother comes she will tell you what arrangements have been made. In the meantime we must prepare for the wedding.’

He put his arms about me and, drawing me to him, kissed me. I clung to him. I was very fond of him and proud that he was my father. But when I tried to look into the future, it seemed very misty to me.

The news that my father was to be married was received in his household with consternation, I think, although no one said very much to me. Armand shrugged his shoulders and seemed cynically amused because the bride was to be my mother, and the romantic plans were clearly the outcome of an old love-affair.

‘So we have a sister and belle mère at one stroke,’ he said, and I was sure he went off to laugh about it with his cronies—worldly young gentlemen like himself.

Sophie was inclined to be pleased. ‘He will be so taken up with his own marriage that he won’t think about arranging one for me,’ she confided to me.

I replied: ‘You worry too much. If you don’t want to marry the man they choose for you, just say so. Be firm. They can’t drag you screaming to the altar.’

She laughed with me and it occurred to me that we were beginning to get on very well.

Lisette talked excitedly of the marriage.

‘He must be deeply enamoured,’ she said, ‘for there is no need to get heirs.’

‘Surely that is not the only reason for marrying,’ I said.

‘It usually is the main one in France. Otherwise men would never marry. They like a variety of mistresses.’

‘How cynical you all are! Don’t you believe in love?’

‘Love is very fine when there are advantages to let it flourish in comfort. I think that is the view of most people. I have learned to stare cold hard facts in the face and it seems to me that on this occasion your father must be truly in love.’

‘And that amazes you?’

‘I suppose such things can happen to anyone—even men like the Comte.’

She shrugged her shoulders and laughed at me.

I was delighted to see my mother when she arrived. She seemed to have cast off years. I felt very tender towards her because I realized that her life had not been easy. True, she had loved the Comte and betrayed her husband, but that was one of the reasons for her years of contrition, and being the woman she was, she suffered very deeply through what she would call her sin. Now she blossomed; her eyes shone and there was a faint flush on her cheeks. She looked years younger. Like Pilgrim, I thought, when the burden fell from his shoulders. She was like a young girl in love.

The Comte had changed too. I was amazed that two elderly people—at least they seemed elderly to me—could behave like two young people in love. For indeed, they were in love and love appeared to have the same effect on people in their forties as it did on those in their teens.

She embraced me; the Comte embraced me; and we all embraced each other. All the retainers came into the hall to greet her. They bowed low and were all smiling and chattering and the Comte stood by, like a benign god, smiling on the happiness he had created.

Armand and Sophie greeted her with their own special brand of behaviour: Armand, smiling rather condescendingly as though he were confronting two children who were having a special treat, and Sophie nervously, certain that her new stepmother would find faults in her, in spite of the fact that I had assured her my mother was the easiest person in the world to get along with.

They were to be married the following week and the ceremony would take place in the castle chapel. I was all eagerness to ask questions about what was happening at Eversleigh but I did not get a chance to talk to my mother alone until much later in the evening.

We had eaten in the dining-room and I saw how impressed and enchanted she was by the château—just as I had been; and when we arose from the table she asked me to take her to the room which had been prepared for her.

‘We have hardly had a word alone since I arrived,’ she said.

When we were in her room she shut the door and as she looked at me some of the happiness faded from her face, and I felt misgivings that all was not as well as it had seemed.

I said: ‘There is so much I want to know. What about Eversleigh? What are you going to do about everything there?’

‘That is what I want to explain to you. It is taken care of …’

Still she hesitated.

‘Is something wrong?’ I asked.

‘No no. It has all worked out very well. Lottie, I have made Eversleigh over to Dickon.’

‘Oh!’ I smiled. ‘It is what he wanted, and of course, it is the solution.’

‘Yes,’ she repeated. ‘It is what he wanted and it is the solution.’

‘So … he’ll have Eversleigh … and Clavering. I suppose he’ll be at Eversleigh most of the time. He loves that place and of course he is one of the family. If Uncle Carl had not been so eccentric it would have gone to him.’

‘Well, he has it now, and I have a letter for you, Lottie.’

‘A letter!’

She was a long time producing it and when she did she held it as though it were some dangerous weapon.

‘It’s from Dickon!’ I said.

‘Yes,’ she answered. ‘It will explain.’

I threw my arms about her and kissed her. I was longing to read the letter and did not want to do so until I was alone, but as she had asked me to talk to her I did not feel that I could leave her immediately.

‘It’s wonderful,’ I cried. ‘Everyone gets what they want! And you are happy aren’t you, Mother? You truly love him, don’t you?’

‘I have always loved Gerard.’

‘It’s so romantic … one of those “and they lived happily ever after” endings. It’s nice to know they do occur sometimes.’

‘We intend to be happy … after all these years. And, Lottie, this will be your home, you know.’

I frowned. ‘Well, I suppose so really. But I shall visit my relations in England. I suppose my grandmother will be at Eversleigh with Dickon’s mother.’

‘They will not be able to tear themselves away from him, and Eversleigh is a big house. They need not get in his way.’

I was smiling. It was all working out so happily. I would go to Eversleigh and he would be there. I was clutching his letters in my hand and it was difficult to stop myself tearing it open.

Perhaps she understood my impatience for she said: ‘Well, that is what I wanted to tell you.’

‘Dear Mother,’ I replied, ‘it is lovely to see you here. It is the most exciting and beautiful place you could imagine. I love it. And it is wonderful that you and the Comte are going to be so happy.’

‘He is so fond of you. He was delighted with you as soon as he saw you.’

‘I like him, too. Good night, Mother. I’ll see you in the morning. There is so much to talk about.’

‘Good night, my child,’ she said, ‘and always remember that everything I have ever done has been for your good.’

‘I know that. Good night. Sleep well.’

Then I was gone.

As soon as I was in my room I slit the envelope. Dearest little Lottie [he had written],

When you read this Eversleigh will be mine. It was like a miracle. Prince Charming appears out of the blue and whisks your mother off to his romantic castle and she leaves Eversleigh to me.

Isn’t that exciting? I often think of you and our little romance. It did amuse you, didn’t it? Our little game of pretence? We tried to forget that you were only a child and I must admit that at times you did not seem so. But facts are facts. You are going to live in France now. You will meet interesting people, for I believe Monsieur le Comte leads a very colourful life. I am so pleased that you will have such a wonderful time.

I shall soon be installed in Eversleigh with my mother and your grandmother. It is a family house, isn’t it? Generations of the Eversleigh clan have lived here … so even when I marry they won’t be moving out. I dare say that will be fairly soon. I am really so much older than you, Lottie, and it is time I was settled—especially now that I have Eversleigh and new responsibilities.

My blessings on you, dear Lottie. I hope you won’t forget the pleasant times we had together.

Dickon.

I read it through again. What did he mean? There were three facts which kept going round in my head. Eversleigh was now his. I was a child. He was going to marry soon.

It was all over then. Dickon no longer loved me, no longer wanted me. He wrote as though what had been between us had been some game of make-believe.

I began to see it all very clearly. It had been Eversleigh he had wanted. And now that he had it I had no place in his picture of the future.

I had never felt so miserable in the whole of my life. I threw myself on to the bed and stared up at the tester.

It was over. There was no need now for Dickon to marry me to get what he wanted.

So … he had jilted me.

The Procuress

THERE WAS GREAT EXCITEMENT throughout the capital and indeed throughout the entire country because of the royal wedding. The people seemed to have forgotten their grievances and were growing excited at the prospect of all the fetes and entertainments which would be planned to celebrate the great occasion. The weather was beautiful; the may was in blossom; and it was a time for rejoicing.

It was three years since my mother had married my father and it amazed me to see how happy they were together. I think I had grown a little cynical. Dickon’s defection had made me grow up overnight. I still thought of him; he was enshrined in my heart as the perfect lover and no matter what I heard of him, nothing could change that. I used to talk about him to Lisette and Sophie and would build up romantic dreams, the theme of which was that there had been a terrible mistake; he had not written that letter jilting me; he had not married, and all this time he had been pining for me, for he had received a false letter from me.

It eased me, that dream, ridiculous as it was, for there were letters from my grandmother and Sabrina telling us how wonderful Dickon was and how happy with his dear wife Isabel, who had brought him a fortune and new interests in life.

My mother always gave me the letters to read with a certain embarrassment and apprehension, but I had learned to hide my feelings; I would read them avidly and then go away and tell myself I didn’t believe a word of them.

‘Dickon’s father-in-law is a very influential man,’ wrote Sabrina. ‘He is a banker and some high official at Court. It is all rather secret and we are not sure what he does there. He has his finger in many pies … and that means Dickon has too. You may be sure he makes the most of everything that comes his way …’

Once my grandmother and Sabrina came to visit us. They wanted to assure themselves that my mother and I were really happy.

Dickon did not come with them. ‘I suppose he can’t get his fingers out of all those pies,’ I said maliciously.

They laughed and replied that Dickon was indeed busy. He was in London a great deal and there was Eversleigh to run. He surrounded himself with good men … the right people.

‘He talks of you often, Lottie,’ said my grandmother. ‘He was so sweet to you when you came to stay, wasn’t he? Not many young men would have taken so much notice of a little girl.’

My mother put in rather tartly: ‘He took a lot of notice of Eversleigh and that included Lottie at that time.’

My grandmother ignored that and insisted: ‘It was a charming gesture to take so much interest in a little girl and he used to do everything to make Lottie happy.’

Yes, I thought. He kissed me in a way that I find hard to forget. He talked to me of marriage … and how happy we should be together. He persuaded me to love him. He tricked me, and when he got Eversleigh he jilted me.

I knew now that my mother had contrived it. She had sent for my father who had come and changed everything. Then she had given up Eversleigh because she thought that when Dickon had it he would cease to want me.

And how right she had been! I suppose I should have been grateful to her, but I wasn’t. I wouldn’t have cared for what reason Dickon wanted me. Perhaps I refused to let myself forget him; perhaps the idea of lost love pleased me, made me feel that my life, though tragic, was full of interest. That may well have been the case, but the fact remained that Dickon was always ready to come into my thoughts, and with the memory would come that frustrated longing.

‘There is only one fly in the ointment,’ said Sabrina; ‘they can’t get children.’

‘Poor Isabel, she does so long for a healthy child,’ added my grandmother. ‘There have been two miscarriages already. It seems as though she is ill-fated. Dickon is most disappointed.’

‘It is the only thing he cannot win for himself,’ I commented.

My grandmother and Sabrina never recognized irony when it was directed against Dickon. ‘Alas, that is so, my dear,’ said Sabrina sadly.

So there I was at the time of the royal wedding. The little Austrian girl who was about my age was coming to France to marry the Dauphin, who himself was not much older. The Comte would be at Court and I supposed we should all go to some of the entertainments. There would be balls and ballets and we should be able to catch a glimpse of the notorious woman, Madame du Barry, who was causing such a scandal at Court. She was vulgar and breathtakingly beautiful, I believed, and the King doted on her. Many had tried to remove her from her position, but the King remained enslaved.

There was always some intrigue in progress; life was rich, colourful and uncertain—the more so because on occasions we heard of the rumblings of discontent throughout the country. News would reach us of riots in a small town, a farmer’s haystacks being burned down, a baker’s shop raided … Small outbreaks in remote places. We took little notice of them. Certainly not during those golden days before the wedding.

The château had become my home by now but I never really got used to it. It could never be home to me as Clavering and Eversleigh had been. There I had been in the houses of my ancestors—but in a way the castle was that too; yet there was something alien about it. It seemed full of echoes from the past and I could never quite forget those dungeons which the Comte had shown me soon after my arrival.

My mother had settled in with ease and had taken on the role of Madame la Comtesse without any apparent effort. I supposed that was because she was happy. I marvelled that she, who had lived rather quietly, could suddenly become a figure in society, although throughout it all she preserved a certain air of innocence which was very attractive. There was mystery about her. She had a virginal air and yet it was well known that she had borne the Comte’s child—myself—all those years before when she had been the wife of another man, and the Comte had had his own wife and family. As for the Comte, he had become a doting and faithful husband, which I was sure was something society had never expected of him. It was a miracle. The miracle of true love. That, I would say to myself, is how Dickon and I would have been had we been allowed to marry.

I was educated with Sophie according to French custom, which meant that there was an emphasis on what was considered gracious living rather than academic achievement. Literature was important, as was an appreciation of art in any form, and fluency of language and the ability to converse with wit and charm; we must be skilled in courtly arts such as dancing, singing and playing a musical instrument; and we had special teachers for these subjects. I found them very interesting—far more so than the tuition I had received from my English governesses. Lisette shared our lessons.

Lisette was very bright and learned with a feverish application as though she were determined to excel, which she did. Sophie lagged behind. I often tried to point out to her that it was not so much that she was slower to comprehend as that she believed herself to be, and so willed it.

She would always shake her head and Lisette said that she would never grow out of it until she married and found a husband and children who adored her. ‘And that,’ added Lisette, with one of her looks of wisdom, ‘will never come about because she will not believe it even if it were actually the case.’

Lisette and I were high-spirited. If something was forbidden we were always seized with the urge to have it. We broke the rules set down by our teachers and once, when we were in Paris, we slipped out after dark and walked through the streets, which was a very daring thing to do. We were accosted by two gallants and were really frightened when they took our arms and would not let us go. Lisette screamed and attracted the attention of some people who were passing. Fortunately they stopped and Lisette cried out that we were being held against our will. The gallants released us and we ran with all the speed we could muster, and so reached the hôtel in safety. We did not try that again, but it had been a great adventure and, as Lisette said, it was experience.

Sophie was quite different, timid and subdued; and we always had great difficulty in persuading her to do anything which was forbidden.

So Lisette and I became the friends, whereas Sophie always remained something of an outsider.

‘It’s as though we are the sisters,’ said Lisette, smiling fondly at me.

There was one person of whom Lisette was afraid and that was Tante Berthe. But then the entire household was in awe of that formidable lady.

Sophie’s continual fear was that a husband would be found for her; she dreaded that and had already made up her mind that whoever was chosen for her would dislike her for being expected to marry her.

Lisette said: ‘There is one consolation in being the niece of the housekeeper. One will very likely have the privilege of choosing one’s own husband.’

‘I should not be surprised if Tante Berthe chose one for you,’ I commented.

‘My dear Lottie,’ she retorted, ‘no one, not even Tante Berthe, would make me marry if I did not want to.’

‘Nor I,’ I added.

Sophie listened to us round-eyed and disbelieving.

‘What would you do?’ she demanded.

‘Run away,’ I boasted.

Lisette lifted her shoulders which meant: Where to?

But I had an idea that if I were desperately determined my mother would not want me to be forced and she would persuade the Comte not to do so … so I felt safe enough.

This was the state of affairs when one day—it must have been about six weeks before the wedding—my mother told me that she and the Comte were going to visit some friends north of Angoulême and they were taking Sophie with them.

This threw Sophie into a state of trepidation for it could mean only one thing. It must be something to do with betrothal because the Comte was not very fond of Sophie’s company, and I was sure that if it had been a matter of pleasure only they would have taken me with them.

When we heard that they were visiting the Château de Tourville, the home of the Tourville family, and that there was an unmarried son of the family who was some twenty years old, it seemed as though Sophie’s fears were justified.

I said goodbye to my parents and a despairing Sophie and then rushed back to Lisette, and the two of us went to the top of one of the towers to watch the cavalcade until it was out of sight.

‘Poor Sophie,’ said Lisette. ‘Charles de Tourville is a bit of a rake.’

‘How do you know?’

‘One of the advantages of being the housekeeper’s niece is that one has an ear—a foot rather—in both camps. Servants know a great deal about the families they serve and there is communication between them. Mind you, they are a bit suspicious of me in the servants’ quarters. An educated young lady who is on terms of familiarity with the daughters of the house! Mind you, that doesn’t go for much. Sophie is so mild and you, after all, dear Lottie, are a bastard sprig, and a belated rush into respectability by your parents doesn’t alter that.’

Lisette always amused me with her banter. Sometimes she seemed to despise the nobility but she studied so hard at lessons because she was so anxious to be regarded as a member of it. If I had my dreams about Dickon’s one day returning to me with explanations and reconciliations, she had her dreams of marrying a duke and going to Court and perhaps catching the King’s eye and becoming as great an influence there as Madame du Barry.

We often lay on the grass overlooking the moat weaving rosy dreams of the future. Sophie used to be quite baffled by the outrageous situations we conjured up; they were so fantastic and alike in one respect. Lisette and I were always the glorious heroines in the centre of our romantic adventures.

During the time Sophie was away—it was fourteen days and much of that was spent in travelling, we did spare a thought for her and wondered whether she would come back betrothed to Charles de Tourville. We made plans to comfort her and to keep her mind from the horror marriage would mean to her.

Our amazement was great when she did come. She was a different Sophie. She had become almost pretty. Even her lank hair had a special sheen to it; and the expression on her face was almost rapt.

Lisette and I exchanged glances, determined to find out what had happened to change her.

We might have guessed. Sophie was in love.

She even talked about it.

‘From the moment I saw Charles … I knew … and so did he. I couldn’t believe it. How could he feel like that …’

‘Like what?’ demanded Lisette.

‘In … love,’ murmured Sophie. ‘With me …’

I was delighted for her and so was Lisette. We were very fond of her and were always trying to help her when we were not endeavouring to make her join in some mischief. She talked of nothing else but Charles de Tourville … how handsome he was, how charming, how brilliant. They had ridden together—not alone, of course—but in a party; but Charles had always contrived to be beside Sophie. Her father and Charles’s father had become great friends; and my mother and Charles’s mother had found so much to talk about.

The visit had been a great success and nothing would ever be the same again.

Sophie had found her true self. She had been brought face to face with the fact that her lack of attraction had been largely due to herself. She was still reserved—one did not change one’s entire character overnight—but Charles had done a great deal for her and before I met him I liked him for doing that.

Lisette said to me when we were alone: ‘Do you think he really fell in love with her or is it because he wants the marriage? An alliance with Aubigné would be very desirable for a family like the Tourvilles.’

I looked rather apprehensively at the knowledgeable Lisette with her ears in two camps and who was in possession of all the gossip from servants, who had got it from servants in other households. The thought had occurred to me but I would not allow myself to believe it. I wanted so much for Sophie to cast off her shyness and self-deprecation. I wanted her to be happy.

I asked my mother about it. She said: ‘It worked so well. It was just as we hoped. Charles is very charming and of course the Tourvilles were very anxious for the match. Your father is delighted. We were all rather surprised that Sophie was such a success. Charles seemed to work some magic on her.’

‘The magic of love,’ I said dramatically.

‘Yes,’ agreed my mother, looking back I was sure to those long-ago days when my father had come into her life and shown her that she was not the sort of person she had hitherto believed herself to be. Just as Charles de Tourville had for Sophie.

So Sophie was to be married. The wedding would not take place in May as the whole Court and my parents’ circle of friends would be taken up with that other wedding; but preparations would go on for some time, for besides the making of the trousseau there were marriage settlements, which needed a great deal of negotiations where such families as the Aubignés and Tourvilles were concerned.

Sophie was the most important member of the household now. She was given her own maid—Jeanne Fougère, a girl a few years older than herself who had been one of the serving girls and was delighted to become a lady’s maid. She took her duties seriously and because Sophie was so pleased to have her and she so happy to be there, an immediate bond sprang up between them.

It was pleasant to watch Sophie’s progress but Lisette was growing restless. She had been educated as we were and yet was never really allowed to cross the social barrier; she did not sit at table with us but ate her meals with Tante Berthe and Jacques, the major-domo, in a special small dining-room where, Lisette told me, formality was at its greatest. But being Lisette she found some amusement in the procedure and as both Tante Berthe and Jacques were prodigiously interested in food, what was served in their dining-room could be compared very favourably with that eaten in the great hall or the family salle à manger. Lisette was grateful to have the education of a daughter of a nobleman but at times I fancied I caught a glimmer of resentment in her eyes.

It was typical of her that, with Sophie so much in demand and being constantly whisked away from us, she should think of our doing something which would amuse us and show Sophie, when we had the opportunity of telling her, that we too could live excitingly.

One of the servant girls had told her about Madame Rougemont, the great clairvoyant, who could see into the future and could give the most glowing accounts of what was to come.

The serving-girl had herself been to Madame Rougemont. It had been the most exciting adventure. She had sat in a room and Madame Rougemont had read her palm and looked into the crystal ball.

‘I see a tall dark gentleman,’ she had told the girl. ‘You are going to meet him soon and he will fall in love with you.’

‘And,’ said Lisette, ‘no sooner did she step outside Madame Rougemont’s salon than there he was. She said it was wonderful and she is going to meet him again. But wasn’t that strange? She had said a tall dark gentleman … and there he was.’

The more Lisette thought about it, the more determined did she become that we ourselves must pay a visit to Madame Rougemont. Our previous foray into the streets had not been very successful. In fact we had had a real scare; I reminded Lisette of this and she said: ‘Well, you know why. We did not have the right clothes. We must get some.’

I suppose we could have borrowed some from the servants with whom Lisette was on such good terms, but she had heard that second-hand clothes were sold in the Place de Grève on Mondays and decided that it would add spice to the adventure if we purchased them ourselves.

How we laughed! It was necessary to slip out of the house in the morning, which was not easy for we had to elude our governess and tutors. We chose a time when we had no lessons and went into the streets in our morning gowns which were the plainest we had.

What fun it was to walk through Paris! I would never lose the exhilaration I felt in those streets. Walking was different from riding; one saw more; one became more part of the scene.

There were people everywhere and no one took much notice of us except the occasional man who threw us a speculative glance.

Lisette, who had more freedom than I, was more familiar with the streets. She was allowed occasionally to go on some errand for Tante Berthe in the company of one of the servants. She revelled in her knowledge. She showed me the shops as we passed.

‘There,’ she said, ‘is the grocer-druggist. You can buy lots of things there … brandy, paint, sugar, lemonade, and confiture of all kinds with arsenic and aqua fortis. So if you want to poison someone you will know where to come.’

‘Do people really …’

‘Of course they do. Have you never heard of Marchioness de Brinvilliers who, a hundred years ago, poisoned people who were in her way? She used to try her poisons out on the hospital patients and went visiting the sick and taking little goodies for them. Then she would come and see what effect they had had and whether it was safe to use them.’

‘How diabolical.’

‘People are like that sometimes,’ said Lisette blithely.

She pointed out the narrow winding streets through which we must not venture and even she had no desire to do so. She also identified an old marcheuse, a fearful little creature who scuttled past; her face was scarred with the ravages of some terrible disease.

‘Once,’ said Lisette, ‘she was a beautiful woman. But a life of sin made her diseased and now she is fit only to run errands for the lowest type of prostitute. A lesson to us all,’ she added piously. ‘It just shows what terrible things can happen to women.’

She was sad for a moment. Lisette’s moods did change rather rapidly; and then she brightened.

‘Here is the Place de Grève. No executions here today because it is a Monday … but second-hand clothes instead.’

I couldn’t help crying out with pleasure, for ahead of us was a noisy crowd of people—mostly women—parading before the onlookers in all sorts of garments. Some wore hats with feathers; others had pulled gowns over their own. They screamed and laughed and chattered; and the vendors at the stalls looked on crying out: ‘What a miracle!’ ‘The fit is perfect!’ ‘It becomes you, Madame. You are a lady in that garment.’

‘Come on,’ said Lisette, and we were part of the crowd.

Lisette found a brown gaberdine dress—sombre in hue but which somehow set off her beautiful blonde hair. I found a dark purple which was plain, the sort which might have been worn by a shopkeeper’s wife.

Gleefully we made our purchases and no one took any special notice of us as we scuttled away through the streets back to the hôtel. We went up to my room and there tried on the dresses and rolled about in mirth as we assured ourselves that in them no one would have the slightest notion where we came from.

We could scarcely wait to set out on the real adventure. Lisette knew exactly where to go. The serving-girl who had told her about the fortune-teller had walked past the place with her only the day before.

On the way we passed the Bastille and I shivered as I always did and wondered how many people were incarcerated there who were innocent of any crime.

I tried to interest Lisette in the subject. She would surely know something about lettres de cachet, but she was not interested in anything but the fortune which lay in store for her.

We found the house. It was in a narrow street of tall houses. We mounted the steps and found the heavy door was open. We stepped into a hall. There a concierge sat in a boxlike room with glass panes through which he could see who came in.

‘Up the stairs,’ he said.

We went up. It was different from what I had expected. There was a carpet on the stairs of a rich red and a certain air of brash luxury about the place.

A girl in a low-cut blue dress came out of a room at the top of the first flight of stairs. She studied us very closely and smiled.

‘I know,’ she said. ‘You have come to have your fortunes told.’

‘Yes,’ said Lisette.

‘Come this way.’

She took us into a little room and told us to sit down, which we did. Lisette giggled. I think now she was a little nervous. I certainly was and I had a feeling that we were being watched and began to wonder whether we had been unwise to come. I remembered that stroll we had taken and the young men who had come along and seized us and I started to wonder what would have happened if that crowd of people had not come along precisely at the right moment.

I looked at Lisette. Her eyes were brilliant, as they always were when she was excited.

‘Why are we waiting here?’ I whispered.

‘Perhaps Madame Rougemont has another client.’

The girl who had shown us in appeared.

‘Madame Rougemont will see you now,’ she said.

We rose and the girl signed to us to follow her. We did so and were ushered into a room with a large window looking down on the street.

Madame Rougemont’s face was painted and patched to such an extent that it was difficult to know how much of what we saw was really her. She wore a red velvet gown the colour of her curtains, her hair was most elaborately dressed and I guessed that a great deal of it was not hers either. Her plump hands were loaded with rings; she looked rich and vulgar and she frightened me. If I had been alone I should have been tempted to turn and run out of the house.

‘Ah my dears,’ she said, smiling falsely at us, ‘so you want to look into the future?’

Lisette said: ‘Yes, that is so.’

‘Why else should you come to Madame Rougemont, eh? Well, sit down.’

She peered at us. ‘Two very pretty young ladies. There is nothing I like better than finding a happy future for pretty ladies. Have you the money for the sitting?’

Lisette reached into her pocket and found it.

Madame Rougemont took it and put it into a little drawer. She looked intently at Lisette, and then at me.

‘Come and sit at this table, dears. I’ll tell you together, shall I? First one … then the other … unless of course there are secrets. Those I shall tell you when we are alone … if that is necessary. But first let me see if they are there. You are very young, aren’t you? Tell me your ages, my dears. It helps a little.’

Lisette said she was seventeen. I exaggerated a little and said I was sixteen.

‘And you live here … in Paris?’

‘Some of the time,’ I told her.

‘Not always. You are with one of the rich families, eh?’

‘Yes,’ I said quickly. ‘Yes.’

‘I thought so. Give me your hands.’

She took mine first. ‘A pretty little hand,’ she said. ‘So white and clean. How do you manage to keep them so white … a lady’s hands. That’s what they are.’

Her fingers gripped my hand tightly and the look of speculation in her eyes alarmed me. I knew we shouldn’t have come. I glanced at Lisette. She was still enjoying the adventure.

Now Madame Rougemont had taken one of her hands so that she held us both.

‘Another pretty little hand,’ she said. ‘Oh, I see great things here. Rich husbands for you both …. Long journeys and excitement … plenty of it. You are going to be so happy.’

I heard myself say: ‘Is it the same for both of us then?’

‘There are variations, of course, but you are both lucky young ladies. You are going to meet your fate …one of you will meet it today.’

‘Which one?’ asked Lisette.

Madame Rougemont put her hand to her head and closed her eyes.

‘I think,’ she said, ‘that we should look into the crystal ball. First the fair lady.’

She drew the crystal towards her and closed her eyes. Then she began to speak in a dreamy voice. ‘I see him. He is tall, dark and handsome. He is close … very close … He will love you dearly. You will ride in carriages. Beware of hesitation. If you do not act promptly you will lose your good fortune, my dear.’ She turned to me. ‘And now you, little lady. Ah, here it is again. The finger of fate. Your future will be decided soon … and it is in your hands. When fate comes to you, you must be ready to grasp it. Again, hesitation could lose all. It may seem sudden but if you do not take advantage of what the gods offer you now you could regret it all your life. I see that your fate is entwined with that of the other lady and that is what makes it difficult for me to speak more openly. Don’t despair. If the turn of one of you is not today, it will be tomorrow.’

I stood up, for every moment I was growing more and more uneasy. There was an oppressiveness about the place which seemed to shut me in.

‘We should be going,’ I said. ‘Thank you very much, Madame Rougemont.’

Lisette stood beside me. I think she was beginning to catch my uneasiness.

Madame Rougemont said: ‘You would like a little refreshment. I never send my clients away without a little hospitality. I have a little salon just across the passage. Come on.’

‘No,’ I said. ‘We must go.’

But she held us firmly by our arms.

‘We serve wine here,’ she said. ‘A little wine bar. Ladies and gentlemen like to come in when they are thirsty.’

The girl who had shown us in appeared again; she opened a door and we were more or less pushed into a room in which were little tables and red plush chairs.

A man was sitting in one of them. He looked as though he were tall and he was certainly dark and handsome.

‘Ah, Monsieur St Georges,’ said Madame Rougemont. ‘How nice to see you! I was just going to drink a glass of wine with these two young ladies. Please join us.’

She made a sign and a waiter appeared. She nodded to him and he went away.

Monsieur St Georges bowed and, taking Lisette’s hand and then mine, kissed them and said he was delighted to make our acquaintance.

We all sat down at the table. A good deal of my fear had disappeared. As for Lisette, she was undoubtedly enjoying the adventure.

‘These young ladies are attached to one of the big houses,’ said Madame Rougemont. ‘That’s so, is it not, my dears?’

‘Tell me,’ said the young man. ‘Which one?’

Lisette and I exchanged quick glances. I felt myself flushing. There would be great trouble if it were known that we had come to the fortune-teller. Tante Berthe was always warning Lisette of the dangers of life in Paris. It was the surest way to make Lisette want to sample it.

The silence went on for several seconds. Both of us were trying to think of the name of a rich family for whom we might be working.

Lisette was quicker than I. She said: ‘It is the Hôtel d’Argenson.’

‘That would be in …’ said Monsieur St Georges.

Again that pause and Lisette said: ‘In Courcelles …’

‘In Courcelles! Oh, you have come a long way.’

‘We are fond of walking,’ I said.

‘I see.’

He drank off his glass of wine and I saw him make some sort of sign to Madame Rougemont. She said: ‘I have an appointment with another client.’ She leaned towards Lisette and whispered something which Lisette told me afterwards was: ‘See, here is your dark handsome man.’

He watched her disappear. Then he said sharply: ‘Who are you and what are you doing in a place like this?’

‘What do you mean?’ I cried. ‘A place like this …’

‘Do you mean you don’t know what sort of place it is? Mon Dieu, here we have the innocents in Paris. Tell me where your home is. The truth now. You are not serving-girls. Where did you get those clothes?’

‘At the Place de Grève,’ I answered.

I saw a smile touch his lips. ‘And you live …?’

‘In the Rue Saint-Germain.’

‘And at which house?’

‘Is that any concern of yours?’ asked Lisette.

‘Yes, young lady, it is, because I am going to take you back there.’

I felt great relief and gratitude towards him, and I said before Lisette could answer: ‘It is the Hôtel d’Aubigné.’

For a moment he was silent; then he seemed as though he were suppressing laughter.

‘You are a pair of very adventurous young women,’ he said. ‘Come on. You are going home.’

He led us to the door and as we reached it Madame Rougemont appeared. She was smiling blandly.

‘Well, Monsieur St Georges. You are pleased …?’

He said in a low voice: ‘I am taking these ladies home. They belong to one of the great families in France. Good God, woman, have you no sense?’

He was clearly rather angry with her but when he turned to us he was all smiles.

‘Now,’ he said, ‘I am going to take you out to the street. I am going to put you into a.pot de chambre which will take you back to the hotel. Go straight in at once and never be so foolish again.’

‘Why is it so foolish to have one’s fortune told?’ asked Lisette defiantly.

‘Because frauds tell fortunes. That is not all. Fortune-telling is not the main business of that woman. Something you are too young to understand, but never do it again. If you do, you deserve all you get. Now go back and don’t be such silly little girls again.’

We came out into the street; he hailed the carriage, paid the driver and told him where to take us. He stood back and bowed as we drove away.

We were subdued until we reached the hôtel. Then we went up to my room and took off our second-hand dresses. Mine had suddenly become repulsive to me and I wondered who had worn it before.

‘What a strange adventure!’ I said. ‘What was it all about?’

Lisette looked wise. She had guessed, of course.

Madame Rougemont was what was known as a procuress. The fortune-telling was a blind. She had her dark and handsome gentleman waiting as they plied the girls with wine to make them acquiescent.

‘You’re making it up.’

‘No. I see it all clearly now. That girl met her young man because he was waiting for her.’

‘Do you mean that Monsieur St Georges was waiting for us?’

‘He was a noble gentleman. Therefore there were two for him to choose from.’

‘But he didn’t.’

‘Not when he realized who we were. Imagine the Comte’s rage if anything had happened to you.’

I stared at her in horror.

Lisette was thoughtful and then she said: ‘I wonder which one of us he would have chosen.’

A grand ball to celebrate Sophie’s betrothal was to be held in the hôtel and preparations went on for days. Sophie was in a twitter of excitement and it was wonderful to see her so happy. She was thrilled about the new ball dress which was being made for her. I was to have one too.

‘You realize that this is a very special occasion,’ she said. ‘You will meet Charles and see for yourself how wonderful he is.’

‘I very much look forward to meeting him,’ I said. ‘I think he must be a bit of a miracle-worker.’

‘He is different from everyone else,’ she cried ecstatically.

She and I paid several visits to the Paris dressmaker who was said to be the most fashionable in town. Sophie’s dress was of pale blue with yards of shimmering chiffon in the skirt and a low cut bodice which fitted her firmly and managed to make her look almost slender. Her dumpiness was less noticeable nowadays because of her radiant face. She was really becoming rather pretty. I was to have a similar dress in pink, which the dressmaker said would be a foil to my dark hair.

‘It will be your turn next,’ she said, as she fitted the gown on me.

In spite of the excitement I did notice that Lisette was rather quiet, and I fancied she was getting more resentful than she used to be about not being quite one of us. I sympathized with her, for it did seem to be a little unkind to let her take lessons with us, ride with us, be our constant companion and then on social occasions make it clear that she did not belong.

She went off by herself a good deal and often I looked for her and could not find her. If I had not been so absorbed by the coming ball, I might have thought something odd was happening. She seemed secretive and sometimes appeared to be enjoying a private joke. Usually she would have shared amusing incidents. But, I told myself, perhaps I was imagining again, as I often did.

I was with my mother more during those days for she had thrown herself wholeheartedly into the preparations.

‘Your father is very pleased about this match,’ she said. ‘He will be glad to see Sophie settled.’

‘I suppose the Tourvilles are a very distinguished family?’

‘They are not quite Aubigné,’ replied my mother with a certain pride and I suddenly remembered the years she had spent as the wife of Jean-Louis, so far removed, it seemed to me, from the life she led as Madame la Comtesse.

‘I think they are delighted to marry into the family,’ she went on. ‘And as I said, your father is very pleased.’

‘And Sophie is happy.’

‘That’s the best of all and I am so happy about it. She is not an easy girl …and so different from you, Lottie.’

‘I shall not be so easily disposed of.’

She laughed at me. ‘Don’t you think Sophie is very happy to be as you say disposed of?’

‘Sophie is in love.’

‘So will you be one day.’

She spoke earnestly because she knew I was thinking of Dickon and she hated anything to disturb the perfect life she had found with her Count.

‘I will never be again.’

She tried to laugh as though it were a joke; then she put her arms about me and held me against her.

‘My dear, dear child, it is a long time ago. It would have been so wrong to have allowed that to go on. Why, even now you are very young …’

‘The ball might have been for us both … Sophie and me … to celebrate our betrothals.’

‘You are living in a false dream. You would never have been happy with Dickon. It was so ridiculous. He was years older than you and because you were only a child it was easy for him to deceive you. He wanted Eversleigh and as soon as he got it he no longer thought of you.’

‘I think I should have been the best judge of that.’

‘A child of—what was it? twelve. Not quite that. It was preposterous. You should have seen his face when I offered him Eversleigh. He was quite cynical, Lottie.’

‘I knew he wanted Eversleigh.’

‘He wanted only Eversleigh.’

‘It is not true. He wanted me too.’

‘He would have taken you as part of the bargain. Oh, Lottie, it hurts you, but it is better to face facts. It is heartbreaking to discover that someone who professes to love you is lying. But you were only a child … and it is all finished now. You are not really grieving. I have seen you joyously happy. You are just trying to keep it all alive … when you remember to. But it is dead, Lottie; and you know it.’

‘No,’ I contradicted her. ‘What I felt for Dickon will never die.’

But she did not really believe me. Her own experiences had taught her to expect a ‘happy-ever-after’ ending.

At last the great day came. Lisette arrived in my room to see me when I was dressed.

‘You look beautiful, Lottie,’ she told me. ‘You will overshadow the prospective bride.’

‘Oh no. Sophie looks really pretty. Love has worked miracles.’

She seemed rather thoughtful but I confess I was so eager to meet Charles de Tourville that I was not thinking much about Lisette.

At the top of the staircase was the Comte, looking magnificent in his brocade coat, discreetly flashing a few diamonds, and his curled white wig setting off his fine features and his lively dark eyes; my mother, standing beside him in pale lavender looked beautiful and very much the Comtesse. I marvelled at her yet again, remembering the quiet lady of Clavering. And beside her was Sophie, radiant in turquoise blue and happiness.

I was in the charge of Madame de Grenoir, a distant cousin of the Comte’s, who appeared at times like this when she was needed and was only too happy to act as chaperone. I was to sit quietly with her as became my years, and when a gentleman asked me to dance, if he were suitable, I might accept. If he were not, Madame de Grenoir—who was adept at handling such situations, having had much experience of them—would make it clear that I was not available.

Once more I was handicapped by my youth. But at least I had been presented to the King and he had spoken to me, although that was a long time ago and the Comte had made sure that I did not come in the presence of the King again.

Many members of the nobility would be present tonight because they were in Paris for the royal wedding. It was the best possible time to give a ball.

I sat there watching the people arrive. One or two men glanced at me and hesitated and presumably they were unsuitable, for Madame de Grenoir gave them such cold looks that they moved on. I felt again that frustration with my youth and promised myself that I would soon escape from it. In a year I should be considered quite grown up.

Madame de Grenoir was telling me about other balls she had attended and other girls whom she had chaperoned.

I said: ‘You really must be a very experienced practitioner. What an occupation! Chaperone for girls! Not exactly exciting.’

Then it happened and found me quite unprepared.

Sophie was coming towards me and there was a man with her. He was tall and dark and I recognized him at once. I stood up uncertainly. Madame de Grenoir was beside me, laying a hand on my arm.

‘Lottie,’ said Sophie, ‘I want you to meet Charles de Tourville. This is Lottie, Charles, of whom I have told you so much.’

I felt the colour rush into my face, for the man who was taking my hand was none other than Monsieur St Georges, who had rescued Lisette and me from Madame Rougemont.

His lips were on my fingers and the eyes he raised to me held a hint of mischief.

‘I have so longed to meet you,’ he said. ‘It is true Sophie has told me so much about you.’

Sophie was laughing. ‘You look alarmed, Lottie. I haven’t told all. I have only told Charles the nice things.’

‘And,’ he added, ‘the more I heard the more eager I was to meet you.’

Sophie was watching me intently, urging me to admire. I sought for words, but for once could not find anything to say.

‘My father is going to open the ball with me in a moment,’ said Sophie. ‘I think the guests have all arrived now. If they are late they cannot expect to be received, can they?’

I stammered: ‘It … it is a great pleasure to meet you.’

‘There will be many meetings,’ he answered, ‘when I am a member of the family.’

‘Charles,’ said Sophie, ‘you will have to dance with the Comtesse.’

‘It will be a pleasure,’ he answered. ‘And later I hope that Mademoiselle Lottie will honour me.’

‘Of course she will, won’t you, Lottie?’

‘Thank you,’ I said.

Sophie looked over her shoulder at me as she laid her hand on his arm in a proprietorial manner and they walked away.

I was too stunned to do anything but stare after them.

‘It is so good when a marriage is a love-match,’ Madame de Grenoir was saying. ‘Those two … so happy. I have seen some who are far from happy. This is quite different … a very, very happy arrangement.’

When the dance began I was immediately taken on to the floor. I had no lack of invitations to dance and providing the men were suitable I was allowed to accept them. Madame de Grenoir kept her alert eyes on me as I danced and I was aware of her watching all the time. My partners were flirtatious, expressing ardent admiration, but I scarcely listened to them. I could not wait until the moment when Charles de Tourville came for me.

He was smiling in a manner which I can only call mischievous.

‘I have been waiting for this moment,’ he said, as soon as we were out of earshot of Madame de Grenoir.

‘Oh?’ I said. ‘Why?’

‘You are not going to pretend that we have not met before, are you?’

‘No,’ I replied.

‘You were a very naughty little girl and I caught you, didn’t I? Do you often have such adventures?’

‘That was the only one of that kind.’

‘You learned your lesson, I hope.’

‘I suppose we were a little adventurous.’

‘Not a little. Very adventurous, I should say. However, as long as you learned that it is unwise for little girls to stray into the dubious haunts of the city, good can come of it. I must say I was delighted to meet you.’

‘It wasn’t a surprise for you?’

‘Of course not. I knew who you were as soon as I discovered where you lived. Don’t forget our families are to be united. We have to know about each other …not everything, of course. That would be asking too much. But we should know those little things which cannot be hidden. Like a beautiful daughter, for instance. There has to be some explanation. I know that there was a charming sequel to the Comte’s English romance and that sequel so enchanted him that he kept her with him and married her mother.’

‘I think I would rather not discuss my family’s affairs.’

‘Our family’s. I shall be a member soon.’

‘Tell me about that woman … that fortune-teller, Madame Rougemont.’

‘One of the most notorious brothel-keepers in the town. Forgive me. You are an innocent young girl. Do you know what a brothel is?’

‘Of course I do. I am not a child.’

‘Then you will not need me to explain. She has quite a fashionable apartment in another district but she does a little business in the quarters to which you went. I am surprised that a young lady in your position should have gone into such a house … in such a street.’

‘I told you, it was an adventure.’

‘Is life in the Hôtel d’Aubigné so dull then?’

‘I did not say it was dull, but we are kept under strict control.’

‘Not strict enough, obviously.’

‘Well, we slipped out.’

‘You were fortunate that I was there.’

‘I have often wondered about that. What were you doing there?’

‘What every man does there. Looking for pretty girls.’

‘You! You mean …’

‘I mean exactly what you are thinking.’

‘But you are going to marry Sophie!’

‘Well?’

‘Why then … should you be looking for someone else?’

‘That someone else would have nothing to do with my marriage.’

I was horrified and desperately sorry for Sophie. Here was another of those blasé young men to whom marriage was a matter of convenience. Dickon was back in my thoughts. Oh, how could they behave in such a way!

‘I see that you are getting ready to despise me.’

‘I think I already do. How much longer does this dance go on?’

‘A little while yet, I hope. You are a very attractive young lady, Mademoiselle Lottie.’

‘I would rather not hear you talk to me like that.’

‘I was only telling the truth. When you grow up you are going to be irresistible, I know.’

‘I do hope Sophie is not going to be unhappy but I very much fear for her.’

‘I promise you that she is going to be the happiest bride in Paris.’

‘With you visiting Madame Rougemont? What when she discovers?’

‘She will never discover. I shall see to that, and it will be precisely because there will be some others to charm me and satisfy my baser instincts that I can be a figure of chivalric love to my bride.’

‘I think you are the most cynical man I ever met!’

‘Call it realistic. I don’t know why I am telling you the truth. It is not very flattering to me, is it? Oddly enough I have to tell you. But then you found me out, didn’t you? We found each other out. No use trying to cover up our sins after such blatant exposure. Still, I like you to know the truth about me. I have grown very fond of you, Lottie.’

‘When?’

‘Well, it began when I looked through a peephole and saw one of the most beautiful girls I have ever seen gazing into a crystal ball. A tall dark handsome man, said Madame Rougemont. Well, she was right, wasn’t she?’

‘Are you trying to flirt with me?’

‘You do invite it, you know.’

‘I think Sophie should be warned.’

‘Will you warn her? She won’t believe you. Besides, who are you to talk? What if I told of my first meeting with you in Madame Rougemont’s brothel? You would be in trouble then, wouldn’t you?’

‘And so would you. They would surely want to know how you happened to be there.’

‘So you see we are both caught in our particular web of intrigue. Dear Lottie, I do believe those wretched musicians are reaching their finale. I shall dance with you again this evening and then we will talk of more pleasant things. Alas … it is au revoir.’

He released me and bowed; then he gave me his arm and took me back to Madame de Grenoir.

I felt very disturbed and in a strange way excited. More than anyone I had ever met he reminded me of Dickon.

Madame de Grenoir chattered about the Tourvilles. ‘A noble family … not like the Aubignes, of course … but wealthy enough. They have a château somewhere near Angouleme and a hôtel in Paris like most noble families. It is an excellent match, and he is a charming young man, is he not?’

I found it difficult to sit there and listen to her and was glad to be dancing again. I was looking out for him all the time and once or twice I saw him; then he gave me a smile and flashed a message at me with his eyes which I was sure meant that he would be with me as soon as he could.

The time came and there I was dancing with him again.

‘This is the highlight of the evening for me,’ he said. ‘You don’t quite look so angry as you did. Have you thought better of it?’

‘I still think badly of you.’

‘And I still think you are enchanting. Do you know, I have come to the conclusion that sinners often are … more than saints, that is.’

‘I do hope Sophie is not going to be hurt. I am sure she doesn’t know you at all.’

‘I promise to keep her in blissful ignorance.’

‘I suppose you have had lots of adventures … with women?’

‘Right,’ he said.

‘I won’t call them love-affairs. They are not that … just sordid little adventures.’

‘I suppose you could be right again, but the pleasant thing is that while they are happening they don’t seem what you say they are.’

‘You have this modern French outlook.’

‘Oh, it is not modern. It has been like that for centuries. We make a success of living because we know how to set about it. Wisely, we don’t sigh for the unattainable. We take what is offered and learn to live with it without regrets. It is this realism, this acceptance of life as it is which puts us at the peak of civilization. It is why we are such wonderful lovers, so amusing, so charming. It is a matter of experience. Oddly enough the best mistress I ever had—to date—was the one my father chose for me when I was sixteen years old. It’s an old French custom, you know. The Boy is growing up. He will get into mischief so find a charming older woman who will initiate him. It is part of that sensible outlook on life which my countrymen have worked out to perfection.’

‘I really don’t want to listen to your boasting of your prowess,’ I said.

‘Well, let us leave something so obvious unsaid. Let’s talk of other things. Lottie, I am delighted that you are to be my little sister. I hope we shall get to know each other Very well indeed.’

‘I think it hardly likely.’

‘Oh, that’s not very kind.’

‘People who are not kind themselves should not expect kindness in others.’

‘Are you worried about Sophie?’

‘Yes … very.’

‘You have a sweet nature. Have you noticed that she has been less happy since she has known me?’

‘You must know very well what a difference it has made to her. That’s why …’

‘You don’t look deeply enough into life, dear Lottie. Sophie is happy. I made her happy. Isn’t that something to be proud of, to earn Sophie’s gratitude and that of her family? I assure you I intend it to stay like that. Sophie and I will live amicably together with the children we shall have and when we are old and grey people will point to us as the ideal couple.’

‘And in the meantime you will continue with your secret adventures?’

‘That is the key to all successful marriages - as every Frenchman knows.’

‘Does every Frenchwoman know it?’

‘If she is wise, I think she does.’

‘It is not my idea of happiness and I am glad that I am not a Frenchwoman.’

‘There is something very English about you, Lottie.’

‘Of course there is. I am English. I was brought up in England. There is much I like about France but this …profligacy … I … I loathe.’

‘You do not look like a puritan and that is what makes you so fascinating. You are warm …you are passionate. You can’t deceive a connoisseur such as I am. And yet you talk so primly.’

He held me close to him suddenly. I felt quite excited and at the same time I wanted to tear myself away and run back to Madame de Grenoir. I think I must have betrayed something, for he was smiling in a complacent way.

‘Lottie,’ he said, ‘we are going to meet … often. I am going to make you like me … yes, I think I can make you like me quite a lot.’

‘I never shall. I can only feel sorry for poor Sophie. Will this dance never end?’

‘Alas, it ends too soon. But never fear, you and I are going to be good friends.’

I wanted to get away.

‘You look a little put out, dear,’ said Madame de Grenoir. ‘Are you tired?’

‘Yes,’ I answered. ‘I should like to go.’

‘I don’t think you can do that until after midnight. Then perhaps …’

I danced again. I hardly noticed with whom. I was upset. He had reminded me so much of Dickon. Dickon had talked like that. He had never tried to make me like him because he was good; rather he had stressed his weaknesses. How this man had brought it all back!

I was glad when the ball was over. I went to my room and took off my gown. I was sitting in my petticoats brushing my hair when Sophie came in. She was radiant and did not look in the least tired.

She sat on my bed, her skirts billowing round her; she looked young, fresh and … vulnerable.

‘What a lovely ball! What did you think of Charles? Isn’t he wonderful? He says such marvellous things. I never thought there could be anyone quite like him.’

‘He is very good-looking,’ I said.

‘I think he rather liked you.’

‘Oh … I didn’t notice. What made you think that?’

‘It was the way he looked when he was dancing with you.’

‘Oh, did you see us? Weren’t you dancing?’

‘Most of the time, yes. But the second time I was sitting with your mother and a few others. I watched you all the time.’ I felt my face turning pink. ‘What were you talking about?’

‘Oh … I’ve forgotten. Nothing important.’

‘He was watching you all the time.’

‘People usually do when they are talking.’

‘Not so … intently. You know …’

‘No, I’m afraid I don’t. If it were important, I’d remember, wouldn’t I? Sophie, you ought to go to bed. Aren’t you tired?’

‘No. I feel as though I could go on dancing all night.’

‘It would have to be with Charles.’

‘Oh yes, with Charles.’

‘Good night, Sophie. Sleep well.’

I almost pushed her out and she went away to dream of her incomparable Charles whom she did not really know at all.

When she had gone I put on a wrap, for I felt a great urge to talk to Lisette. I wondered if I should tell her what had happened. She was very worldly. She would probably think nothing of it and say that what Sophie did not know could not grieve her.

I went along to her room and knocked gently. There was no answer.

I opened the door quietly and tiptoed in. I went to the edge of her bed and whispered: ‘Lisette. Are you asleep? Wake up. I want to talk.’

My eyes had grown accustomed to the gloom and I saw that Lisette’s bed was empty.

During the days which followed I saw a great deal of Charles de Tourville for whenever possible he contrived to be at my side. I tried to keep up an air of frigid disapproval, for disapprove of him I most certainly did; but I found myself looking for him and being disappointed if he were not there. I could not understand myself but I enjoyed talking to him. I tried to insult him at every turn. I endeavoured to convey to him how much I despised his way of life; but I could not hide from myself the fact that I enjoyed berating him—and he was shrewd enough to know it.

The fact was that I was bewildered. I was too young to realize what was happening. I was not afraid of life, as Sophie was; I was avid for it. I was ready to rush forward and savour it without wondering what the consequences would be. When I understood myself better I realized that my nature was by no means frigid. I wanted experience. Dickon had aroused me when I had been too young to realize that I was being physically stimulated and I had sublimated my feelings for him into a devotion and what I thought of as abiding love. Now Charles de Tourville came along and he reminded me so much of Dickon that I could not help being attracted to him.

I was young and ignorant, and although he was not old in years he was in experience. I think he understood exactly what was happening to me and found it very diverting. Since he was the sort of man who would visit an establishment like that of Madame Rougemont, he was no doubt in search of fresh sensation and a young girl such as I could provide just that. I gathered later that it was not such a coincidence as I had first thought that he should happen to be at Madame Rougemont’s when Lisette and I called there. Up to that time he had been a frequent visitor there and had looked in almost regularly to see if there was anyone who could amuse him for a while.

Naturally the families met often, which meant that he was constantly in the house. The wedding was to take place in three weeks’ time when all the excitement over that of the Dauphin and Marie Antoinette had died down.

In the meantime, as the families were both in Paris, and my father would no doubt take part in some of the ceremonies of the royal marriage, we saw a great deal of each other.

The Tourvilles gave a ball and once more I danced with Charles, and this time I was conscious of Sophie as she watched us. She insisted that Charles seemed to like me very much and when I protested that I thought he had a very poor opinion of me, she assured me that this was not so.

‘Oh,’ I said, ‘he is so much in love with you that he even likes your family.’

And that seemed to please her.

When I saw Lisette next I told her who Charles de Tourville was, and what a shock I had had at the ball.

‘Is it really so?’ she cried; and she started to laugh. But when I talked of him she did not seem very interested.

‘I only hope he doesn’t tell about us,’ I said.

‘How could he? He’d have to explain how he happened to be there.’

‘Lisette,’ I said, ‘when I came to tell you about it when the ball was over, you weren’t in your bed.’

She looked at me steadily and said: ‘Oh …you must have come when I was in one of the attics with the servants watching the guests depart. There is a good view up there.’

And I forgot about that until much later.

It was the day of the Dauphin’s wedding and my parents had gone to Versailles to attend the reception afterwards which was to be held in the Galerie des Glaces. I felt an uneasiness which I could not shake off. My thoughts were filled with Charles de Tourville and his coming marriage to Sophie. I fervently wished I could forget that man and not be so disturbed by his presence. It was not that I liked him … in fact I disliked all that he stood for; but on the other hand when he was not present, it seemed dull; and if he were to put in an unexpected appearance, I would feel an elation which try as I might I could neither suppress nor ignore.

There was to be a fireworks display in the evening and Charles with Armand were to conduct Sophie and me to the place so that we could have a good view. However during the afternoon the skies became overcast, the rain pelted down and the thunder and lightning were really alarming.

Sophie was terrified as she always had been of thunder, and Charles comforted her solicitously under my cynical eyes. He was clearly amused by my attitude.

‘No trip to Versailles,’ announced Armand. ‘There’ll be no fireworks tonight.’

‘The people will not be very pleased. A lot of them are trudging out to Versailles just to see them,’ said Charles.

‘They can’t blame the King for the storm,’ said Armand with a laugh. ‘Though I have no doubt some of them will.’

‘I dare say they will do the fireworks display on another occasion,’ added Charles. ‘Perhaps here in Paris, which would be sensible. It would save the trip to Versailles.’

‘What an end to the wedding-day!’ I murmured.

‘People are going to say it is a bad omen,’ added Charles.

‘Poor little bride,’ I couldn’t help saying, looking straight at Charles. ‘I hope she will be happy.’

‘They say she looks like a girl who can take care of herself,’ Charles replied, gazing into my eyes. ‘There are some like that. Perhaps that sort need more of a man than our little Dauphin has so far proved himself to be.’

‘Hush!’ said Armand in a mocking voice. ‘You speak treason.’

That evening the four of us played a card game while we listened to the rain spluttering on to the windows of the hôtel. The streets were quiet; it was very different from what we had expected it to be and rather an anticlimax to all the fuss there had been about the royal wedding.

The next day my parents returned to the hôtel. My mother was ecstatic about the reception at Versailles. Sophie and I made her tell us all about it. It had taken place in the chapel of the Palace and my parents had been very honoured to be present. This was because some long way back my father had a blood connection with the royal family.

‘Poor little Dauphin!’ said my mother. ‘He looked most disconsolate in spite of his gold-spangled net garments. Most unhappy and uncertain. She looked enchanting. She is a most attractive girl … so fair and dainty and she was beautiful in a white brocade gown with panniers, which made her look so graceful. We went through the Galerie des Glaces and the Grands Appartements to the Chapel, where the Swiss guards were assembled. Those dear children! They looked so young, they made me want to weep as they knelt before Monseigneur de la Roche-Aymon. I thought the Dauphin was going to drop the ring and the gold pieces he had to bestow on the bride.’

‘What about the fireworks display?’ I asked.

‘Oh, that is going to be later … in Paris. In a week or so, I imagine. There was so much disappointment about it. It has to take place or the people will feel they have been cheated. What do you think? The little Dauphine made a blot on the marriage contract as she signed her name. The King seemed quite amused.’

‘They will be saying that is an omen,’ said Armand. ‘What with the storm and the blot … they’ll really have something to work on. And wasn’t there an earthquake somewhere on the day Marie Antoinette was born?’

‘In Lisbon,’ said my father. ‘What has Lisbon to do with France? The people will like her. Oh yes, they will cheer her, for she is very pretty.’

‘And that counts for a great deal with the French,’ I put in, which made them all laugh.

Then my mother went on to describe the reception presided over by the King.

‘How old he is getting!’ She sighed. ‘It is a good thing that there is a Dauphin to follow on.’

‘A pity the boy is not older and more of a man,’ added the Comte.

‘Boys grow up,’ my mother reminded him.

‘Some take a long time doing it.’

‘Oh, it was so beautiful,’ went on my mother. ‘Although it was so dark outside it was as light as day in the Galerie. I don’t know how many candelabra there were and each had thirty candles. I counted them. The young people looked adorable sitting at the table which was covered with green velvet decorated with gold braid and beautifully fringed. You should have been there. As a matter of fact the people were so disappointed because of the cancellation of the fireworks display that they were determined to see something and broke into the Palace. They stormed up to the Galerie and mingled with the guests.’ She turned to my father. ‘Do you know, at one time, I felt rather frightened.’

‘No need to be on such an occasion,’ my father answered. ‘The people are pleased about the wedding. As a matter of fact, they are quite fond of the Dauphin and are longing for the King to die so that his grandson can take his place. They long to turn du Barry out on the streets, and as soon as the King dies that is what they will do.’

‘I heard the Dauphiness made a little gaffe which is amusing the whole court and beyond,’ said Armand. ‘When she saw the du Barry close to the King she was interested and asked what was the function of the beautiful lady. “To amuse the King”, was the answer. “Then”, said our little girl, so anxious to please her new Papa, “I shall be her rival”.’

Everyone laughed.

‘There was a shocked silence,’ the Comte said. ‘But Louis knows exactly how to deal with such situations in whatever else he fails, and all agree that he has the most gracious manners at Court. He patted the hand of the little Dauphiness and said he was delighted that she had become his little granddaughter, and poor Marie Antoinette was quite unaware of the social error she had committed.’

‘She won’t be for long,’ said Armand.

‘Well,’ added my mother, smiling at Sophie, ‘weddings are in the air. I wish the greatest happiness to the brides and their grooms.’

The date of the fireworks display had now been announced. It was to take place in the Place Louis XV and already workmen were busy setting lamps along the Champs Elysées; and in the Place Louis XV itself, a Corinthian temple was being put up near the King’s statue.

It was exciting to be in the streets during those May days. People who had goods to sell were making the most of the occasion. The well-known markets were busy and new ones had been set up wherever it was possible to do so. Salesmen and women were everywhere; medallions of the royal bride and groom were on sale with the flags of France and Austria; at every street corner there was a coffee woman, and lemonade-sellers who seemed to be doing a good trade with the thirsty people of Paris as well as those who had come into the city from the surrounding country.

It was impossible not to be caught up in the mood, and as the sun was shining after the great storm, it was good to be out.

Charles suggested that the four of us take a stroll down the Champs-Elysées to see how the decorations were progressing. Then we could wander into the Place Louis XV to take a look at the much talked-of Corinthian temple. The people would be amusing in any case.

So Charles, Armand, Sophie and I set out that morning.

We were all full of high spirits. Armand was quite amusing in his cynical way although he said he hated the people- ‘the unwashed’, he called them. He said the smell of them offended him. He was a very fastidious gentleman.

Charles warned him. ‘Don’t let them see your contempt, my dear fellow. Even on such a day as this, with all their loyalty to the crown they could easily take offence.’

Sophie was radiant, but my feelings were mixed. I was elated because I enjoyed Charles’s company so much and I kept telling myself that when they were married they would go to his estates in the south and I should not see them very often. That would be good, because I did not really like the man.

But that morning I was determined to enjoy myself.

We strolled along. A band was playing somewhere. From a building fluttered the flags of France and Austria, reminding the people that the country now had a reliable ally through this marriage, which would mean more to France than the happiness of two young people.

We strolled down the Champs-Elysées. It was going to look beautiful tonight with all those lamps aglow. In the Place Louis XV figures of dolphins were being set up and there was the grand medallion of the Dauphin and his bride. I stood beneath the bronze statue of the King on horseback surrounded by figures representing Prudence, Justice, Force and Peace.

Charles was beside me. ‘You look good there, sister Lottie,’ he said. ‘Tell me, are you prudent, just, forceful and peace-loving?’

‘Perhaps I have not lived long enough to discover.’

‘A very wise answer,’ he commented. ‘It is not always easy to be prudent and just, and if your are going to show force can you be peaceful?’

‘I suppose one must aim to have these qualities.’

‘As long as one tries perhaps that is good enough. It is not always possible to succeed though, is it? You are looking at me severely, Lottie. I don’t know why you do that so often, when you know you really like me very much.’

Sophie was coming towards us and I saw the watchful look in her eye. There was a hint of the distrust she had always had of herself before the coming of Charles.

‘We were talking about the statues,’ I said, ‘and Charles was saying how difficult it was to have the four qualities they represent.’

Charles took her by the arm. ‘Come, Sophie,’ he said, ‘let us look at them more closely and you tell me what you think of the workmanship. It was Pigalle, I think … but I’m not sure.’

He drew her away from me and was smiling into her face with such love that she was completely satisfied.

When we left the Place Louis XV we walked leisurely home and on the way we passed a stall on which several kinds of ornaments were displayed. Among them were some delicately fashioned flowers in silk. The colours were beautiful and Sophie gave a cry of admiration.

‘Why,’ she said, ‘that is just the colour of my lavender gown.’

‘I believe you really like it,’ said Charles. He picked it up and held it against her dress. ‘Enchanting,’ he went on, and kissed her lightly on the cheek. The saleswomen—there were two of them—applauded. Charles gave them one of his quick speculative glances which I noticed he bestowed on women, and these two were young and one quite pretty.

‘My lady must have it, do you not think so?’ he asked.

The two women laughed and said the lady had a very kind admirer.

Charles paid for the flower and handed it to Sophie. She looked so happy as she took it that I felt a little lump in my throat. I hoped fervently that she would always remain in blissful ignorance of the kind of man he was.

He had picked up another flower. It was a red peony—a most lovely shade of scarlet.

He held it against my hair.

‘What do you think?’ he asked the salesgirls.

‘A beautiful flower for a beautiful young lady,’ said the elder of them.

‘I agree,’ said Charles. ‘Don’t you, Sophie?’

Sophie stammered: ‘Y … yes … yes …’ But I saw the uneasy look in her eyes again and I wanted to say that I would not have the flower. But that would have made the whole matter too important, so I took the flower and thanked Charles.

Then we made our way home, but I felt a little of the joy had gone out of the morning for Sophie.

I wished I could warn her that she must not show jealousy, for Charles was the kind of man who would be irritated by it. Her only happiness lay in taking what came her way and being grateful for it, not to ask questions, not to probe, to shut her eyes to what was not meant for her to see. Then she would have a chance of being happy—and only then.

How could I tell her that? How could I tell her that I spoke from experience of what her fiancé was really like?

I did, however, try to show her that I did not treasure my flower as she did hers. I had an opportunity when Lisette came to my room as she was in the habit of doing—although lately I had seen less of her.

Sophie was with me, wearing the flower pinned to her dress and Lisette noticed it at once.

‘It’s lovely,’ cried Lisette. ‘I believe artificial silk flowers are becoming very fashionable.’

‘Charles bought it for me,’ Sophie explained. ‘From a stall in the street.’

‘You’re a lucky girl. He does dote on you, doesn’t he?’

Sophie smiled happily. ‘We were walking along and came to this stall. Nothing else on it caught my fancy but the flowers … they were very pretty.’

Lisette examined it. ‘It is so cleverly made,’ she said.

‘He bought one for Lottie.’

‘He had to … because I was there with Armand,’ I explained quickly.

‘Where is yours?’

‘I put it somewhere. I forget where …. Wait a minute. I think it’s here.’

I wanted to convey to Sophie that it meant nothing to me that Charles had given it.

I brought out the flower.

‘What a lovely rich colour!’ said Lisette.

‘I don’t think it will go with anything I wear.’

‘Nonsense. Red is one of your best colours. It makes you look darker and passionate.’

‘What rubbish.’

I took the flower from her and threw it into a drawer.

Sophie looked relieved. She could never disguise her emotion. Dear Sophie, she was so easy to deceive. Surely that arch-deceiver whom she was to marry would manage with the utmost ease.

All was well. Sophie had a good chance of achieving the happy marriage which was so necessary for her.

It was about two days after the incident of the flowers when Charles called at the hôtel. Sophie had gone with my mother to the dressmaker to discuss her trousseau, so when Charles called it aroused no comment that I should be the one to receive him.

He seized both my hands and kissed them.

‘Lottie!’ he cried. ‘How glad I am to find you alone!’

‘Was it accident or design?’

‘A bit of both,’ he admitted. ‘I believe Sophie is at the dressmaker with your Mama.’

‘You are well informed.’

‘It’s a good habit in life. Now I want to take you some- where. I have something to show you and you will really want to see it.’

‘Where would you take me?’

‘Only for a walk through the streets, I promise you.’

‘A walk? But why … ?’

‘You will see. Come, get your cloak. We haven’t a great deal of time.’

‘Were you going to show this to Sophie?’

‘Certainly not. There is no reason why she should be particularly interested.’

‘Then why … ?’

‘Curb your curiosity and hurry. I don’t want us to be too late. I promise to have you back in the house within an hour.’

He had succeeded in exciting me as he always did.

‘All right,’ I agreed. ‘But it is only to walk in the streets.’

‘That is all … on my honour.’

‘I am glad to know that you possess some.’

‘I am always known to be a man of my word.’

What harm was there? I was not allowed to go out alone, but I would be under the protection of one who was soon to be a member of the family. He would not dare behave in any but a reputable way. He was considerably in awe of my father and it had become clear to me that the Tourvilles wanted this marriage very much. So I put on my cloak and we went into the streets.

I was unprepared for what he had brought me to see and when I heard the sound of drums I was surprised and interested because a crowd of people had gathered. They were laughing; some cheered, some jeered.

‘It’s a procession of some sort,’ I said.

‘You wait,’ said Charles. ‘You’ll see an old friend of yours.’

He gripped me firmly by the arm, for the crowds were pressing round us and when they were too close he put an arm about me to protect me, I could not protest because I could see that the gesture was necessary. But I did feel an intense excitement as I was held close to him.

Then I saw. First came the drummer and with him a sergeant who carried a pike. Following these two was a groom leading a donkey and seated on this donkey, her face turned towards its tail, a crown of plaited straw on her head, was Madame Rougemont. There was a large placard hanging round her neck and painted on it in startling red letters was the word PROCURESS.

She sat there impassive—her face that mask I had seen before - white lead and carmine. Her head-dress had slipped a little but it had been elaborate. I did not understand half of what the crowd was yelling at her but it was mostly bawdy comment on her profession.

My eyes were fixed on Madame Rougemont, who sat the donkey with an air of unconcern, looking straight ahead of her with a certain dignity which I could not help admiring. I was expecting someone to pull her off the donkey at any moment, but no one did; and the crowd really was quite good-humoured. The drummer went on beating his drum and someone broke into a song which the rest of the crowd took up.

‘I can’t hear the words,’ I said to Charles.

‘That is just as well,’ he answered with a grin.

Then he took me by the arm. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘That is enough.’

‘You brought me here just to see that, didn’t you?’

‘I took you out because I enjoy your company and I know you do mine. That was an extra pleasure.’

‘Not much of a pleasure for Madame Rougemont.’

‘I think it happened to her once before.’

‘It did not make her give up her profession.’

‘Good Heavens, no! It would take a great deal more than that to make such a good business woman give up such a profitable profession.’

‘How shameful to be paraded through the streets like that … with everyone knowing …’

‘Save your sympathy. She’ll be back at her work tomorrow.’

‘Not now that it is known … won’t something be done about it?’

‘I think that is hardly likely.’

‘But isn’t what she is doing against the law?’

‘I’ll tell you something, Lottie. She has friends in high places. She runs a very fine establishment near the Cours de Reine and it is patronized by many powerful men. They would not want to see it disbanded, which I suppose it would have to be if she were convicted.’

‘I see. So if she were a poor procuress she would be a criminal?’

‘It could be so. But what will happen is that she will dismount from her donkey and go back and carry on with her business.’

‘It is so … unjust.’

‘But prudent. And she is a forceful woman and no doubt peaceloving. You did admire those statues, didn’t you and you wanted an example of all qualities in action. My dear Lottie, our King had his own procurer until lately. Why Le Bel, his valet de chambre, was avid in his search for those charms which would appeal to Louis’s jaded appetites. The secret room on the north wing of the palace was kept for them alone. It was called Le Trébuchet, the snare for birds; and there the young girls were kept that the King might visit them when it pleased him. That was before the Parc aux Cerfs was founded because it was considered better for Louis to have his girls outside the palace. The whole of France knew it. Such matters cannot be kept secret. So who is going to be unduly shocked by the activities of Madame Rougemont?’

‘If the girls go willingly I suppose it is not the same as if they are taken by force …’

‘Force? That is not the gentleman’s way. You can be sure that all those little girls in the trébuchet and the Parc aux Cerfs went willingly enough. A period of service … and then the rewards. It was irresistible.’

‘And those who were lured into the fortune-telling apartment?’

‘Some might have had to be persuaded. But girls who consult fortune-tellers are looking for adventures, would you not say?’

‘I suppose I should be grateful to you for sending us home.’

‘You should indeed. How nice of you to remember. Perhaps the occasion will arise when you have the opportunity to show your gratitude.’

‘Let us confine it to words.’

‘For the moment,’ he said.

As we walked through the streets he said: ‘The wedding fever is still in the air. It won’t die down until after the fireworks display.’

‘Shall we be able to see it from the hôtel?’

‘Not very well. I think we might get out. All Paris will be out for the night. I know what we will do. We will make up our little foursome. Armand, you, Sophie and myself. You would like that, would you not?’

I had to agree that I should.

I was sorry when we returned to the hôtel to find that Sophie was already back with my mother.

‘We took a little walk,’ said Charles. ‘It is such a beautiful day.’

Sophie was looking at me intently.

‘I came to suggest that we take a walk,’ went on Charles, smiling at Sophie.

‘Had you forgotten that I had told you I was going to the dressmaker?’

‘I thought it was this afternoon.’

He went over to her and laid his hand on her shoulder. ‘How pretty you look this morning,’ he said. ‘Are they making you some beautiful clothes?’

She smiled at him, her suspicions melting away.

What a liar he is! I thought. And what a good actor! Poor Sophie, I hope she is not going to be badly hurt.

Disaster in a Paris Square

IT WAS THE DAY of the fireworks and we were all eagerly waiting for dusk.

Armand had said we should try to get as near as possible to the Place Louis XV, and he and Charles debated whether it would be best to take a carriage.

‘We shall never get through those little streets,’ said Armand. ‘The press of people will be too great.’

‘Well, let’s go on foot if the ladies are willing.’

Both Sophie and I said we should do that.

‘Wear cloaks,’ advised Charles. ‘We don’t want to look conspicuous. And watch, for there will be pickpockets abroad tonight. I’ll swear that they are already swarming into Paris.’

So it was agreed and we went. I was glad to see that Sophie had recovered her happiness and was as ready to enjoy the evening as any of us. But she was by nature timid and she was soon apprehensive of the crowds.

‘Lottie,’ she whispered to me, ‘I don’t like all these people. I wish we could go home.’

‘But we have come to see the fireworks.’

‘There are too many crowds.’

‘It’s going to be fun,’ I assured her.

I thought of that often in the years to come. If only I had agreed with her and we had persuaded the men to take us back!

We were jostled. Charles caught my arm and held me against him. Sophie saw the gesture and a look of anguish appeared on her face.

‘It’s too crowded,’ she whispered.

‘My dear, what did you expect?’ asked Charles. ‘This show is for the whole of Paris, not just for us.’

She didn’t answer but turned slightly away. I was sure there were tears in her eyes.

Armand said: ‘They are going to start now.’

A cry went up from the crowd as the fireworks exploded, illuminating the sky.

More people were crowding into the square and it was difficult to keep one’s balance. And then … suddenly it happened. Something had gone wrong with the fireworks which were shooting up into the sky. They were exploding with sharp reports and were falling … falling on the people in the square.

There was the briefest of silences followed by screaming voices. Then there was pandemonium. I felt myself caught up. It was Charles who picked me up and held me above the crowd.

‘Sophie!’ he screamed.

I could not see Sophie but I was aware of Armand, his eyes wide, bewildered and frantic.

Then I did see Sophie. I was seized with horror for some of the sparks from the fireworks had fallen on her hood, which was on fire.

Armand had seized her and was trying to smother the flames. I felt sick and faint. Charles was shouting: ‘Get her out …We’ve all got to get out of here.’

Sophie had fallen. I prayed swiftly: ‘Oh God, please save her. She will be trampled to death.’

In a few seconds I saw her again. Armand had picked her up and put her over his shoulder. She was limp but the fire was out.

Charles cried: ‘Follow me.’

He had slung me over his shoulder as though I were a sack of coal. All around us were screaming people pushing in all directions in their efforts to get out of the square. I saw pushing hands and frantic faces and the noise was deafening.

Charles was forcing his way through the crowd. I could no longer see Armand and Sophie and I had a terrible fear that they had been trampled underfoot.

Perhaps people are blessed with superhuman strength when faced with certain situations. I really believed Charles possessed it on that night. It is difficult now to recall the stark horror of everything about us. Some people had brought their carriages into the square and were now trying to get out. The horses seemed to be maddened by the press of people and there was a further danger as carriages toppled over and the horses tried to break free. The noise was unearthly and terrible.

I was expecting to fall at any moment but Charles kept steadily forging his way through the crowd. There was a relentlessness about him, a ruthless determination to save us at any cost. He was the sort of man who was accustomed to getting what he wanted and now all his efforts were concentrated on getting us safely out of the square.

I looked about for Armand and Sophie but could not see them. I could see nothing but that seething mass of panicking, hysterical people.

I could not say how long it lasted. I was only aware of fear and anxiety, not only for ourselves but for Sophie and Armand. A terrible premonition came to me that nothing was ever going to be the same after that night.

Some of the buildings were ablaze and that had started a fresh panic; fortunately for us it was on the far side of the square.

I can still hear the sounds of screams, the sobbing and anguished cries when I recall that fearful night.

But Charles brought me safely through. I remember always his pale face grimy with smoke … his clothes awry, his wig lost exposing his fine dark hair so that he seemed like a different man. I knew that if I survived that night I should have him to thank for it.

When we were apart from the crowd … and safe, Charles put me down. I had no idea where we were except that we had escaped from the Place Louis XV.

‘Lottie,’ he said in a voice such as I had never heard him use before.

I looked at him and his arms were round me. We clung together. There were many people about. Some had come from the nightmare square; others were spectators who had come out to see what was happening. No one took any notice of us.

‘Thank God,’ said Charles. ‘Are you … are you all right?’

‘I think so. And you … you did it all.’

There was a flicker of the old pleasantry but it did not seem quite natural. ‘I did it just to show that I am always at your service.’

Then suddenly we were laughing and I think nearly crying at the same time.

Immediately we remembered Sophie and Armand. We looked back at the square. Smoke was rising to the sky and we could still hear the shouts and screams of people fighting to get free.

‘Do you think … ?’ I began.

‘I don’t know.’

‘The last I saw of Armand he was carrying her.’

‘Armand would get through,’ said Charles.

‘Poor Sophie. I think she was badly hurt. Her hood was on fire for a time.’

We were silent for a few seconds. Then Charles said: ‘There is nothing to do but get back quickly. We’ll have to walk I’m afraid. There is nothing to take us back.’

So we began our walk to the hôtel.

My mother took me into her arms.

‘Oh, Lottie … Lottie …thank God …’

I said: ‘Charles saved me. He carried me through.’

‘God bless him!’ said my mother.

‘Sophie and Armand …’

‘They are here. Armand stopped a carriage and they were brought back. It was ten minutes ago. Your father has sent for the doctors. Armand is safe. Poor Sophie … But the doctors will be here at any moment. Oh, my dear, dear child.’

I felt limp, dazed, exhausted and unable to stand up.

As we went into the salon my father ran out. When he saw me he took me into his arms and held me tightly. He kept saying my name over and over again.

Armand came towards us.

‘Armand!’ I cried with joy.

‘I got through,’ he said. ‘I was lucky. I brought Sophie out and there was a carriage. I made them bring us back here.’

‘Where is Sophie?’ I asked.

‘In her room,’ said my mother.

‘She … ?’

My mother was silent and my father put an arm round me. ‘We don’t know yet,’ he said. ‘She has suffered some burns. The doctors must come soon.’

I sat down on a couch with my mother beside me. She had her arm round me and held me as though she would never let me go.

I lost count of time. I could not shut out of my mind all that horror. I kept thinking of Sophie and the waiting was almost as terrible as that nightmare journey through the crowd.

That was a night which none of us—including the entire French nation—was going to forget for a very long time. What had gone wrong with the fireworks no one knew and had the people remained calm the damage would not have been great. But the panic of the crowd to get out of the square in frantic haste had resulted in many being trampled to death and one hundred and thirty-two people had been killed outright and two thousand badly injured on that terrible night.

Remembering the storm on the wedding day, people began to ask themselves if God was displeased with this marriage. They were to remember what they called these omens later.

I had prayed so fervently that Sophie should not die and I rejoiced when my prayers were answered; but I have sometimes wondered whether had Sophie been given the choice she would have chosen to live.

She kept to her bed for several weeks. The day which should have been her wedding-day came and went. None of her bones had been broken—Armand had saved her from being trampled to death—but one side of her face had been so badly burned that the scars would be with her forever.

My mother nursed her and I wanted to help but whenever I went into the room Sophie was disturbed.

My mother said: ‘She does not want you to see her face.’

So I stayed away, but I wanted to be with her, to talk to her, to comfort her if I could.

Even when she rose from her bed she would not leave her room and she did not want anyone to be with her except her maid, Jeanne Fougere, who was devoted to her and of whom she had become very fond.

Jeanne spent her days in Sophie’s apartments and both my father and mother were grateful to the girl, for she seemed to be able to comfort Sophie as no one else could. I had hoped that I should be able to, but it was very clear that my half-sister did not want that.

Jeanne was clever with her fingers and she devised a kind of hood of blue silk which covered half of Sophie’s face. Fortunately the burns had not touched her eyes although one side of her face was badly scorched and the hair would never grow again there; but it was the lower part of her jaw which had caught the full fury of the flames. The hood which Jeanne had made was, said my mother, very effective.

‘She will emerge from her room in time,’ went on my mother. ‘And your father thinks that we should return to the country. Sophie will feel better there. The sooner she gets away from the place where it happened the better.’

I said: ‘The wedding will have to be postponed for some time, I suppose.’

My mother was thoughtful. ‘She won’t see Charles,’ she said.

‘I suppose she can’t bear him to see … ’

‘Poor girl. It may be that now … ’

‘You mean he won’t want to marry her?’

‘I don’t know. The Tourvilles are very eager for the marriage. A good deal is involved.’

‘Settlements? Money?’

‘Yes, and your father would have liked an alliance with the Tourvilles. Sophie, however, has told Jeanne that she will never marry now.’

‘She may change her mind. She loved Charles very much.’

‘Well, you know she was always nervous … unsure of herself. The betrothal made such a difference to her. Now, of course, she just wants to hide herself away.’

‘I wish she would see me.’

‘I can understand it. Perhaps it is because you are so very pretty. I think she has always been a little … well, not exactly jealous but aware that you are more attractive than she is.’

‘Oh … nonsense.’

‘Not nonsense at all. It is all very natural. She was never very attractive herself; although she did change after the engagement.

‘Is Charles willing to go ahead?’

‘Yes. As soon as it can be arranged.’

‘So it is just Sophie.’

‘No doubt she will change her mind. We must wait and see. And now your father thinks that the best thing we can do is return to the country.’

So we did. Sophie sat in the carriage huddled in the corner, her face covered by Jeanne’s hood and her cloak wrapped tightly around her.

I tried to talk to her but she clearly showed she did not want me to. I wished that Lisette was in our carriage but she did not of course travel with us. She had gone ahead to the château in the company of Tante Berthe.

It was a very gloomy journey.

Everything changed after the night of the fireworks. The château was different; it was as though the ghosts of so many who had suffered there had come out of their hiding places to remind us that life was cruel.

Poor Sophie! I suffered with her and I was bitterly hurt that the friendship she had felt for me no longer seemed to exist. She had her own rooms in the château; she had asked for this and nothing was denied her. My mother and my father—who, I suspect, had never been really fond of her—wanted to indulge all her wishes. So when she asked for this set of rooms in the turret she was given them, and with Jeanne she set up what was like a private home there. I realized why she had wanted those rooms. They were apart from the rest of the château and she could really feel shut off there. From the long narrow windows high in the tower she could look out on the surrounding country and see most of the arrivals and departures from the château.

She made it clear that she was happier alone and wanted to see no one. She had her needlework, at which she had been very good, and there were one or two card games which she and Jeanne played together. Jeanne had become quite an important person in the household because of the influence she had with Sophie and every one of us wanted to do all that was possible to make Sophie’s life happier.

Lisette and I discussed Sophie. ‘It’s strange,’ said Lisette, ‘that she doesn’t want to see us. After all, we were her good friends before.’

‘I seem to be the one she has taken against,’ I said. ‘I don’t think it is entirely due to her accident. Before that I noticed she seemed to be turning against me.’

‘I think she probably noticed that Charles de Tourville was aware of your charms.’

‘Oh no. He was charming to her always and would marry her now.’

‘Of course. She is still the daughter—the legitimate daughter—of the Comte d’Aubigné.’ Lisette spoke rather tartly and I guessed she was still resentful because Sophie and I had been with her so rarely during our stay in Paris.

‘Well, whatever the reason, he would go on with the marriage. She is the one who won’t.’

‘Have you seen her face?’

‘Not lately. I caught a glimpse at first. I know she is badly disfigured.’

‘She never really made the most of what she had when she had it,’ said Lisette.

‘It’s tragic. I wish I knew what I could do to help.’

I had told Lisette about Madame Rougemont’s ordeal, and she had listened intently.

‘I have heard she is practicing just the same.’

‘Yes, I know. Charles de Tourville told me she is too useful to the nobility for them to allow her business to be closed.’

‘If she had been trading in poor prostitutes that would have been a different matter,’ said Lisette. Her mouth hardened. ‘You can scarcely call it fair.’

‘I never did. I consider it most unjust.’

‘Life often is,’ commented Lisette.

Charles came to the château.

‘He has come to see Sophie,’ said my mother. ‘I think he hopes to persuade her to go on with the marriage.’

‘I am so pleased,’ I replied. ‘That will make her happy.’

She did see him. He went alone to her turret rooms and only Jeanne was there with them. He said afterwards that she had kept Jeanne in the room all the time and she told him most emphatically that she was never going to marry.

He was very upset after the interview. He said to my mother: ‘She took off that hood thing she wears and showed me her face. I was horrified and I could not hide this, I’m afraid. But I told her it made no difference. She wouldn’t believe that. She said she intended to live the rest of her life in those turret rooms with Jeanne, who was the only one she wanted to see. She said she was sure of Jeanne’s devotion. I told her she could be sure of mine but she said she did not think so, that she had given up all thought of marriage and her decision was irrevocable.’

‘It is early as yet,’ said my mother. ‘It was a terrible shock and she is still suffering from it. Charles, I am sure if you persist …’

He said he would. He stayed with us for three or four days and tried every one of those days to see Sophie, but she would not receive him.

I saw him often but never alone. There was always someone to chaperone me and I was not sorry. There were reasons why I did not want to be alone with him and I did not want to probe too deeply into them.

He went away eventually but in less than a month he came back again.

‘He is very anxious to marry with Aubigné,’ said Lisette.

‘I think he is really fond of Sophie,’ I replied.

Lisette looked at me scornfully. ‘Such a good family to be allied to,’ she said cynically.

But he had changed. He was quiet. I often saw his eyes on me broodingly and I thought a great deal about him; so that was one of the reasons why I did not want to be alone with him.

August had come and it was about this time that I began to notice the change in Lisette. There were times when she looked a little older and sometimes she seemed quite pale with little of that colour which used to be so charmingly and delicately pink in her cheeks.

One day I said to her: ‘Lisette, are you well?’

‘Why do you ask?’ she demanded quickly.

‘I thought you seemed a little pale … and somehow not quite yourself.’

She looked quite alarmed. ‘Of course, I’m all right,’ she said sharply.

But there was something wrong. I saw Tante Berthe watching Lisette closely and I thought: Something is worrying her. Once when I was going to see my mother I encountered Tante Berthe coming out of her room and she looked very stern and angry … more than that. I thought I detected anxiety and even fear.

My mother was very absent-minded when I was with her. I asked if anything was wrong with Tante Berthe and she answered quickly: ‘Oh no … no … nothing at all wrong with her.’

Everybody was changing. Nothing had been the same since that fearful tragedy. What was happening to everyone? Even Lisette had ceased to be the vivacious companion she had once been.

Lisette herself came to my room one evening. She said with a grimace: ‘Tante Berthe is taking me with her to visit some relations.’

‘Relations! I didn’t know you had any.’

‘Nor did I … till now. But they have appeared and they want us to go and see them. The Comtesse has given us permission to go.’

‘Oh, Lisette! How long are you going to be away?’

‘Well, they are some distance from here … down in the south somewhere. So we can’t go for just a week. I dare say it will be a month or two.’

‘Who is going to run the household?’

‘Someone will take Tante Berthe’s place.’

‘People have always said that nobody could. Oh, Lisette, I do wish you weren’t going.’

‘So do I.’ She looked bleakly miserable for a few moments. ‘It’s going to be such a bore.’

‘Can’t Tante Berthe go alone?’

‘She is insisting that I go with her. You see, they know of my existence and want to see both their long-lost relations.’

‘Oh dear. I’m not going to like it at all. It’s so different here now. First Sophie … and now you.’

I put my arms round her and hugged her. I have rarely seen her so moved. I thought she was going to cry and that was something I had never seen her do.

But she didn’t. She withdrew herself and said: ‘I shall be back.’

‘I should hope so. And make it soon.’

‘As soon as I can. Rest assured of that. This—’ she spread her arms ‘—is my home. That’s how I always see it … in spite of not being one of you and only the niece of the housekeeper.’

‘Don’t be silly, Lisette. You will always be one of us as far as I am concerned.’

‘I’ll be back, Lottie. I’ll be back.’

‘I know that. But I want it soon.’

‘Soon as I can,’ she said.

Before the month was out Lisette had left with Tante Berthe. I watched them from one of the towers and I wondered if Sophie was doing the same from hers.

I felt desolate.

Life had changed completely. I had lost both Sophie and Lisette and only now did I realise what parts they had played in my life.

I missed them terribly—Lisette understandably because she had always been amusing, vivacious and light-hearted; but I missed Sophie’s quiet presence too. It would have helped me if I could have gone to her room, tried to amuse her, talked to her. But she would not allow it and although she did not shut me out completely, she implied that she liked to be left alone and on the rare occasions when I did climb the stairs to the turret, Sophie always contrived that Jeanne should be with her so that we could not talk intimately. My visits grew less and less frequent, and I guessed that that was what Sophie wanted.

Charles came often and everyone was amazed at his devotion, for the Tourville estates were a good distance from Aubigné and the journey long and tiresome; but he continued to come. On the last two visits he had not seen Sophie. She did not want to see him any more than she wanted to see me; and Jeanne had told my mother that Charles’s visits upset Sophie so much that she would be affected by them for days afterwards.

My mother explained this to Charles and he listened attentively. I think,’ she said, ‘seeing you—and Lottie and Armand too for that matter—brings back memories of that night. She may change …’

My mother looked sad for she was beginning to believe that Sophie would never change.

‘Leave her alone for a while,’ she added hopefully.

‘I shall continue to come,’ said Charles; and when he said that I met his eyes and I knew that he did not come to see Sophie but me.

I wished that I could stop thinking of him, but I could not., I dreamed about him, yet the man in my dreams was half Dickon, half Charles. I was not sure which one it was and my feelings for Charles were beginning to be what they had been for Dickon.

I wished that Lisette were here. I could have talked to her and in her worldly way she would have given me advice.

I now clearly understood my feelings for Dickon. It had been innocent love, young love, ‘calf love’ they call it; I saw no flaw in my idol; I had loved wholeheartedly. That was because I had been only a child with a child’s idealistic dreams. I now knew that Dickon had wanted Eversleigh and that my mother had given it to him to show that when he had it, he was no longer eager for me. It had changed my feelings for him. I knew he was an adventurer, an ambitious man with lusty appetites; and I knew, too, that I would have been disappointed in him, that I would have had to learn more of the ways of the world, that there would have been fierce battles between us. But I was still sure that some bond still held us together and that it was an attraction which would remain for ever.

I had thought that Dickon would be the only one; but now there was Charles.

I had no illusions about Charles. He was worldly, amoral perhaps; he had his own code of behaviour from which he would never swerve. He would never be faithful for long to any woman; he had been brought up with the philosophy of his ancestors—and French ancestors at that. He would say they took a realistic view of life, which was that men were polygamous and although they might love one woman more than others, that could not prevent their casting their eye about and satisfying their sexual needs outside their marriages.

Now I was wiser. I was approaching seventeen and becoming knowledgeable of the world in which I lived. This was different from the world of my mother, Jean-Louis, my grandmother and Sabrina. They had a different set of morals; they called them ideals. But this was France—a man’s country, which most women accepted. I fancied I never would. So it was disturbing to realize that although Charles de Tourville came to Aubigné ostensibly to see Sophie, he did in fact come to see me.

The weeks passed. It was August when Lisette had gone away. It was now well into October … a beautiful, colourful month, with the copper beaches turning to orange and the oak trees to bronze. But how shortlived! Soon the wind would strip those beautiful leaves from the trees and the winter would be with us.

In the old days I had loved the winter. We would go out into the snow and come back and sit round the fire, talking … Lisette, myself and Sophie. We discussed people, life, any subject we could think of … with Sophie contributing hardly anything and Lisette always one step ahead of me.

Now it would be different. I was going to find the long cold days monotonous. But perhaps Lisette would be back soon.

It was a great day when we heard that Tante Berthe had written that she would be returning to the château at the beginning of November.

‘Thank Heaven for that,’ said my mother. ‘Nothing runs as smoothly without Tante Berthe.’

I was very excited at the prospect of having Lisette back with me. I imagined our conversations; we would work out a scheme for weaning Sophie from her solitude.

I remember the day well. It was the twelfth of November, a damp, misty, almost windless day—quite warm for the time of the year. I went to one of the turrets to watch for the arrival. I had been out the day before and had gathered green catkins from the hazel tree and a spray or two of gorse which I had found in a sheltered spot.

I planned to put them in Lisette’s room to show her how pleased I was that she had returned.

It was almost dusk when I saw a party of horsemen in the distance, and picking up my cloak I hurried down so that I should be in the courtyard to greet her.

I saw Tante Berthe—grim as ever—being helped out of her saddle by one of the grooms. But where was Lisette?

My mother had come out to greet Tante Berthe.

‘Welcome back!’ she cried. ‘We are so pleased to see you.’

‘Where is Lisette?’ I asked.

Tante Berthe looked at me steadily.

‘Lisette will not be coming back. She is married.’

I was too choked to speak.

‘Come along in,’ said my mother, speaking rather rapidly. ‘You must tell us all about it. I do hope Lisette is happy. I am sure she will be.’

I followed them into the hall as though stunned.

Lisette … married! Gone away to another life. Would I never see her again?

I felt bereft and had rarely been so wretched in the whole of my life.

Armand had been betrothed for some months to a young lady who was highly suitable, and everyone was very pleased about the proposed match. Marie Louise de Brammont was of the right family and upbringing and therefore a considerable heiress. Marriage was so pleasant when everything was as it should be, particularly if the bride and groom had no particular aversion to each other.

Armand was like any other young Frenchman. I was sure he had his amorous adventures but they were quite apart from marriage; and he was content with the match.

Both my father and mother realized that I was feeling the loss of Sophie’s company and they knew too that Lisette and I had been special friends; they tried in every way to help me over this depressing period which the loss of my young companions had brought me to; they took me to Paris, but somehow the delights of that city did not stir me out of my melancholy; they only served to remind me of it more vividly. In the streets I kept remembering that walk down the Champs-Elysees where the lamps were being hung; and I could not bear to go near the Place Louis XV.

There was a great deal of gaiety but I could not feel part of it. I listened to Court gossip, but it was immaterial to me whether Marie Antoinette received Madame du Barry or not. If the King was bewitched by this woman from the gutters of Paris—where some people said she came from—let him be. I did not care that the Barriens—the party round Madame du Barry—had succeeded in getting Minister Choiseul dismissed even though all this was of some importance to my father, who was deeply involved in Court intrigue. My mother used to be a little anxious about him because such activities could be dangerous. It was so easy to lose everything—one’s life as well as one’s estates. There were those dreaded lettres de cachet of which nobody spoke much because it was considered unlucky to do so.

But all the intrigue and gaiety of Paris could not lift me out of my gloom … until Charles came.

He must have known we were in Paris. I wondered afterwards whether my mother told him so. She knew that I was attracted by him and he by me; she still lived in her idealist world and saw life not as it was but as she wanted it to be. I think it was her innocence which had so attracted my father. I would have been ready to swear that since he had married her he had been entirely faithful to her. She would accept this as the natural course of events and not realize how very powerful was the attraction she had for him. And that was, of course, part of her innocence.

I would never have such. Perhaps it was a pity. On the other hand, it might be better to know the truth and face life as it really was.

So while we were in Paris Charles came there. We rode in the Bois together. We walked during the days. Once we rode out of the city towards St Cloud and when we had left the town behind us we dismounted and tethered our horses and walked among the trees.

He said: ‘You know I’m in love with you, Lottie.’

‘What goes for love with you, perhaps.’

‘I thought we were becoming friends.’

‘We have seen each other fairly frequently.’

‘That is not what I meant. I thought there was an understanding between us.’

‘I think I understand you very well.’

He stopped suddenly and caught me up in his arms. He kissed me … once … twice … and went on kissing me. I was bewildered, making an attempt to hold him off—but it was rather feeble.

‘Lottie, why won’t you be true to yourself?’ he asked.

I withdrew myself and cried: ‘True to myself? What does that mean?’

‘Admit you like me, that you want me in the same way as I want you.’

‘The last thing I should want is to be one of that multitude who have ministered to your desires … temporarily.’

‘You know that is not what I want. I want you permanently.’

‘Indeed?’

‘I want marriage.’

‘Marriage. But you are betrothed to Sophie.’

‘No longer. She has rejected me … irrevocably. Those were her words.’

‘And so now you would turn to me?’

‘I turned to you the moment I saw you.’

‘I remember. You were looking for a victim at Madame Rougemont’s.’

‘Didn’t I rescue you? Didn’t I look after you? I protected you from the wrath of your family. I have always sought to please you. I was betrothed to Sophie before I met you. You know how these marriages are arranged. But why shouldn’t there be one which is a love-match, and why shouldn’t that be ours?’

I felt my heart leap with excitement. I could not curb my exultation. Escape from the gloomy château with its memories. Sophie in her turret, Lisette gone. One day so like another … and my inability to rouse myself from my lethargy and depression.

I struggled to suppress my elation.

I said: ‘There is Sophie.’

‘It is accepted now that she will never marry. It would not surprise me if she made up her mind to enter a convent. The life would suit her. But that does not mean that I must remain unmarried all my life. I have spoken to your father.’

I stared at him.

‘Don’t look alarmed,’ he said. ‘I have had a very encouraging answer. Your mother is anxious that you shall not be forced to do anything you do not wish. But the glorious truth is that I have your father’s permission to lay my heart at your feet.’

I laughed at the expression and he laughed too. He had a ready wit and he was well aware—how could he be otherwise?—that I knew the sort of life he had led. Our first meeting had been indicative of that.

‘So,’ he went on, ‘Mademoiselle Lottie, I hereby ask you to become my wife. At least,’ he went on, ‘you hesitate. Do you see, I feared a determined No. Not that I should have accepted it, but it is encouraging not to be refused in the first few seconds.’

‘You must see how impossible the whole thing would be.’

‘I don’t. I see it as perfectly possible.’

‘What of Sophie?’

‘Sophie has made the choice. She has left me free.’

‘And you think that with her in that turret, you and I … ’

He gripped me by the shoulders and looked into my face.

‘I want you Lottie,’ he said. ‘You will have such a wonderful time with me. You will see. I will awaken you to such delights that you never dreamed of.’

‘I am not interested … ’

‘Now, Lottie, I know you well. You are bursting from your shell. You long to experience that of which you have heard so much. I am sure you have had endless discussions with that girl—what was her name?—the one who came to Rougemont’s with you.’

‘You mean Lisette. She is married now.’

‘And enjoying life, I’ll swear. She would. She was that sort of girl. Dear Lottie, so are you. You will marry one day. Why not me? Wouldn’t you rather choose for yourself than have someone choose for you?’

‘Certainly I will make my own choice.’

‘Well, then, having your father’s permission to woo you, I shall begin now.’

‘Save yourself the trouble.’

His answer was to pick me up in his arms and hold me, looking up at me and laughing.

‘Put me down,’ I said. ‘What if we were seen?’

‘Everyone will understand. A gallant gentleman and a beautiful lady. Why shouldn’t they be in love?’

Slowly he lowered me until my face was on a level with his.

‘Lottie,’ he murmured. ‘Oh, Lottie.’

And I just wanted to be held like that. I felt suddenly that life had become interesting again.

It was decided that Armand should be married at Christmas, which would mean that we would spend Christmas at Brammont, Marie Louise’s family home not far from Orléans.

Sophie would not come and declared her intention of staying at the château where she would be well looked after by Jeanne. Although my mother at first attempted to persuade her, she was relieved. The festive season would have been scarcely festive with Sophie hiding herself away and everyone knowing she was there.

So we made our preparations to go to Brammont without her.

After the wedding Armand and his bride would return to Aubigné and make their home there. I hoped I should get on well with Marie Louise. It would be pleasant to have another woman in the house, though she was a serious girl and very religious and I could not imagine anyone less like Lisette.

I often wondered about Lisette. I had heard nothing from her. I had asked Tante Berthe for her address as I intended to write to her, but Tante Berthe said leave it for a while for Lisette was travelling with her husband and would be away for some months.

I did discover that her husband owned land. I imagined he was a farmer.

‘I hope she will be happy,’ I said. ‘I cannot imagine Lisette on a farm.’

‘Lisette was very contented, I do assure you,’ said Tante Berthe.

But she would not give me the address.

‘Later on,’ she promised. ‘When they are settled.’

I was, of course, rather immersed in my own affairs at the time and the possibility which had arisen in connection with Charles.

My mother talked of the matter with me.

‘He is very much in love with you, Lottie, and your father would be happy with the match. He says he will give you the dowry he promised Sophie. I know the Tourvilles would be very happy with the marriage.

‘What of Sophie?’

‘Sophie has chosen her way of life. She will expect others to do the same. Poor Sophie. It was tragic … and just as she was beginning to forget her shyness. But it happened. It is life. It could have happened to anyone. Oh my darling, how relieved I am that you came safely out of all that. I want you to be as happy as I have been. I often marvel at the way things turned out for me.’

‘Dear Mother,’ I told her, ‘they turned out well because you are what you are. The Comte loves you because you are so different from all these people whom we meet.’

She looked amazed and realized that she did not see them as I did.

I went on quickly: ‘I think so much about Sophie. It would not seem right to marry the man who was to have been her husband.’

‘That would have been an arranged marriage.’

‘But she loved him very much.’

‘Sophie would have loved anyone who took notice of her. Poor girl, her life is tragic but she must not be allowed to stand in the way of your happiness. If you married Charles you would not live here … not like Armand. This is his home. The château will be his one day. But you will go to your husband’s house. You can build a life for yourself … have children … be happy … forget that terrible night. Forget Sophie.’

‘I wish I could.’

She smiled at me and put her arm about me. ‘My dearest child, you know you are doubly dear to me … coming as you did. You brought great happiness to Jean-Louis and to me. More than anything I want to see you happy.’

‘And you think that if I married Charles de Tourville … ’

‘I know it because I have watched you closely. You hold back but you don’t want to. As for him, I have rarely seen a man more in love.’

And so it was when we went to Brammont for Armand’s wedding.

The Brammont château was a good deal smaller than that of Aubigné but built in the same style with tall slate roofs and pepperpot towers. It was delightful, more charming in fact than the larger castles. I was enchanted by the arabesque friezes, sculptured niches and pinnacled windows.

There was more than the usual Christmas activity as this was to be the occasion of the wedding as Well, which was to take place two days after Christmas Day. The château was filled with guests and family and I was surprised to find that the Tourvilles were there.

It was not long before Charles sought me out. He was obviously delighted because we should spend Christmas under the same roof.

We rode, we danced, we sang Christmas hymns. It was different from our Christmases in England, but I was accustomed to these celebrations now. There was no punchbowl nor wassailing which had been such a feature of our Christmases at Clavering; but we were all celebrating the same event.

I was enjoying everything very much and was happier than I had been for some months. Verbal sparring with Charles exhilarated me and when he kissed me and held me against him—which he did whenever possible—I had to admit I was excited.

The marriage was celebrated in the château chapel and afterwards there was a banquet. Charles had been seated next to me at this, for it seemed general knowledge that there was an understanding between us.

The Catholic ceremony of marriage had reminded me that I was a Protestant. My father had not suggested that I change my religion, although the matter had never been gone into. My mother had gone through some formality before her marriage. It now occurred to me that if I married in France it would very likely be that my husband was a Catholic, and although that might not be of paramount importance, the problem would certainly arise if there were children.

When Charles was telling me how foolish I was to delay giving him an affirmative answer, before I could stop myself I blurted out: ‘What about the children?’

‘What children?’ he asked in amazement.

‘Of the marriage.’

‘Ours, you mean. Then this is your answer. It is yes. My dearest Lottie, at last! I shall have it announced this very day.’

‘But I didn’t say … ’

‘You said, What about the children? My dear girl, you are not suggesting we have children without the blessing of clergy?’

‘It was thinking aloud.’

‘You were thinking of us … our children. What were you going to say about them?’

‘I am not a Catholic’

He looked serious for a moment. Then he said: ‘That’s easy. You could become one.’

‘I would not do that. Don’t you see, this is the reason why I cannot marry you.’

‘Such reasons can easily be dealt with.’

‘How? Would you give up your religion?’

‘I have to confess that I have not much religion.’

‘I gathered that by your conduct.’

He laughed. ‘Dear Lottie,’ he said. ‘Seriously, it is something of a habit. But this matter of the children.’ He narrowed his eyes and surveyed me. ‘We wouldn’t let it come between us. I am a reasonable man. You wouldn’t change, you say. I can see you are adamant on that point. Very well. How is this? Our first boy will be the heir. He would have to be a Catholic. But the girls we shall have, well, they will be yours. The boy for me … the necessity of an ancient family and all that … for future inheritance and so on. You understand. And the girls for you. That’s fair, isn’t it?’

‘I suppose it is.’

‘Then why are we waiting? I shall announce our betrothal tonight.’

And that was how it happened; and, in truth, it was what I wanted. It was what I had wanted for a long time.

Both my father and mother were delighted, and that went for the Tourvilles too. It was a happy solution to the situation. All the settlements which had been arranged for Sophie would be turned over to me. My mother said: ‘I am delighted. I was a little worried really because the French are so formal … and your birth being a little irregular … I know your father was concerned about that. He was considering having you legitimized. It can be done, you know. Now that you are marrying it won’t be necessary. I am so happy for you, my darling. I know you love him and he is such an attractive man. You are happy, I can see.’

‘Yes,’ I said in a rather surprised voice, ‘I believe I am.’

My mother began making arrangements immediately.

‘It is fortunate that the Tourvilles are here now,’ she said. ‘We can get everything settled. Though perhaps the wedding should not take place just yet. There ought to be a year, say, after that dreadful accident. I thought perhaps May. That is a lovely month for a wedding. And there is something else. I thought about having it in Paris … but somehow I don’t think so. It would be difficult at the château because …’

‘Because of Sophie up there in the turret.’

She nodded.

‘Well, the Tourvilles have come up with a suggestion and I think it is a good one. Why shouldn’t you be married from their place? I know it is a bit unorthodox and it should be the bride’s home … but in the circumstances … ’

I could see they were planning it for me and I was content to let them do so. I was very excited at the prospect of being married to Charles, not to have to fight against my instincts any longer.

I was not sure whether I loved him. I certainly was in love with him if being in love meant that everything seemed dull when he was not there.

I wanted change. I wanted excitement. I did not want to go back to Aubigné where Sophie lived like a grim ghost in her turret … haunting me. Though why I should feel a hint of blame at what happened I did not know. It was true that during that fearsome débâcle Charles had turned to me, had rescued me. But if he had left me to go to Sophie he could not have saved her.

Yet I could never stop feeling that niggling little sense of guilt when I was shut up in Aubigné with Sophie there reminding me for ever.

I had to escape and Charles offered that escape. I was going to adventure—erotic adventure which I knew in a way would appeal to my senses; unknown yes, certainly unknown. But the future would solve that for me.

We came back to Aubigné, and all through the winter weeks I thought of my wedding.

I missed Lisette more than ever. I promised myself that when I was a married woman I would have more freedom than I possessed now and I would go and see Lisette at her farmhouse wherever it was. Tante Berthe had come back and settled into her old post as though nothing had happened, but she had never been very communicative and I could not get an address from which would have enabled me to write to Lisette.

She was still travelling with her husband, Tante Berthe insisted. She would be moving into her new house with the coming of Spring. Finally I wrote a letter in which I explained that I was going to marry Charles de Tourville and I thought she and her husband ought to come to the wedding. I took the letter to Tante Berthe who said that as soon as she knew Lisette’s address she would send it to her.

I heard nothing and after a while began to think less of Lisette because I was so occupied with my own affairs.

We went to Paris to get my trousseau and my attention was taken up entirely with the gowns which were being prepared for me. There was my wedding-dress of white brocade which was delicately trimmed with pearls; and there was a white veil which would flow down from a pearl coronet placed high on my head. All hairstyles now were high so that one’s hair had to be padded out to get the desired effect. This fashion had been introduced by the Court hairdressers because Marie Antoinette’s high forehead made it a becoming style for her. And it certainly was becoming except when carried to extreme, which often happens with fashions sooner or later.

However, I had a pleasant time in Paris and for the first time since the accident could ride down the Champs-Elysees without feeling unbearably sad.

All the clothes would be delivered to Aubigné so that we could make sure they were what I wanted and then they would be sent on to Tourville. Aubigné would no longer be my home after the wedding as I should be with my husband’s people. I think at one time that would have saddened me. It no longer did. What I wanted more than anything was to escape. I wanted to get away from my childhood, to understand the emotions which Dickon had first aroused in me before I realized what they meant. I had grown up since then and I knew that Charles would be my tutor.

Often I tried on my dresses. I revelled in them. Silks and velvets, charmingly simple day dresses and an elegant riding habit in pearl grey. Excitement did something for me, such as love had for Sophie.

‘You can see she’s in love,’ said one of the maids, for several of them peeped in while I was trying on my dresses.

Was I? I didn’t know. But whatever it was, I was pleased to be in it.

The wedding was to be in May, exactly a year since Sophie’s tragedy, and we should have a quiet wedding because people might remember that Charles had been going to marry Sophie.

I was longing for the day of our departure for Tourville and yet in a way I was savouring these days of preparation. How often since have I thought that anticipation is sometimes more delightful than the realization. I revelled in looking forward to the future in delicious uncertainty of what it held for me.

And so the days passed. It was the night before we were to leave. One of the maids would pack my wedding-dress after we had left and it would come along after us with my other clothes. The dress was now hung in a cupboard and I was constantly peeping at it.

I went to bed early, for we should be up as soon as it was light in order to begin the long journey which lay before us, and as I was tired I was soon asleep.

I awoke startled, wondering for a moment where I was as I came out of a dream, the memory of which vanished as I opened my eyes.

There was a moon that night and its light shone into my room so that it was almost as light as day.

Then suddenly I felt myself go cold. I could almost feel the hair rising on my scalp for someone was in my room. It was like an apparition. I lay still, unable to move … staring at that figure. A girl … myself … for she was wearing my wedding-dress. I could see the veil flowing down her back.

Then she turned and I saw her face.

I gasped in horror. The moonlight clearly showed up the hideous disfigurement, the blue smudges and wrinkled skin at the side of her face, the scorched patch where the hair should have been.

I raised myself and whispered in a hoarse voice: ‘Sophie.’

She was standing at the foot of my bed looking at me and I could see the cold hatred in her eyes.

‘This should be my wedding-dress,’ she said.

‘Oh, Sophie,’ I cried. ‘It could have been had you wished. You yourself refused … ’

Then she laughed and the bitterness of her laugh was like a knife in my heart. ‘You wanted him from the first. You thought I didn’t know. You lured him from me. You … what are you? A bastard! Begotten in sin! I shall never forgive you.’

‘It was not my fault, Sophie,’ I said.

‘Not your fault!’ She laughed and there was such pain in her laughter that I winced. ‘You are beautiful. You know that well enough, and I was never anything much, was I? Men like you … men like Charles … even when he was betrothed to me. You lured him from me. You determined to get him. I knew you were his mistress even before … before … ’

‘Sophie, that is not true. I have never been anyone’s mistress.’

‘You lie easily. I have proof.’

‘What proof?’

‘I found your flower in his apartment. It was lying there on the floor … in his bedchamber.’

‘What are you talking about, Sophie? I have never been in his bedchamber.’

‘It was the day when … ’ She turned away. Then she went on: ‘He bought you the red one, didn’t he? I had the lavender. The red flower of passion, wasn’t it? I knew by the way he put it in your hair. I knew before I found out. But I tried not to believe it. I called at their hôtel to see his mother. It was something about the wedding arrangements. She said, “He is in his room. Come up with me.” So I went and there it was lying on the floor … where you had dropped it.’

‘I remember the flower … though I never wore it. I had forgotten it until this moment. It couldn’t have been my flower. I dare say I still have it … somewhere.’

She clenched her hands together. ‘Please don’t lie to me. I knew … and that confirmed it.’

‘It is all imagination, Sophie. Oh, do believe me.’

‘You wanted this to happen.’ She threw back her head and turned the scarred part of her face towards me. ‘A pretty sight, isn’t it? On that night he was with you. You left me there. He was intent on saving you. You both hoped that I would die.’

‘It’s not true. You know it isn’t true. He wanted to marry you … afterwards. He asked you again and again.’

‘He never wanted to marry me. It was arranged. He wanted you as soon as he saw you. You think I am foolish and blind. I may be … but not quite so blind as not to see what is right under my eyes. I will never forgive you … never … and I hope you never forget what you have done to me.’

‘Oh, Sophie,’ I cried. ‘Sophie …’

I attempted to go to her but she held up her hand.

‘Don’t come near me,’ she said.

I covered my face with my hands because I could no longer bear to look at her. I knew it was no use pleading with her, trying to make her understand. She was determined to blame me.

When I opened my eyes she had taken off the veil and was placing it reverently on its stand. The dress she hung up in the cupboard before she stepped into her own long robe.

‘Sophie,’ I said gently.

But she waved me away and, silent as a ghost, glided to the door.

There she paused. ‘Remember me,’ she said, looking straight at me. ‘All the time he is with you, remember me. I shall be thinking of you. I shall never forget what you did to me.’

The door closed on her. I stared at the veil on its stand and I thought: I shall never be able to forget either. She will always be there to haunt me.

When I wore that dress, when I wore that veil, I should be thinking of her standing there at the foot of my bed, accusing me, blaming me.

It was unfair. She could have married him had she wished. When she had convinced herself that he did not really want her, I could guess how deeply wounded she had been, and the wounds to her heart went as deeply as those which had disfigured her face.

She had spoken bitterly of the flower. I remembered vividly the day Charles had bought it. I had forgotten it and never worn it. It must be somewhere among my things. Whose peony was it that Sophie had seen? Someone who had visited Charles? The flowers were not exactly rare. They had been sold all over Paris at that time and Charles might well have had a woman visiting him in his rooms.

I couldn’t have told Sophie that. She would never understand the type of man Charles was. Poor Sophie!

She would not forget me, she had said. I could indeed tell her the same. I would always be haunted by the sight of that pathetic figure in my white wedding-dress and veil.

The Return of Lisette

IT WAS THE SPRING of the year 1775 and four years since my marriage to Charles. I was a very different person from that girl who had travelled to Tourville for her wedding. I had grown up quickly under Charles’s tuition; he taught me how to come to terms with life and I was, on the whole, grateful for that.

I would say that our marriage had been satisfactory. There was a definite physical attraction between us and I had discovered that I, no less than he, could find great satisfaction in such a relationship.

During the first months of our marriage neither of us had thought of much else than the passion that we could arouse in each other. He had recognized in me what, in his cynical way, he called ‘a suitable companion of the boudoir’, which meant a woman who was not ashamed of her own desires and who could rise to those heights of passion which he liked to scale—so that as one they could revel in the delights of physical intercourse between the two sexes.

In the beginning I had thought a great deal about Sophie and consoled myself with the certain knowledge that she would never have been able to accompany Charles in those flights of ecstasy.

He was a connoisseur of love—perhaps I should say lust; and also of women. He told me once that he could tell at a glance when a woman had—his term again—love potentialities.

‘As soon as I saw you bending over that crystal ball I recognized those qualities to a large degree,’ he told me.

Was I in love with him? What was love? I asked myself that many times. In love as my mother and father were? No, not like that. That was some ideal state to which people came perhaps when they were old and wise and no longer bedevilled by the urgings of desire. What a contented relationship that must be! No, certainly Charles and I were not like that.

During those first months when we seemed to mean everything to each other, my heart would leap with joy when he appeared and I was always uneasy when he was away from me; I longed during the evenings when we were with his family in the long salon at the Tourville château for the moment when we should retire and be alone.

It never occurred to me to wonder then whether this excessive excitement would last. I supposed my parents had once felt like that in those long-ago days when I was conceived. Then they had parted for years and had only come together when they were middle-aged with much experience behind them, and with the raging desire no longer there to cloud their judgement. And so they reached that deeply contented, perfect relationship.

Charles was certainly the perfect lover. I could be sure he did not feign his need for me. I could not for a moment doubt it. Yet somewhere in my mind I knew that it could not last … not at that breathtaking level at any rate; and would what was left to us be strong enough to build on it that sort of love I had seen and envied a little in my parents?

The Tourville family itself was not very exciting. Charles’s father was an invalid; his mother a mild woman who adored her family. There was a sister Amélie for whom a marriage was being arranged.

They were a wealthy family, although not nearly so rich as my father; and clearly they had been delighted with the alliance between our families. They would have preferred Sophie, of course; but it showed how much they wanted an alliance to have accepted a daughter of illegitimate birth. However, the dowry had been the same as that which would have gone with Sophie.

I should have found life at Tourville very dull but for Charles.

So I went on in that excited state until I became pregnant, which was about eight months after my marriage.

Everyone at Tourville was delighted and when messages were sent to Aubigné there was great rejoicing there.

During the first three months I felt wretchedly sick and after that when I began to grow bulky I was in no state for night frolics with Charles. I guessed then that he found a mistress, for he was not the sort of man to deny himself, and he would think, from what he had always been brought up to believe, that it was the natural course of events.

Strangely enough, coming into motherhood had changed me too. I was absorbed now in the baby and that was enough for me.

Charles was the devoted husband, delighted that I had shown so soon evidence of my fruitfulness and he did not show any rancour because I could no longer endure him in my bed.

My mother came over from Aubigné to be with me at the birth and the delight of everyone was great when I produced a healthy boy.

We called him Charles, which soon became Charlot, and from the moment I heard his first lusty scream he was of the utmost importance to me.

Those were some of the happiest months of my life. I remember so well sitting up in bed with my baby in my arms and people coming in to admire him and congratulate me.

Charles walked round the room with the baby in his arms.

‘Clever, clever Lottie,’ he said, and kissed me.

My father came to see his grandson. He held the child aloft and looked at him with such pride that I laughed.

‘I see you are pleased with him,’ I said.

Reverently he laid the child in his cradle and came to sit beside my bed.

‘Dear Lottie,’ he said, ‘what a happy day it was when you came to me and now it is you who have given me my first grandchild.’ He took my hand and kissed it. ‘Your mother is so proud of you … and so am I.’

I said: ‘You overrate me. It is no great achievement. Women are doing it all over the world at this moment.’

‘Some seem incapable of it.’ He sighed.

I knew he was thinking of Armand and Marie Louise. It was a great disappointment to him that there was no child of that marriage.

After the birth of my son my relationship with my husband changed. He was no longer the delighted teacher, I no longer the pupil avid to learn. I had become mature somehow.

We were lovers, but love-making seemed to have become a routine instead of the indescribable thrill it had once been.

I suppose marriage was like that. However, I had my son and that was contentment enough.

Spring had come and I was going to Aubigné to visit my parents. I rarely went to Aubigné and usually found some reason for not going, suggesting that my parents come to Tourville instead. They were frequent visitors for they wanted to see their grandson growing up. My father would have liked us to live at the Château d’Aubigné but that of course was out of the question. Tourville was Charles’s home and responsibility and I was his wife.

So I continued to make excuses that it was difficult travelling with a child and they came to us.

Chariot was two—old enough to be left to the care of his excellent nurse and I was to make the journey to Aubigné because my mother had sprained her ankle and was unable to make the proposed spring visit to Tourville.

‘She longs to see you,’ wrote my father. ‘Do try to come. I know little Chariot is too young to travel, but if you could spare us a week or so it would so please your mother.’

I decided that my desire to stay away from Aubigné must be conquered. I still thought of Sophie on the night before I had left, standing at the foot of my bed, so tragic in the wedding-dress she believed should have been hers, with the veil falling away from her poor scarred face. Surely over the years she had come to terms with her fate; surely common sense must tell her that I was not to blame for what had happened to her. Although I had looked, I had never found the artificial flower which had caused her such distress, and presumed it had been mislaid when the maid was packing for me at some time.

I arrived at Aubigné in the early afternoon. My parents were waiting for me and I laughingly protested to my father that he would suffocate me in his embrace. My mother looked on with that expression of pleased content which she always wore when my father and I were together.

I was showered with questions. How was I? How was Chariot? Had I had a good journey? How long could I stay?

‘Soon Chariot will be old enough to travel,’ said my mother. ‘We thought you would like your old room. We haven’t used it since you went. I don’t like the thought of anyone else in it. Silly of me. But there are so many rooms in the castle.’

She was babbling on in her excitement and I felt happy to be with them.

But I was not so happy to be in that room of memories. I hoped I should not dream of a ghostly scarred figure coming into my room.

We dined alone.

‘Armand will be back tomorrow,’ said my father. ‘He is at Court. There is a great deal of trouble brewing. Last year’s harvest is the cause of it. You remember how severe the weather was. It has been difficult to keep down the price of grain. The King is most disturbed. He really does seem to care. A change from his grandfather … that wicked old reprobate.’

It was a year since Louis XV had died and young Louis with his wife Marie Antoinette had, so we had heard, been overcome with emotion when they had been called upon to rule. Louis had been nineteen and his Queen eighteen and it was known that they had knelt and prayed: ‘Oh God, guide us and protect us. We are too young to rule.’ And the whole nation had been moved by the plight of these two young people, but heartened by their realization of their duties and determination to carry them out, which was in such contrast to the old King. It had seemed that a new era was coming to France, so it was unfortunate that right at the start of the new reign there should have been such a hard winter producing a bad harvest.

‘Young Louis did well in putting Turgot at the head of finances,’ said my father who seemed unable to keep his thoughts from politics. ‘He is a good, sincere man who is eager to do his best for his country. But it is not going to be easy to keep down the price of corn and if the cost of bread goes up, which seems inevitable, that is going to make the people restive.’

‘Oh dear,’ I sighed. ‘There are always these troubles. I want to hear about Aubigné. Sophie … ?’

There was a brief silence.

Then my mother said: ‘She keeps to her turret. I do wish she would be with us more. She is becoming a hermit. Jeanne chooses which servants are to go in and clean. She really is rather autocratic. But what can we do? We have to bow to her. She really is so necessary to Sophie.’

‘I hope I shall be able to see Sophie while I am here.’

‘She refuses to see people. It is very sad to think of her up there … her life slipping away.’

‘Is it possible for anything to be done for her?’

‘There are lotions and creams. Jeanne is always going out to the markets and bringing things back. How effective they are I cannot say. Not very, I should think, for Sophie stays up there and it is really only Jeanne who has any communication with her.’

‘It would be better if she went into a convent,’ said my father.

‘Is she likely to?’

‘No, Marie Louise is more likely to do that.’

‘Marie Louise is a very good girl,’ said my mother.

‘Too good for this world,’ answered my father shortly.

My mother lifted her shoulders. ‘She should never have married,’ she said. ‘She cannot bear children. I think they have given up the attempt.’

‘One can’t blame Armand,’ went on my father. It was clear that he had no great love for his daughter-in-law. ‘She is so pious. The chapel is always in use. Once a day used to be enough. Now she spends most of her time there. Her servants have to attend with her. It is most depressing. At this moment she is staying the night at the Convent de la Forêt Verte. You know it. It is only three miles from the château. She is endowing it with a new altar. Lottie, this place has changed since you left us.’

‘Your father longs for the days when you were here, Lottie,’ said my mother. ‘Then Sophie behaved more normally. She was always quiet, and then there was that other girl … ’

‘Lisette,’ I cried. ‘I often think of her. I wrote to her but she never answered. How is Tante Berthe?’

‘The same as ever.’

‘I do want a word with her before I go. I should really love to see Lisette again.’

‘She was a very pretty girl,’ said my mother.

‘And still is, I don’t doubt,’ I replied. ‘It would be so interesting to see her again. I shall certainly beard Tante Berthe in her den. She is still in the same quarters, I suppose.’

‘Just the same. She is very proud of them and no one is allowed to go in without an invitation.’

‘What a martinet she always was!’

‘But an excellent manager,’ said my father. ‘We have never regretted her coming.’

‘I am surprised that she allowed Lisette to escape. She used to watch over her so carefully. Lisette used to be really scared of her … the only person she ever was scared of.’

Then we talked of other matters but I went on thinking of Lisette and the fun we used to have together. That was inevitable now that I was at the château.

The next day Marie Louise came back from the convent. She was far from good-looking and despised those little aids to beauty which most women seemed to use nowadays. She wore her hair very simply tied back. None of those Marie Antoinette styles for her. Her gown was dark grey and decidedly drab. When I expressed my pleasure at seeing her and said that I hoped we should be together sometime, she told me she sewed for the poor every afternoon and if I would care to join her she would find some work for me to do and she could tell me about the altar she was going to build for the Forêt Verte.

I did not find the prospect very exciting and as needlework had never appealed to me, I allowed the invitation to lapse.

It was pleasant to see Armand. His unsatisfactory marriage did not appear to have changed him at all. He was of a placid nature and apparently took what came to him in a philosophical way. I was sure he had a pleasant mistress somewhere—several perhaps—and he was quite content to leave matters as they were.

The Comte, however, was less ready to accept the state of affairs. My mother told me how disturbed he was by Armand’s sterile marriage.

‘There is the family line … the estates and everything. Your father is worried about that. However, he is delighted with little Charlot.’

Then we talked of my son and she wanted to know what he had done and said, for he could chatter away quite intelligently now, which we both declared was miraculous; and we spent a great deal of time talking of him.

I did see Tante Berthe in her rooms when I was granted an interview. I thought how I should have laughed with Lisette afterwards, if only she had been there to laugh with me.

Tante Berthe in black bombazine, very plain but most elegantly cut and very severe, was a most dignified lady. She made tea for me, which showed how conscious she was of the ways of society, for tea-drinking was becoming quite a fashion in France. It was called Le Thé anglais. In fact, my father had told me, it was now the mode to look English. The Parisian shops were full of cloth from England and long coats with triple capes were being worn with stock hats. The shop windows displayed signs: ‘English spoken here.’ Lemonade-sellers were now offering le punch, which was said to be exactly as drunk in England.

I expressed my surprise to my father, for there had never been great friendship between our countries.

‘It is not a matter of friendship,’ said my father. ‘Most Frenchmen hate the English now as much as they did after Crecy and Agincourt. It is simply a fashion to turn people’s minds away from the trials of the country.’

In any case Tante Berthe had her tea.

‘Just as the English drink it,’ she said. ‘You would know, being partly one of them.’

I declared it was delicious and she asked how I was getting on and how the baby was.

I answered these questions but very quickly came to the subject of Lisette.

‘I rarely hear from her,’ said Tante Berthe. ‘She is kept so busy.’

‘I should love to see her.’

That was greeted with silence.

‘Does she seem happy?’

‘She has a little one now.’

‘A little one? A baby?’

‘Yes. A little boy.’

‘Oh, I would love to see her. Do tell me how I can get into touch with her. I will ask her to come and visit us.’

‘I don’t think that would be wise, Mademoiselle Lottie.’

‘Not wise? But we were always such friends.’

‘Oh, she has her life now. It is not the life of the château but she is beginning to grow content.’

‘Please tell me where I can find her.’

‘She wouldn’t want that.’

‘I am sure she would want to see me as much as I want to see her’.’

‘It was hard for her to get accustomed to farm life after living as she did. It was above her station. She’s settling in now. Leave well alone. She is happy now. You must not remind her of the life she once had.’

‘It was strange that she should marry a farmer. She always used to say that she would marry into nobility.’

‘Real life is different from dreams and it is real life that has to be lived.’

I begged once more for knowledge of Lisette’s whereabouts but Tante Berthe was adamant and refused to tell me.

‘You have your life here; she has hers. She is happy now. Don’t try to spoil it and make her discontented again.’

‘What is the name of her little boy?’

‘I don’t think you should bother yourself with such matters. It is better not.’

‘I really cannot see what harm knowing a name can do.’

Tante Berthe sat back in her chair, her lips tight. Then she drained her dish of English tea and set it down so emphatically that I knew it was time for me to go.

I went riding with my father. I was gratified to see how he enjoyed being with me. There had been a strong rapport between us from the day of our first meeting but he treated me now with respect as well as affection and was so grateful to me for giving him a grandson.

He talked to me more seriously than he ever did to my mother. She was easily alarmed and I knew that she used to fret every time he was out of her sight. He told me that he was uneasy about the state of the country. Conditions had grown bad during the last reign. There was too much poverty in France; bread was too costly and in some places people were starving. Moreover the last King had lived in the utmost extravagance. ‘Think what it must have cost to maintain Le Parc aux Cerfs and purely for the purpose of satisfying the King’s jaded appetites. Madame du Barry lived in the utmost luxury. The King never stinted himself at all although he must have seen disaster coming. He hated the mob. That was why he rarely went to Paris and built the road from Versailles to Compiegne to bypass the capital. Such a state of affairs cannot last forever. There comes retribution. It is unjust that this should seem to be approaching now that we have a new king who appears to be ready to listen to reason.’

‘What are you afraid of?’

‘Of the people.’

‘But surely there are laws to keep order.’

‘Sometimes such order breaks down. I happen to know that at the Palace of Versailles the King is in long and anxious conferences with his ministers—chiefly Turgot. They both see the dangers and Turgot has set up ateliers de charité in Limoges where bread is distributed to the poor.’

‘It may be that next year there will be a good harvest. Wouldn’t that make everything all right?’

‘It would help.’

‘Then let us pray for a good winter.’

We rode on and came to the town. That there was something unusual going on was obvious from the moment we came into it. Little knots of people were standing about. They looked at us as we rode past in a way which I thought had a certain hostility in it.

‘What’s happening?’ I asked.

‘I don’t know,’ replied my father. ‘Keep close.’

We came into the market square. Someone had set up a platform and a man was standing on it. He was very tall with a lean cadaverous face, somewhat tanned by the weather. He had flashing eyes which were of a vivid shade of blue and he wore his hair unpowdered and cut short as some peasants wore it; his clothes were ragged and ill fitting yet he wore them with a certain distinction.

He was speaking in a deep voice which could be heard all over the square.

‘Citizens,’ he cried, ‘will you let them starve us? Will you stand aside and touch your caps when the gentry pass by? Will you say, “God bless you, my lord. ’Tis right and fitting you should sup from a laden table while I go hungry? This is the law. God put me where I am and you where you are. I am content to starve and see my children starve that you may eat to the full, my lord, and spend good money on fine clothes and drink and women. Oh yes, my masters, you are you and therefore the land of France belongs to you. We are here to serve you, to grovel for the few sous you throw at us. We are here to eat the filthy stuff you call bread—if we can get it … ”’

My father had turned white and I could see that he was growing very angry. I was very conscious of those sullen people surrounding us. I turned away, believing that if I went he would follow me.

‘Comrades,’ the man was saying, ‘are you going to stand aside? Are you going to let them treat you worse than cattle? Or are you going to stand up and fight for your rights? Stand up and fight, comrades. Fight for your bread. They are taking the grain along the river now. It is for the King’s granaries … for he must have plenty, must he not? It is only you, my friends, who must starve.’

‘Come away,’ I said quickly. ‘Come with me. I am going now.’

I knew it was the only way. I turned my horse and started to move through the crowd. I was relieved that my father was close behind me and that the people moved—albeit sullenly—to let us pass through.

We came to the edge of the town before I turned my head to look at my father.

‘That rogue,’ he said, ‘is inciting the people. He is trying to raise a riot.’

‘And by the look of some of them it seems that he might succeed.’

‘He was no peasant.’

‘No … I don’t think he was.’

‘He’s an agitator. There are many about. I should have liked to take him by the scruff of his neck and expose him.’

‘That was what I was afraid you were going to do so I moved off to prevent you.’

‘You were wise. They might have killed us. This confirms what has been in my mind for some time.’

‘What is that?’

He looked at me quickly. ‘Don’t tell your mother. It would alarm her. But for some time I have believed that there were subversive forces at work. There are men in the world whose intentions are to overthrow monarchies everywhere and the Church with them. In other words they plan revolution. Where would such men seek to begin their campaign? In the weakest place, of course. France is weak. She has suffered years of inept rule; there has been little justice in the country; the monarchy has been selfishly indulgent; the people have become poorer; some of them are indeed close to starvation. You see, France is offering these men the very ground in which to sow their seeds of revolution.’

‘And you think that man … ’

‘He is one of many. Very soon … perhaps at this moment, those men who were listening to him will be roused to fury. God knows what they will do. They will raid the shops … steal the goods … and they will kill any who try to prevent them.’

‘How glad I am we escaped.’

‘Oh, Lottie, I see evil times ahead for France unless we stop this rot. We have a new King; a good minister in Turgot; there will be others. We have a chance if only the people will let us take it.’

We rode thoughtfully back to the château.

Before the day was out we knew that what we had seen in the town square was the beginning of trouble. Armand came in the late afternoon to tell us that a mob had attacked the boats which were laden with sacks of corn; they had ripped open the sacks and thrown the corn into the river.

My father was furious. ‘This is surely not the work of hungry men,’ he said. ‘I am becoming more and more convinced that this is an attempt at organized revolution.’

Armand wanted to go out and attack the rioters but his father restrained him.

‘There’ll be bloodshed if these people have their way,’ said the Comte. ‘The King and his ministers must deal with the matter.’

It was easier said than done, for that conflict which was to become La Guerre des Farines had started.

Riots broke out in several places simultaneously, which confirmed the fact that they were organized. Shop windows were broken, food stolen, and several people lost their lives.

My mother said I must stay with them until the country was quiet again but I was very worried as to what might be happening at Tourville and the thought of Chariot in danger terrified me. I wanted to leave at once but my father would not hear of it.

‘The trouble will not be so much in the country as in Paris or Versailles,’ he said. ‘I don’t think it is going to last long. Turgot and Maurepas will know how to deal with these agitators.’

I pictured the young King and Queen so newly come to the throne confronted by a mob of screaming people. Mobs were terrifying, mindless usually, beyond reasoning, bent on destruction and spurred on by an all-consuming envy … surely the most deadly of the seven deadly sins, for from it were born most of the others.

My father thought he should go to Versailles; my mother begged him not to; and when I heard that the people were marching on the palace waving pieces of mouldy bread, ferociously demanding that the price of food be drastically cut and threatening to burn down the palace if it were not, I was glad that he had listened to her.

There was nothing we could do. My father was in a state of gloom. He had seen this coming. He said: ‘What we must do is better the condition of the poor, that is true, but this is not the way. We have to seek out these people who are inciting honest workmen to revolt against their King and Parliament, against law and order. We have to stop them. We are late. We should have done it earlier. The King understands this, I believe, and is genuinely concerned with the plight of his people. But he has to reap the harvest sown by his grandfather. He is the one to blame. My God grant our young King the wit and strength and the courage to carry us through.’

I was not very well versed in politics. It had never occurred to me that we were so close to disaster, but that became clear enough during those days of the little war.

The King was courageous; he faced the mob. Some said that his action at Versailles, when the infuriated mob was at his gate, in sending out the Prince de Beauvais into the courtyard to promise to lower the price of bread saved the palace and ended the war. Had they burned the palace, as they had threatened to do, that would have been the signal for the peasants all over the country to rise against those of their countrymen who were better off than they were—starting with the nobility.

It was a miracle, and discoveries were made which proved my father’s theory. Many in the mob were not peasants; they were far from starving; and the bread which they carried with them when examined proved to have been treated with ashes and other substances to make it appear mouldy. One so-called starving peasant was wounded and taken to a hospital and found to be a servant in the royal household. Some of the people masquerading as women turned out to be men. As more and more evidence came to light it became obvious that there was organization behind the riots.

When this became startlingly clear the leaders, not wishing to be exposed, slipped away into obscurity and the rioters, with no one to urge them on, grew tired; and afraid that they might be caught and brought to trial, they dispersed. And quiet reigned throughout the land.

But it was a somewhat uneasy quiet.

The country settled down so quickly that it was decided that the King’s coronation should go ahead as planned. This was to take place on the eleventh of June and as both my father and mother were travelling to Rheims for the ceremony, I decided that I would return to Tourville and this I did.

It was about a month after I returned to Tourville when I suspected I might be pregnant. I was delighted and so was Charles when this proved to be the case, and although I resented the early discomforts of my state I was happy at the prospect of another child.

It took my mind off recent events. Charles was inclined to ignore them; he certainly did not take the same serious view that my father had done.

‘They should have brought out the military and dispersed them,’ was his comment. ‘If they did that it would soon put a stop to their nonsense.’

I thought of the man whom I had seen preaching in the market square and I did not believe that the military would deter him and his kind. I should have liked to hear more about the people who were trying to bring revolution into France but of course none knew who they were, for the success of their plans depended on their remaining anonymous. My father had said that he suspected people in high places. He even mentioned the name of the Prince de Conti. Why should they want to overthrow a regime into which they were so comfortably settled? My father believed that certain men had grievances against others and the prime factor in this discontent would be envy; and in a country like France where there were so many injustices and which had groaned for years under heavy taxation while hearing of the excesses of its rulers—that was enough to set the spark to light the fire.

However, as the weeks passed and everything seemed to have returned to normal, I forgot about La Guerre des Farines although now and then the memory of that man in the square would come back to me.

I was in my apartment one day. I remember it well—a hot August day when I was feeling listless and wishing the next few months would pass quickly, when there was a tap on my door.

I called for whoever was there to enter and a maid came in to say that there was a lady downstairs who was asking for me.

‘She has come a long way,’ said the girl. ‘And she has a child with her. She says she knows that you will see her.’

I went down at once and when I saw who was standing in the hall I gave a cry of joy and ran to her.

‘Lisette! You have come at last. I have tired so hard to find you. It is wonderful to see you.’

‘I knew you would say that,’ she answered, her lovely blue eyes glowing with affection. I had forgotten how pretty she was. Now she was rather soberly dressed, with her fair hair escaping from the pins which held it, so that it made little curling tendrils on her forehead and neck, and smiling half whimsically, half tenderly, and I could think of only one thing: my friend Lisette had come back to me.

‘I had to come,’ she said. ‘I had nowhere to go. I thought you would help me. I couldn’t face Tante Berthe.’

‘I’m glad you came. This is your little boy? I heard you had one.’

She laid her hand on the boy’s shoulder. He looked older than Charlot. ‘Louis Charles,’ she said, ‘take Madame’s hand as you know how.’

The boy took my hand and kissed it. I thought he was charming.

‘There is so much to tell you,’ said Lisette.

‘I long to hear it,’ I replied. ‘How have you travelled? Have you come far? Are you hungry?’

‘We came on horseback … Louis Charles riding with me. One of the men from my neighbour’s stables brought me here. I have left him in the stables. Perhaps they could give him a bed for the night. He will want to leave in the morning.’

‘Of course, of course,’ I said.

‘I have so much to tell you … but … could I wash first?’

‘Certainly, and eat too. I will tell them to prepare a room for you and your son.’

I called to the servants. Food must be prepared … a room and everything for her comfort; and the groom who had come with her must be lodged and fed.

I was delighted to have her back with me and could not wait to hear all her news as soon as she had washed and eaten and the boy was sleeping. I took her into one of the smaller rooms of the château where we could be quite alone while she told me her story.

Hers had not been a happy marriage. She had made a great mistake. When she and Tante Berthe had visited their relative she had been introduced to Farmer Dubois; he had fallen in love with her so completely that she had been quite flattered and in a mad moment had agreed to marry him.

‘It was a mistake,’ she said. ‘I could not be a farmer’s wife. It didn’t suit me at all. He adored me …but one gets a little tired of such devotion. I even played with the idea of running away. I thought I’d come to you and throw myself on your mercy.’

‘I wish you had,’ I said. ‘Oh, I have missed you so much, Lisette.’

‘But you are Madame de Tourville now. You have your beautiful château and your devoted husband.’

I lifted my shoulders and she studied me intently.

‘You are happy?’ she asked.

‘Oh yes … yes … quite happy.’

‘I am glad. I think the most awful thing a woman can suffer is an unhappy marriage.’

‘But at least your Monsieur Dubois adored you. Have you left him, Lisette?’

‘I am coming to that. He is dead. That is why I got away.’

‘Dead! Oh, Lisette.’

‘I know. He was a good man, but I was bored. I wanted to get away … though I didn’t want it to happen this way.’

‘Which way?’

‘Well, I was resigned. I had made my bed as they say, and I must lie on it. I tried to become a farmer’s wife. Lottie. I tried hard but I didn’t do it very well. Still, Jacques did not seem to mind and I had my little boy.’

‘He must have been a great consolation.’

‘He is indeed. I don’t think I should have had the courage to come here if it had not been for him.’

‘My dear Lisette, why? You know I should always be glad to see you.’

‘We had so many good times together, didn’t we? Remember the fortune-teller? That was where you first met your husband. I think he fell in love with you on sight. Poor Sophie, what a tragedy! But it made the way clear for you, didn’t it?’

‘I don’t see it like that. I often think of Sophie.’

‘She could have married him.’

‘I don’t think she would have been very happy if she had done so. I can only tell myself that it was her choice.’

‘At least you are happy.’

‘Yes, with the dearest little boy … And Lisette, I am to have another.’

‘Lottie! How wonderful. Is your husband pleased?’

‘Delighted—and so are my father and mother.’

‘That is good news. But I have to talk to you, Lottie. I have to talk very seriously … because I have nowhere to go.’

‘Nowhere to go! But you are here. You have come back. How can you say you have nowhere to go?’

‘Oh, you are good to me. I knew you would be. All the way here I’ve been telling myself that. But we are destitute … we have lost everything. It was those dreadful people. I don’t suppose here … in this peaceful place … you knew much about that dreadful war.’

‘The Guerre des Farines,’ I said. ‘Oh yes, I know very well how frightening that could be. I heard a man preaching … inciting the people to revolt. It was horrible.’

‘Horrible to be their victims … to be in the heart of it, Lottie.’ She covered her face with her hands. ‘I try to shut it out but you can’t shut out memories by shutting your eyes. You see, he was a farmer and he had grain and corn stored in his outhouses. They came …. They pillaged the storehouses … they dragged out the grain. I shall never forget that terrible night, Lottie. The darkness lighted by torches they carried. The shouting … the threats. Jacques ran out to see what they were doing. He tried to stop them. One of them knocked him down. I was at a window with Louis-Charles. I saw him go down and they all fell on him with sticks and rakes and all the implements they had brought with them as weapons. His own workers were doing that … and he had always been good to them. He was a good man, Jacques was. I know he bored me and I longed to escape from him … but he was a good man. They burned down the barns and all that good corn.’

‘They are criminals!’ I cried. ‘They are not interested in giving bread to the poor. They have destroyed the corn wherever they could. How can that help a bad harvest? My poor Lisette, what you have suffered!’

‘I ran away with Louis-Charles to a neighbour’s house, about half a mile away. I stood at one of their windows throughout that night and when dawn came I could still see the smoke rising from what had been my home. So you see, Lottie, I lost my husband and my home and now I have nothing … nothing at all. I was with my neighbour for a few weeks but I could not stay there. Then I thought of you. I thought, I will go to Lottie. I will throw myself on her mercy. I will ask her if she will give me a roof over my head. I could make myself useful with you. I could be a lady’s maid. I could do something … if only you will let me stay here with my little boy.’

There were tears in my eyes as I put my arms round her and held her against me.

‘Don’t say any more, Lisette. Of course you will stay here. I have tried to find you. Tante Berthe wouldn’t help me. But now you are here, there is nothing else to fear. You have come home.’

She was so grateful. She said: ‘I knew you would take me in … but there are others …. You have a new family here.’

‘They must welcome you as I do, Lisette.’

‘You say they must. Can you insist?’

‘I could. But it won’t be necessary. Charles is very easygoing. He asked about you once or twice. And my parents-in-law are very kind … kind and quiet. They never interfere. My father-in-law is an invalid and scarcely ever leaves his apartments now. I have a sister-in-law Amélie who will shortly be married. I think they will be ready to welcome you.’

‘And if they are not?’

‘Then they will see that they must. Don’t worry. It is wonderful that you have come back. We are going to be happy again. There is so much to talk about. It has been a little dull at times.’

‘What! With such a husband?’

‘He is away now and then. And I have missed you. It will be like the old days.’

‘Except that you have become a wife and I am a widow.’

‘And we have two dear little boys. I do hope they will be friends.’

Lisette and I were in the small chamber which led from the hall when Charles returned to the château. We were talking as we had been doing since her return, almost breathlessly chattering, stopping each other with reminders of something that had happened in the past, questioning each other about our lives since our parting.

Charles stood in the doorway. There were a few seconds of tense silence while he stared at Lisette. She looked at him a little defiantly. Poor Lisette, she is afraid of being turned away, I thought.

I cried: ‘What do you think has happened? Lisette has come.’

Lisette smiled hesitantly; ‘You don’t know me,’ she said.

‘But I do,’ he replied. ‘You were at the fortune-tellers.’

‘You remembered that. You rescued us both.’

‘Terrible things have happened to Lisette,’ I put in. ‘Her husband has been killed and her home burned down. It was the mob … the rioters who took his grain.’

‘How … shocking!’ said Charles.

He seemed to have recovered from his surprise and coming into the room sat down and, looking at Lisette, he said: ‘How did you get here?’

I answered for her. ‘On horseback. She came a long way with just one groom lent to her by her neighbours.’

Charles nodded. ‘The mob,’ he murmured. ‘The mindless mob. Those who have aroused them have a lot to answer for.’

‘Thank Heaven they have quietened down now,’ I said. I added: ‘Lisette has a little boy. He is charming. Such beautiful manners. I am sure Charlot will be pleased when he meets him.’

Charles repeated: ‘A little boy …’

‘He was worn out by the journey,’ I said. ‘He is fast asleep now.’

Charles talked with us for a while, then he said: ‘I will leave you two to continue. You will have much to tell each other. I will see you later.’ He laid his hand on my arm and pressed it and bowed to Lisette.

When we were alone Lisette burst out: ‘I don’t think he will want me to stay here.’

‘Why ever not?’

‘He was remembering that I was the housekeeper’s niece.’

‘Charles wouldn’t care about that.’

She was earnest for a moment and looked angry; her mouth looked square as though she could not control it. ‘Oh yes,’ she said quietly. ‘They care very much.’

‘No, Lisette, you are mistaken. I never thought of it for a moment. Nor did Sophie … in the old days.’

She was smiling now, all bitterness gone. ‘I always knew I had a good friend in you, Lottie,’ she said.

We went on talking, but she was changed, wary. Charles’s coming had alarmed her. I thought she was exhausted and should retire early so I took her to her room just as I would an honoured guest. I wanted to make her happy, make her forget all she had gone through. I wanted to see her merry as she had been in the old days.

I kissed her tenderly when I said goodnight.

‘Dear Lisette,’ I said. ‘I want you to understand that you have come home.’ Then I went to the small bed which had been put up temporarily in her room and in which her son was sleeping.

I gazed at him and said: ‘I am longing to see Charlot’s face when he meets Louis-Charles. That is for tomorrow.’

Then I went to the room I shared with Charles.

He was already there and in a thoughtful mood. He was seated in an armchair and as I entered he said: ‘Lottie, come here.’

I went to him and he seized me and pulled me down until I was sitting across his knees.

‘So,’ he said, ‘your partner in crime has turned up, it seems.’

‘Crime?’ I cried. ‘What crime?’

‘The crime of naughty little girls who disobey orders and sneak out of their homes away from their guardians to visit evil procuresses.’

‘Haven’t you forgotten that?’

‘Forgotten the first moment I saw my love?’

‘Charles,’ I said, ‘I believe you are annoyed.’

‘About what?’

‘Lisette’s being here.’

He shrugged his shoulders. ‘What will she do? Will you give her some post? I think she would make a good lady’s maid. She would know the latest fashions, and if not, where to discover them.’

‘I don’t want her to feel like a servant here, Charles.’

‘She is the niece of one.’

‘A very superior one. I don’t think Tante Berthe would relish being called a servant.’

‘Well, isn’t she the femme de charge at Aubigné?’

‘Yes, but she is in a very special position. She is Queen of the Nether Regions and there is strict protocol, I do assure you. People almost have to make appointments to see her. I think that Lisette was always conscious of being not one of us … like Sophie and myself, I mean … while at the same time she was educated with us.’

‘That was a mistake. Education gives people ideas.’

I laughed at him. ‘That is surely what it is meant to do.’

He was silent and I put my arms round his neck. ‘Tell me what is on your mind,’ I said.

‘I wonder,’ he replied. ‘I think she might be a bit of a schemer.’

‘A schemer! What do you mean?’

‘She seems to have bewitched you.’

‘Charles, that’s nonsense. She is my friend. She has been through a terrible ordeal. She has seen her husband murdered before her own eyes.’

‘Don’t get excited,’ he said. ‘Of course she will have to stay here until something is found for her.’

‘Found for her? What do you mean?’

‘Some post perhaps … someone’s lady’s maid, as you don’t want her in that capacity yourself.’

‘Why don’t you like her?’

‘I neither like nor dislike her.’

‘You talk as though you don’t want her here.’

‘My dear Lottie, we are not a hostel for waifs and strays.’

‘Have you some reason for disliking her?’

He drew away from me. ‘Why should I have?’ he said sharply.

‘You seem so … hostile.’

‘My dear Lottie, it matters not to me. I shall not have to see her, shall I? Do you propose to treat her like an honoured guest?’

‘Charles, are you telling me that you don’t want her in your house? Because if you don’t … ’

‘You will take off with her. I know. You will go back to Aubigné … the two of you adventuring together. Lottie, my lovely Lottie, mother of my son and the one who will be with us ere long, I want you to be happy. I want to show you in every way that I love you. Whatever I was before I met you, whatever I am now … Lottie, I am yours.’

‘What a charming speech!’ I kissed him lightly. ‘What on Earth provoked it?’

‘You, my beautiful and fruitful wife. You satisfy me completely.’

‘You are indeed a devoted husband tonight. And what has all this to do with Lisette?’

‘It is quite apart. But what I was trying to say about her was this: Is it wise to have her here?’

‘I can’t see why not, and I want her to feel happy here. I am going to insist that she stays and is made welcome by everybody in this house.’

He drew me towards him and kissed my neck.

‘So be it,’ he said. ‘Madame has spoken.’

I could not sleep that night. Nor, I was sure, could Charles. He was very tender and more than once assured me that he loved me. I think he was trying to make up for his rather cold reception of Lisette, of whom he knew I was very fond. We lay side by side, hands entwined, but silent.

When I awoke he was gone. It was quite early and my first thought was for Lisette. I was happy that she had come back, although in such sad circumstances, and I was flattered that in her need she had thought of me first. Then I wondered about the groom who had come with her and it occurred to me that he might like to stay for a day before undertaking the long journey back.

As soon as I was dressed I went down to the stables. As I approached I saw a man just about to go in. I saw the back of him only but it was enough to show me that he was not one of our men.

I called out: ‘Just a moment … ’

He disappeared into the stables and had apparently not heard me. I guessed he was Lisette’s groom and about to saddle his horse and be off. I wanted him to be given some food to take with him and was going to suggest he went to the kitchens to get it.

I glanced inside the stables but I could not see him anywhere, and just at that moment I heard someone walking across the yard. It was the chief groom, Leroux. I went to meet him.

‘Good morning, Leroux,’ I said. ‘Did you look after the groom who escorted the lady who came yesterday?’

‘Oh yes, Madame,’ was the answer. ‘He had a good bed for the night and his supper.’

‘I believe he plans to go today. I saw him go into the stables but when I looked in I couldn’t see him. I thought he might like something to take with him to eat on the journey … some meat pie or something. And also perhaps he would like to rest here a day before starting out. He has a long way to go.’

‘He seemed set on going early, Madame.’

‘I dare say he has his reasons. But I do think we ought to give him some food to take with him. He must be somewhere in the stables. I saw him go in.’

‘I’ll find him, Madame, and tell him what you say.’

Just at that moment we heard the clatter of hoofs and a rider came out of the stables.

‘Ho there!’ called Leroux.

But the rider took no notice and went on.

‘He didn’t see us,’ said Leroux.

‘He didn’t appear to hear you call to him either.’

‘Hard of hearing perhaps, Madame.’

‘He certainly behaved rather oddly.’

‘Well, he’s on his way now, Madame. Too late to stop him and offer him anything.’

‘I’m surprised he didn’t see us here and make some acknowledgement.’

Leroux scratched his head and walked into the stables. I went straight up to Lisette’s rooms. She was still in bed, looking very pretty with her fair curls tousled and the sleep in her eyes.

‘You were very tired,’ I said.

‘Exhausted,’ she answered. ‘Oh, I can’t tell you how good it is to be here … in a place like this … with you … ’

‘You have had a terrible time.’

‘Poor Jacques! I can’t forget the sight of him … falling down with all those dreadful people attacking him. And yet … I might still be there … ’

‘You’ve got to forget that,’ I said. ‘It will do you no good to go on remembering. By the way, that’s rather an odd groom you brought with you. I spoke to him and he didn’t answer. Is he deaf?’

She hesitated for a moment and then said: ‘Yes … I think he is, but he won’t admit it.’

‘I called to him and he didn’t answer. I was sure he went into the stables and when I looked in I couldn’t see him.’

‘Did you go right in?’

‘Oh no … ’

‘I expect he was bending down examining his horse’s shoe or something. He thinks a lot of his horses. And he has gone, has he?’

‘Yes. He didn’t look round when he came out of the stables. Leroux called to him but he just rode straight on.’

‘He was in a hurry to get back. They wanted him to return as soon as possible. It was good of them to let him come with me when they couldn’t really spare him.’

I was thinking of the man and something suddenly struck me.

‘Do you know,’ I said, ‘I think I’ve seen him somewhere before.’

‘Where could you have seen him?’

‘I don’t know. It’s just a hazy sort of idea.’

‘We all have doubles somewhere on earth, they say. I’d love to meet mine, wouldn’t you?’

She was laughing, looking so much like the girl I had known and been fond of.

I said with heartfelt fervour: ‘Oh, Lisette, I am so glad you have come here.’

It was a great joy to have Lisette with me. She changed my days. She herself dispersed any awkwardness which might have arisen through her presence in the house by installing herself as my lady’s maid.

‘A lady in your position should certainly have one,’ she said, ‘and who could perform those necessary tasks better than I.’

She herself refused to take meals with us, which was what I had wanted although I had guessed there might be protests from Charles about this. I knew that he did not greatly like the idea of Lisette’s being treated as a member of the family, which was what I really wanted; I knew, too, that Lisette was very conscious of her position as she always had been at Aubigné and that it had rankled with her that she was not on the same footing as Sophie and I had been. I wanted to treat her as one of us but she would not have it.

She and Louis-Charles had their meals in a small room adjoining her apartment and she would go to the kitchens and take it up with her so that none of the servants waited on her.

I said this was a lot of nonsense at first, but I did realize that even in an easy-going household like that of the Tourvilles there would have been resentments and attitudes perhaps among some of the higher servants.

Lisette was tactful; she was reserved with members of the family and it was only when she and I were alone together that she became her old vivacious self.

It was an ideal arrangement for Louis-Charles, who had no inhibitions such as those which plagued his mother, and he shared Charlot’s nursery, being an excellent companion for him, and the two boys played and fought happily together.

There was no objection from my parents-in-law. Charles’s father spent most of his time in his apartments and his mother was with him a good deal; she had always been very affable to me and although they seemed rather colourless, I was grateful to be left to my own devices and to be given a free hand in the household. Amélie was immediately attracted to Lisette, who did her hair for her in such a manner as delighted her, and they spent a great deal of time discussing the trousseau together. With Amélie’s coming wedding the main concern of the household, Lisette’s arrival passed off without too much attention being called to it and Lisette settled in comfortably and easily. I told her she looked like a pretty kitten when she lay in her bed stretching herself in a rather feline way, which was a habit of hers.

‘Purring away now that I have a comfortable home and am sure of my dish of cream every day,’ she said, laughing at me.

She changed my life completely. The tedious days of pregnancy had become full of laughter. We talked of the past most of the time and the only occasions when I was sad were when I remembered Sophie.

There was a great deal of talk at that time about the American colonists who were in conflict with the English government over taxes which were, some said, being unfairly imposed. Charles said it was clear that there would soon be war between England and her colonists if the English did not come to their senses.

He took a delight in denigrating the English, which I knew was partly in fun, but I refused to take part in these discussions. In any case my thoughts were with my child who would soon be making an appearance.

The winter was passing and we were in February when my confinement began.

Lisette was constantly with me. She had no particular flair for nursing but her high spirits did me more good than anything.

And in due course my child was born. I was delighted this time to have a girl and Charles was overjoyed. We discussed her name and finally decided that she should be called Claudine.

Griselda

I WAS SO ABSORBED with my baby that I did not take much interest in what was happening in the outside world. My great pleasure was in the nursery, where the new baby was received with awe by Chariot and Louis-Charles. Claudine was a noisy baby with a good pair of lungs and from the first seemed to know what she wanted.

‘She’s different from Monsieur Charlot,’ said the nurse. ‘A will of her own, that one.’

She had been born rather an ugly baby but grew more beautiful every day. She had dark fluffy hair and quite a lot of it for one so young and eyes that were of a vivid blue.

We all adored her and when she cried it was a charming sight to see Charlot at the side of her cradle murmuring: ‘Hush! Hush! Charlot is here.’

I was very happy with my children.

Charles talked of little else but the trouble between England the colonists. At first I thought he was so strongly on the side of the colonists to tease me by jeering at the English. He often reminded me, rather ruefully, that I was more English than French; and this was true, for although no one could be more French than my father and even Jean-Louis, who I had believed for so long had sired me, by a strange coincidence had been half French, having been brought up in England by my English mother, I was decidedly of that nature—in my outlook, my manners—in fact in everything. Even though I now spoke fluent French and often thought in that language, Charles liked to remind me of what he called my Englishness and whenever there was a disagreement between us, he would say: ‘There is the Englishwoman.’

Whether he really did have the Frenchman’s natural antipathy to the English I was not sure, or whether it was done in a bantering way, but it continued and the war made more verbal ammunition to hurl at me.

Without knowing very much about the situation I defended the English, which delighted him and gave him a chance to prove me wrong again and again.

‘I tell you,’ he said on one occasion, ‘this could mean war between England and France.’

‘Surely the French would not act so out of character as to go to war for someone else’s benefit?’

‘It is the cause of liberty, my dear.’

‘There are troubles enough here in France,’ I said. ‘Why do you worry about colonists from another country far from here when your own peasants are verging on revolt and would perhaps like to see a little of that fair treatment you are talking about.’

‘You talk like a rebel,’ said Charles.

‘You talk like a fool. As if France would go to war about this matter which is the concern of another country.’

‘There is strong feeling here.’

‘For the sole purpose of embarrassing the English.’

‘They got themselves into this embarrassing situation. We did nothing to bring it about.’

‘But you seek to exploit it.’

And so we went on.

About the time when Claudine was five months old there was a Declaration of Independence in America and Charles was jubilant.

‘These brave people are fighting a big nation for their freedom. Mon Dieu, I should like to join them. Do you know there is talk of sending an army from France?’

It occurred to me then that Charles might be finding life at Tourville a little dull. He was not really meant to manage a large estate, and because I had seen something of the manner in which such places were run—there was my father for one at Aubigné and I had lived on our estates of Clavering and Eversleigh—I did realize that Charles lacked the real aptitude. There was a manager, of course, but managers, however good, did not compensate for the indifference of their owners.

I listened half-heartedly to the talk about the American War of Independence and the part France was going to play in it, but I was really absorbed by the children. Then Lisette and I spent hours talking and riding together and sometimes walking. It was always fun to be with Lisette.

In December Charles went back to Paris and stayed there for several weeks. When he came back his enthusiasm for the war was at fever pitch. He had met three deputies from America—Benjamin Franklin, Silas Deane and Arthur Lee. Everyone was talking about them, he said, and in spite of their extraordinary appearance they had been invited everywhere as the French were so eager to hear about their fight for independence.

‘Their manners were so simple,’ he said, ‘and they wore their hair unpowdered and the plainest cloth suits I ever saw in my life. But Paris is in a frenzy over them. People are demanding that we go to war against the English at once.’

He had been in the company of the Marquis de Lafayette earlier in the year and had been most impressed when the Marquis bought a vessel and loaded it with ammunition and after certain troubles set sail from America.

Feeling in the country was high against England but the King was adamant that France should not become involved in a war.

That was the state of affairs when a messenger arrived from Aubigné.

My mother had news from Eversleigh that my grandmother was very ill and was longing to see us. Sabrina had written that if we could possibly make the journey Clarissa would be so happy and if we did not come soon we might not have an opportunity of seeing her.

Sabrina was clearly distressed, for she and my grandmother had been very close all their lives.

‘Dickon has never recovered from his wife’s death,’ she continued. ‘It has been a great sadness to us all. Poor Dickon. Fortunately he is very busy and spends most of his time in London, so he has plenty to occupy him which stops him brooding on his loss … ’

I wondered what he was like now. What would he do? Look round for a new heiress, I thought cynically. It was of no interest to me now. I was a wife and a mother.

My mother had also written. ‘My dear, I know it is asking a good deal to expect you to leave your home but we should not stay long … just long enough to see your grandmother. As Sabrina says, there might not be another chance. I shall go in any case and it would be wonderful if you came with me. Your grandmother asks particularly for you.’

When I showed Charles the letter he said of course I must go.

Lisette thought it would be interesting for me to see my old home. She longed to come with me but that was, of course, out of the question.

‘Don’t stay long,’ she implored me. ‘I can’t imagine this place without you.’

Charles’s parting shot was: ‘See if you can persuade them over there to come to their senses. They’re in for a humiliating defeat if they don’t. Wait till France gets busy across the Atlantic.’

‘I am not going on a political mission but to see a sick grandmother,’ I reminded him.

‘Then make sure you don’t stay too long,’ he said. ‘This place is quite dull without you.’

My feelings were very mixed as my mother and I made the journey to the coast accompanied by my father who saw us on to the packet boat before leaving us. It had been sad to say goodbye to the children, to Charles and Lisette, but I was anxious about my grandmother and I could not suppress a certain excitement at the prospect of seeing Eversleigh again. I think my mother felt the same, though she was very subdued.

We had a reasonably good crossing and arrived at Dover in the afternoon so that it was evening before we reached Eversleigh.

There was the old house as I remembered it—not so imposing perhaps as the Château d’Aubigné, but grand in its own mariner.

Sabrina rushed out when she heard our arrival. She embraced us fervently. ‘It is wonderful to see you!’ she cried. ‘I am so delighted that you have come.’

‘How is my mother?’ asked my mother.

‘Weak … but so excited at the prospect of seeing you. I am sure it will do her the world of good. Oh, here’s Dickon.’

And there he was—Dickon, who had been so much in my thoughts for so long. He was just as I remembered him—‘larger than life’, as someone had once said of him; and as good-looking as he ever had been. A wig covered those hyacinthine locks, which was a pity, but his eyes were even more startlingly blue than I remembered.

‘Zipporah!’ he cried, first to my mother. He embraced her and I noticed that she tried to hold aloof, but he appeared not to notice that and hugged her affectionately.

And then he was looking at me. He said my name softly. ‘Lottie … Lottie … grown-up Lottie.’

I held out my hand to him but he ignored the gesture and lifted me up in his arms, laughing up at me.

‘How exciting … Lottie is here.’

Sabrina was looking at him with that mingling of admiration, tenderness and adoration which I remembered so well. I saw my mother’s lips tighten, and I thought: Nothing has changed.

As for myself I had been waiting ever since I knew I was coming here for this moment.

‘They must be worn out,’ said Sabrina. ‘Did you have a good journey? Your rooms are ready … your old rooms. I thought you would like that. But would you like to see Clarissa first?’

‘Of course,’ said my mother. ‘Let’s go to her at once.’

Sabrina led the way up the staircase which I remembered so well.

Dickon was close to me. He put an arm around me. ‘Lottie,’ he said, ‘what fun that you are here.’

I said coolly: ‘I hope my grandmother is not seriously ill.’

‘She is getting on in years now,’ said Sabrina, ‘and she has grown weaker these last months. That is why I thought you should come.’

‘You should have come before,’ said Dickon.

Sabrina smiled. ‘Of course they should. In fact we were all very put out that you went abroad.’

‘At least that left you Eversleigh,’ I said, looking at Dickon. I was telling myself: It is different now. I know so much about you. I know you chose this place instead of me.

I must remember that, for in these first moments I was beginning to be too much aware of the potent charm of Dickon and was filled with misgiving.

We went to my grandmother’s room. She was sitting up in bed looking frail but pretty in a lacey pink bedjacket.

‘Zipporah!’ she cried and my mother ran to her. ‘And Lottie! Oh my dears … how wonderful to see you. It has seemed so long …

We embraced and she made us sit on either side of the bed. ‘Tell me all your news,’ she said. ‘Tell me about dear little Charlot and Claudine. Oh, Lottie, it is so odd to think of you as a mother. You seem only a child yourself.’

‘Time passes. I am no longer a child, Grandmother.’

‘Dear Lottie, as lovely as ever. She is, is she not, Sabrina? Dickon?’

Sabrina nodded and Dickon said: ‘She’s lovelier. She’s Lottie-grown-up, Lottie the woman. She’s even more lovely than Lottie the child.’

Sabrina and my grandmother looked at him and smiled in the way I remembered so well. My mother’s face had hardened and the years seemed to drop away and we were back in those days when there was conflict because Dickon wanted to marry me.

‘You are a father now, Dickon,’ she said.

‘Oh, the terrible twins,’ put in Sabrina indulgently. ‘They were rather cross because they weren’t allowed to sit up. You’ll see them in the morning.’

‘They must be about eight years old now,’ said my mother.

‘So you remember,’ commented my grandmother indulgently.

‘You’ll have a lot of time to talk,’ said Sabrina, smiling at my grandmother. ‘I’m going to take them to their rooms now. You’ll want to wash and have something to eat, I dare say. You’ll see them again very soon, Clarissa.’

My grandmother nodded and smiled contentedly while Sabrina took charge of us and led us to our rooms.

What memories come back to me in that room! And I am sure my mother felt the same in hers. She had not always been happy here and she was obviously remembering a great deal that was disturbing. We were both going to find our stay here rather upsetting. A brief glimpse of Dickon had made that certain. He had lost none of his charm and I was as conscious of him as I had ever been. I warned myself I would have to be wary.

I washed and changed and went down with my mother to a meal.

‘Are you feeling all right?’ I asked her.

She turned to give me a searching look. ‘I’m a little emotional, I’m afraid. It’s coming back here. I remember so much about the place. Uncle Carl … and then Jean-Louis and I here together.’

‘Grandmother, Sabrina and Dickon were not here then.’

‘No, they came when we left.’

‘I dare say there will be lots of differences.’

‘Oh, I dare say. Your grandmother does not seem as bad as I feared she might be. That’s a relief. I don’t think we should stay very long, do you, Lottie? I mean … you’ll be wanting to get home … and your father made me promise not to stay too long.’

‘We have only just come,’ I reminded her.

But even as early as that I was telling myself that I should never have agreed to come, for Dickon was determined to take up our relationship where it had been broken off, which was characteristic of his attitude to life. I really do believe that he saw himself as the very centre of existence with everything revolving round him and everyone there for his convenience. Others might be obliged to take care what they did; the same did not apply to him. If he wanted to act without honour he would do so; I am sure he believed so charmingly that everyone would forgive him.

‘No, I told myself. Not everyone. I shall never forget that he chose Eversleigh and let me go.

As we sat at table that night he singled me out for his attention.

‘Do you ride much in France, Lottie?’ he asked.

‘A great deal,’ I replied.

‘Good. We’ll go out tomorrow. I have just the horse for you.’

Sabrina smiled. ‘It will do you good, Lottie. And you’ll be safe with Dickon.’

I wanted to burst out laughing. I should be safer even alone than with Dickon.

My mother was talking about Claudine and what an enchanting child she was. ‘She has a bit of a temper, the nurse tells me. Oh, I do wish I could see my grandchildren more. Little Charlot is quite a charmer.’

‘What would you expect of Lottie’s son?’ asked Dickon.

‘I am wondering,’ I retorted, ‘what I am to expect of yours.’

‘Strange to think of us as parents, eh Lottie?’ said Dickon.

‘Why? We are no longer young.’

‘That’s nonsense,’ he said. ‘I feel young. You look young. Therefore we are young. Is that not so, dear Mother?’

‘Dickon is right,’ said Sabrina. Indeed, I thought, when in your eyes has he ever been anything else?

My mother asked questions about the neighbourhood. ‘What of that old house. Enderby?’

‘It’s empty now,’ Sabrina told her. ‘The Forsters left after the fire. They wanted to get away … understandably. Another family came but they didn’t stay long. Nobody does at Enderby. Dickon was a hero in that fire.’

‘My mother always sees the best of me,’ said Dickon.

‘Yes,’ put in my mother coolly, ‘she does indeed.’

‘Well, isn’t that the way a mother should see her offspring?’ asked Dickon. ‘Don’t you look at dear Lottie through rose-coloured glasses?’

‘I don’t need to,’ retorted my mother. ‘Lottie pleases me very much in her natural state.’

‘Zipporah has indeed become the gracious lady,’ observed Dickon. ‘Madame la Comtesse—no less. You must live very magnificently in your château.’

‘It is very pleasant,’ admitted my mother.

‘You look younger than you did before you left England. Oh, but then, of course, you had such anxieties.’

My mother did not reply. She went on quietly eating her food; but I knew she was annoyed with him and that he was deliberately stirring up memories which she would rather forget. For all that, she was determined not to let him see this, but I, who knew her so well, realized that she was feeling far from calm.

I was glad when the meal was over and we could retire. My mother said she would go straight to her room, for the journey had been very exhausting indeed.

We called in on my grandmother and chatted for about a quarter of an hour and then went to our rooms.

I had not been in mine very long when there was a tap on my door. I felt my heart start to race. I thought: No. Even he would not dare.

A voice said: ‘May I come in?’

Relief flooded over me for it was Sabrina.

‘Oh, Lottie,’ she said. ‘I do hope you are comfortable. I am so glad you came with your mother. Your grandmother is delighted. She has talked of nothing else since she knew you were coming. We are all so pleased?’

I said: ‘I am looking forward to meeting Dickon’s sons.’

‘You’ll love them. They are such rascals. Dickon says Jonathan takes after him, so you will gather that Jonathan is the more lively of the two.’

‘It must be great fun to have twins.’

‘Yes … and very fortunate in view of what happened. I think he still grieves for Isabel. It was so sad. It was what they wanted more than anything else—a son.’

‘I have heard that she was not very strong.’

‘She had several disappointments before. Then she succeeded and brought them into the world and ironically their coming cost her life.’

‘It is very sad. I gather it was a happy marriage.’

‘Oh very. They were so well suited. So different too. She was so quiet. She adored him.’

‘So there was yet another to worship at his feet.’

‘Your mother always laughed at our fondness for him. You’re not surprised, are you? There is something very special about Dickon. I believe you thought that once.’

She was looking at me speculatively and I flushed.

‘A sort of child’s hero-worship,’ I murmured.

‘Dickon was quite upset when you went to France.’

‘I thought he was very happy to get Eversleigh. He wouldn’t have had it if my mother hadn’t married and gone away. That must have made up for everything else.’

‘Of course he loves Eversleigh and he manages it perfectly. Poor Jean-Louis was not up to it. Well, it worked out very well.’

‘Do you often go to Clavering?’

‘Hardly ever. Dickon put in a very good manager and he himself is here most of the time when he is not in London.’

‘Oh, I remember you wrote and said he had his fingers in a lot of pies.’

‘Dickon is not the sort to shut himself away in the country. He is in London a good deal, as a matter of fact. He has friends there … in influential places. Isabel’s father was a wealthy banker, as you probably know.’

‘I did hear that he had married a great heiress.’

‘Yes. When her father died she inherited everything. So with banking interests in London and friends at Court Dickon leads a very busy life. But he was determined to be at Eversleigh when you came.’

She stood up and regarded me intently. She took it for granted that I joined in this adulation for Dickon. After all, before I left England I had been as loud in my praises of him as anyone.

‘You have fulfilled your early promise, Lottie. You really are beautiful.’

‘Thank you,’ I said.

‘I am sure Carlotta must have been very like you. There is a portrait of her in the house. You will see for yourself that the likeness is remarkable. Oh well, my dear, it is wonderful to see you here. I hope you are not going to run away too soon.’ She kissed me. ‘I’ll say good-night. Sleep well.’

When she had gone I sat on the bed and thought of Dickon’s marrying Isabel, the banker’s daughter and heiress. He had done that soon after I had left for France. I thought cynically: He did well out of his women. Because of me … Eversleigh. And his wife Isabel had brought him a fortune as well as an interesting life in London. Court circles no less! One could trust Dickon to get the best out of life.

I could not stop thinking of him. I tried to analyse my feelings and I came to the conclusion that in many ways I felt unsafe.

I turned the key in the lock. Only thus could I feel secure.

During the next few days I spent a great deal of time in Dickon’s company. It was impossible to avoid him. Wherever I decided to go he would be there. He regarded me with that slightly sardonic look as though to say: It is no use trying to escape. You know you never could escape from me.

I reminded myself a hundred times a day that he was an adventurer, that nobody was of any great account to him except himself. He was proud of his boys. I found them interesting, for they were so much alike in appearance and had an undoubted look of Dickon. They were different in character though. David was quiet and studious; Jonathan noisy and excelling at outdoor sports. They were not close to each other as some twins are. In fact they seemed to be highly critical of each other. Jonathan was very quick to resort to fisticuffs, but David was the master of the cutting remark. There seemed to be a rivalry between them which their tutor tried hard to eradicate. Mr Raine was a man in his early forties with a rather forbidding manner which I thought was exactly what the boys needed. They were both in awe of Dickon, clearly admired him and sought his favour. Dickon himself had little time for them and had never been inclined to pretend what he did not feel. He had two sons, which pleased him. They were the heirs and necessary to propagate the line; he had employed a tutor who could deal adequately with their education until it was time to send them away to school; there his interest ended.

We spent a great deal of time with my grandmother. After all, that was the reason why we had come and our arrival had done a lot for her. She talked with my mother over old times and the happy life she and Sabrina had had together bringing up Dickon.

There was no escaping Dickon in that house. My grandmother and Sabrina talked of him constantly and whenever I was alone he contrived to find me. When I went riding he would be beside me. I knew what his purpose was and I guessed it would be the same with any reasonable young woman. Dickon knew exactly what he wanted and he expected everyone to fall in with his wishes.

Apart from ambitions he had been strongly attracted by me and I wondered whether he had been to Isabel; and being Dickon, he assumed that he was irresistible and it would only be a matter of time before he overcame my scruples and we indulged in a love-affair.

I was aware of this and so was my mother; no doubt she had memories about her first meeting with my father which had taken place near Enderby. I was determined not to be a partner in Dickon’s search for temporary satisfaction. Sabrina and my grandmother believed of course that he was merely playing the host in his charming, gracious way, but to me, from our first day, his intentions were clear.

After spending most of the morning with my grandmother I went down to the stables in the early afternoon and asked one of the grooms to saddle a horse for me, which he did. I was looking forward to a nostalgic afternoon, visiting the places I remembered from all those years ago and I would remind myself of what a happy life I had found in France. I loved Charles—with reservations, it was true. I saw his faults. I did not believe that he was always faithful to me; I had, in some measure, accepted the marital conventions of my new country and I realized that the basis of a happy marriage, to the French, meant one in which a woman did not probe too deeply into her husband’s extramarital relationships. Some women might have said that what was in order for men might be for women too and some I knew carried their beliefs into practice. But I did see that there was some point in inflicting a more rigid code on women for the simple reason that romantic interludes could result in children.

Lisette and I had discussed the matter frequently. She said it was unfair. There should be one law and one only and that should apply to both men and women. If a child was the result, the man who had fathered it should be named since the woman had no alternative but to be recognized as the mother. But no. It was not like that. How many men had their clandestine relationships, resulting in difficulties for the partner in them, and escaped the shame, humiliation and practical difficulties of having a child born out of wedlock?

Lisette could argue fiercely about the matter. I always enjoyed these discussions and we usually made a habit of taking opposite sides so that we could get the most out of the discussion.

Now I thought of Lisette and considered how amused she would be to see Dickon pursuing me.

I could almost hear myself talking to Lisette. Yes, I would say, he does attract me. He always did … I think more than anyone I ever knew. More than Charles? Well, Charles did too. There is a similarity about them. They both have that swaggering attitude to life and see themselves as the all-conquering male and the strange thing is that while I resent it strongly, I am attracted by it. I am determined to resist submission and yet at the same time I enjoy being conquered.

It was a pity Lisette had not come with us. She would force me to be absolutely frank about my feeling for Dickon.

Right from the first I was exhilarated. It was a battle between us from which both he and I were determined to come out victorious. He saw himself as the irresistible seducer; I, as the woman who, if tempted, was not going to sink her pride so deeply that she forgot her marriage vows and the fact that this man had jilted her in favour of a great property.

On that afternoon I had not gone very far when I heard the sound of horse’s hoofs and looking over my shoulder was not at all surprised to see Dickon.

‘Riding alone?’ he said. ‘That won’t do.’

‘I was finding it very pleasant.’

‘But so much more so with an interesting and charming companion who knows the countryside well.’

‘Your assessment of your character is your own, of course, and the countryside is not altogether unfamiliar to me. Remember I lived here once.’

‘Don’t remind me, Lottie. My life took the wrong turning when you went away.’

‘The wrong one? To Eversleigh, to the Bank, is it? … the life at Court, the fingers in pies? Oh, Dickon, how can you be so ungrateful to the fate which brought you all these good things!’

‘I am not ungrateful. I am just telling you that the very thing which would have made my happiness complete was denied me.’

‘You look contented with life, Dickon. I would forget the extra flavouring and thank God for your good fortune.’

‘I missed you, Lottie.’

‘One does miss people sometimes when they go away.’

‘You went to France for a holiday and stayed there.’

‘And you came to Eversleigh. It was yours; the dream of your life—or the chief one at that time—come true. What more could you ask?’

‘You, Lottie, with it.’

‘But there was a choice, wasn’t there? One or the other.’

‘You were a child. I didn’t know then … ’

‘It is strange to hear you admit ignorance. Shall we talk of something more interesting.’

‘This is of the utmost interest to me.’

‘But not to me and it takes two to make a conversation. Tell me about affairs in London. There is a great deal of talk in France about the American Colonies.’

‘Talk!’ he said. ‘There is more than talk. The wretched French are helping the rebels.’

‘I believe some people even over here think they are right.’

‘There is no reason why foreigners should interfere.’

‘My husband is a staunch supporter of the colonists and thinks those in France who are seeking to help them are doing what is right.’

‘And you can live with such a traitor?’

‘Traitor? He is no traitor. He is a man of opinions.’

‘Are you in love with him?’

I hesitated for a moment and then replied almost defiantly: ‘Yes.’

‘A convincing negative,’ he said. ‘Lottie, don’t go back. Stay here.’

‘You must be mad. I have two children over there.’

‘We could send for them.’

‘You’re joking, of course. You have a most extraordinary high opinion of yourself. I suppose that comes of living your life with two adoring females.’

‘I think I see myself as I am.’

I laughed. ‘Tall, handsome, commanding, irresistible to all women, chivalrous—in conversation—honourable, never betraying anyone unless the price is high enough … ’

‘You are hard on me.’

‘I see you as you are.’

‘And if you were honest with yourself you would admit you like what you see.’

I pressed my horse to a gallop, for at that moment we had come into open country.

He was beside me and I enjoyed the sheer exhilaration of the ride.

We came back past Enderby. It looked gloomy now. I remembered it as it had been when the Forsters had been there. They had cut away the shrubs which grew in profusion round the house; now they were overgrown again. I could see why it had a reputation for being haunted.

‘Would you like to look round it?’ asked Dickon. ‘We can get in easily through one of the ground-floor windows. It has a broken latch. The place is very overrun. It has been empty for two years.’

I wanted to go inside and yet on the other hand I was aware of warning within me. No, I must not go into that house. My mother had gone there with my father. Very possibly I had been conceived in that house. There was something about it which was apparent even from the outside. My mother, when she had told me about my birth, had felt that there was some spirit there … something which had the power to change people who entered.

Fanciful thinking, perhaps, but I would not go into that house with Dickon.

‘Not now,’ I said. ‘It’s getting too late.’

And turning our horses away we rode back to Eversleigh.

A groom was coming round by the house as we approached, and Dickon called to him to take our horses to the stables. Dickon leaped down before I could to help me. He took me in his arms and lifted me up as he had when I arrived. A gesture, I think, which was meant to be symbolic. He was strong. I was at his mercy.

‘Thank you,’ I said coolly. ‘Put me down.’

But for a few moments he held me, and I did not want to meet his eyes. I saw someone at a window looking down at us. Even as I looked up, whoever it was stepped back.

As Dickon put me on the ground I said: ‘Who is up there?’

‘Where?’ he asked idly.

‘That window … right at the top.’ I nodded in the direction and he looked up.

‘That would be old Grissel’s place.’

‘Old Grissel?’

‘One of the servants. Griselda. The boys call her Grissel. It fits.’

I went into the house, my thoughts full of Dickon and his implications so that I forgot about old Grissel until later.

I wanted to get to know something about Dickon’s sons and one morning, when I knew it was time for their break from lessons, I went up to the schoolroom.

The boys were seated at a table with Mr Raine their tutor drinking glasses of milk.

‘I hope I’m not intruding on lessons,’ I said.

‘Come in,’ called Jonathan.

Mr Raine assured me that this was the morning break and that the boys would not resume lessons for another fifteen minutes.

‘Then may I sit down and talk. I want to get to know you.’

Jonathan grinned at me; David looked interested.

‘I have a boy of my own in France,’ I said. ‘He must be about three years younger than you.’

‘Three years!’ said Jonathan with a look of contempt.

‘You were three years younger once,’ David reminded him.

‘That was a long time ago.’

‘Three years to be precise,’ said Mr Raine. ‘Now, boys, stop arguing and be civil to Madame de Tourville.’

‘You’re French,’ said Jonathan, who clearly said the first thing that came into his mind.

‘She knows that and doesn’t want you to tell her,’ added David, who seemed to have an irresistible urge to irritate his brother at every turn.

‘I am French,’ I explained, ‘because my father and my husband are. But I used to live here for a while before I went to France.’

‘That was years ago.’

‘Before you were born.’

They looked at me in wonder.

‘They are still too young to grasp the fact that there was a world here before they joined it,’ said Mr Raine.

‘I also have a little girl. She is very young … little more than a baby.’

They dismissed her as of no interest.

‘What is your boy’s name?’ asked Jonathan.

‘Charles. We call him Charlot.’

‘That’s a funny name,’ commented Jonathan.

‘It’s French, silly,’ said David. ‘Why didn’t you bring them with you?’

‘We had to come quickly and my daughter is too young to travel.’

‘Charlot could have come.’

‘Yes, I suppose he could.’

‘I wish he had,’ said Jonathan. ‘I’d have shown him my falcon. I’m teaching him. Jem Logger is showing me.’

‘Jonathan spends a great deal of time in the stables with his dogs and horses,’ said Mr Raine. ‘And now we have a falcon. He is, I am afraid, far more interested in them than he is in literature and mathematics.’

David smirked and Jonathan shrugged his shoulders.

‘Does Charlot have a tutor?’ asked David.

‘Not yet. He only has a nursery governess at the moment.’

‘Like Grissel?’ asked David and the boys looked at each other and laughed.

‘Grissel?’ I said. ‘Now, I believe I saw her.’

‘She doesn’t come out much.’

‘But she is your nurse.’

Jonathan said scornfully: ‘We don’t have a nurse. We’re too old.’

‘Then Grissel … ’

‘She came with the boys’ mother,’ explained Mr Raine. ‘She keeps herself very much apart, but continues to stay here. She is…. rather strange.’

The boys exchanged glances and smiled. The subject of Grissel seemed the only one they could agree about.

‘She walks in her sleep,’ said David.

Jonathan made claws of his fingers and put on an expression of malevolence at which David laughed.

Mr Raine changed the subject and showed me some of the boys’ work. Jonathan had a talent for sketching which rather surprised me. He had done some pictures of his dogs and horses which showed that he had a really sensitive touch. I admired them, which pleased him very much.

‘Jonathan’s one talent in the schoolroom,’ said Mr Raine. ‘But he is a great sportsman. David, of course, has sharp wits. He’s the academic.’

Both boys looked very pleased with themselves and it occurred to me that Mr Raine did not have a very easy time.

I looked at their work and listened attentively, but I would rather have heard more about Grissel.

I asked Sabrina.

‘Oh, Grissel is a silly old woman,’ she said. ‘I wish she would go, but where would she go to? She came with Isabel. She had been her nurse and you know how fanatical these old nurses can be about their charges. When Isabel died I think it turned her head slightly. Sometimes she seems to believe that Isabel is still here. It is very disconcerting but what can we do? We can’t ask her to go. She is too old to take another post.’

‘I know how it is with these nannies and have often thought how sad it must be for them when their children grow up and no longer need them. Then they go on to the next … if they are young enough and it all starts again.’

‘Unfortunately poor Griselda is not young enough. Oh, she is all right here. She has her two little rooms there in the east wing. Her food is taken in to her and we forget her for the most part. The only trouble is that she seems to have a most extraordinary attitude towards the twins. She dotes on Jonathan and seems to dislike David. It is odd. David doesn’t care. They both used to play tricks on her until that was stopped. But she is quiet most of the time.’

‘I saw her looking out of one of the windows when I was coming in with Dickon.’

‘Oh yes. She watches Dickon all the time. He laughs at it and takes no notice. You know how he is. Your grandmother didn’t like it very much. She said it was uncanny. But it is just Griselda’s way.’

I didn’t think much more about Griselda until a few days later when I came into the house and saw what I can only describe as a shape looking over the banisters. It was there and gone in a flash so that I wondered whether I had imagined I saw something. It was nothing much, just one of those occurrences which, for some reason, send a shiver down one’s spine.

Then I became aware of that figure at the window watching me when I came in. I saw her once or twice before it occurred to me that she had some special interest in me.

A week had passed and we were still at Eversleigh. My mother wanted to get back but every time she suggested leaving there were protests and she was persuaded to wait another week before making plans for departure.

I was not sorry. Eversleigh was beginning to cast its spell on me—but perhaps that was Dickon. It was all very well for me to tell myself that he was making no impression on me and that I saw him clearly for what he was. Each day I awoke with a sense of excitement and it was all due to the fact that I knew I was going to be with Dickon.

Nothing had changed since those early days—except of course that I looked at him differently. I was no longer the wide-eyed innocent child. I saw him as he was, a buccaneering adventurer, determined to get the most out of life, completely self-centred, and a man whose own interests would always come first. The frightening thing was that it didn’t make any difference. I still wanted to be with him; the hours were dull when he was not there, although we spent most of the time in verbal conflict that was more exciting than the most friendly conversation with anyone else.

Our afternoon ride had become a ritual now. All the time he was trying to charm me, to lull my suspicions and to give him the opportunity of seducing me. So far I had resisted his attentions and I intended to go on doing so.

When we rode past Enderby, he said, ‘Why don’t you come and have a look over the house?’

‘Whatever for? I have no intention of buying a house so why should I want to look over it?’

‘Because it’s interesting. It is a house with a history. It’s haunted, you know, by all the ghosts of the past … those who have lived such evil lives that they can’t rest.’

‘I expect it is very dirty.’

‘Cobwebs. Dark shadows. Strange shapes looming up. I’d be there to protect you, Lottie.’

‘I would need no protection from cobwebs and shadows.’

‘Ah, but what about the ghosts?’

‘I don’t think I have anything to fear from them either. Why should they be interested in me?’

‘They are interested in any who brave their domains. But I see you are afraid.’

‘I am not afraid.’

He looked at me slyly. ‘Not of the house … but of me.’

‘Afraid of you Dickon? In Heaven’s name, why?’

‘Afraid of giving me what I want and what you so much want to give.’

‘What’s that? You have Eversleigh, you know.’

‘Yourself,’ he said. ‘Lottie, you and I were made for each other.’

‘By whom?’

‘Fate.’

‘Then Fate made a very poor job of it. I assure you I was certainly not made for you … nor you for me. You were made for Eversleigh perhaps. That’s a different matter.’

‘You do go on about Eversleigh. You attach too much importance to it.’

‘No. It was you who did that.’

‘Thy tongue is sharp as the serpent’s. Did someone say that? If they didn’t they ought to have done. In any case I’m saying it now.’

‘And I say beware of serpents.’

‘Come. Admit the truth. You are afraid to step inside Enderby with me.’

‘I assure you I am not.’

‘Back up your assurance with words.’

On an impulse I dismounted. He was laughing as he tethered our horses to the post. He took my hand as we advanced towards the house.

‘The window with the broken latch is round there. It is quite easy to get in. Someone wanted to look at it a few weeks ago and I showed him the way in. I wonder if he made an offer for the place.’

He had found the window, opened it, looked inside and helped me in. We were in the hall, at the end of which was a door. It was open and we went through it into a large stone-floored kitchen. The spits were still there. We examined the great fireplace with its fire-dogs and cauldrons. There were layers of dust on everything. I found it quite fascinating and prowled about opening cupboards and exploring.

We must have been there for about five minutes before we went back to the hall. Above us was the minstrels’ gallery.

Dickon put his fingers to his lips. ‘The gallery is the most haunted spot. Let’s explore it.’

He took my hand and I was glad of the contact as the eeriness of the house began to wrap itself about me. I could well believe that at night the ghosts came to relive their tragic lives once more in such a house.

Our footsteps rang out in silence.

‘Cold, isn’t it?’ said Dickon. ‘Are you just a little scared, Lottie?’

‘Of course not.’

‘You look a little.’ He put his arm about me. ‘There. That’s better.’ We mounted the stairs. Some of the furniture remained, though most of it had been taken away.

‘Let’s go into the gallery. Defy the ghosts. Are you game?’

‘Of course.’

‘Come then.’ We mounted the staircase and went into the gallery; we leaned over the balcony and looked down on the hall.

‘Imagine it full of people … people dancing … long-dead people … ’

‘Dickon, you know you don’t really believe in ghosts.’

‘Not when I’m outside. In here … can you feel the malevolent influence?’

I did not answer. There was certainly something strange about the place. It was uncanny, but I had the feeling that the house was waiting for my answer.

‘Let’s defy the dead,’ said Dickon. ‘Let’s show them that at least we are alive.’

He put his arms about me.

‘Don’t do that, Dickon.’

His answer was to laugh. ‘Dear Lottie, do you think I am going to let you go now that I have you again?’

I tried to hold him off. My strength, I knew, was puny against his. He would not dare to force himself on me. He would have to be careful … even he. I was no village girl to be lightly raped and no questions asked. And that was not Dickon’s way. He was too sure of his charms and he wanted to be gratefully accepted; he would not want reluctance … not from me in any case.

‘Lottie,’ he said, ‘it was always you. Never anyone else. Nor was it for you. You never forgot me any more than I forgot you. We’re together at last. Let’s take what we’ve got. Lottie … please.’

He held me fast now and I felt myself slipping away in some sort of ecstasy. I was a child again. Dickon was my lover. This was how it was always meant to be.

I was not fighting any more. I heard him laugh triumphantly.

‘No,’ I said. ‘No.’ But I did not make any other protest and Dickon would know that surrender was close.

But … just then, I heard a movement, the sound of a footstep overhead—and I was immediately brought back to sanity.

I said: ‘Someone is here … in the house.’

‘No,’ said Dickon.

‘Listen.’

There it was again. The definite sound of a footstep.

‘Come on. We’ll see who it is,’ said Dickon. He started out of the gallery and up the staircase. I followed.

We were in a corridor. There were many doors there. Dickon threw open one of them. I followed him into a room. There was no one there. We went into another room. There were a few pieces of furniture in this one and it took us a little time to make sure there was no one hiding there. And as he pulled back the tattered brocade curtains about a four-poster bed we heard the movement again. This time it was downstairs. There had been someone in the house, and whoever it was had eluded us, for he or she must at this moment be climbing through the window by which he had come in.

We rushed down. Soon we were through the window and out among the overgrown shrubs. I felt overwhelmingly grateful to whoever it was who had saved me from Dickon and myself.

We rode silently back to the house. Dickon was clearly disappointed but not utterly dismayed. I realized he had high hopes for the future. I felt a certain elation. Never again, I promised myself.

Something in the house had saved me. It had sounded like human footsteps, but I wondered whether it was some ghost from the past. There was that ancestress of mine, Carlotta. She had had connections with the house at some time; she had actually owned it.

I had almost convinced myself that it was Carlotta returned from the dead who had saved me, and this was an indication of the state of mind into which I was falling. I had always regarded myself as a practical woman. The French are notoriously practical; and I was half French. And yet sometimes I felt as though since I had come to England I was being drawn into a web from which I would eventually be unable to escape.

It was an absurd feeling, but I had to admit that it was there.

The sensation came to me that I was being watched. When I returned to the house, if I glanced up to what I knew to be Griselda’s windows there would be a hasty movement. Someone was there looking down on me and dodging back hoping not be seen. I could put that down to an old woman’s curiosity and according to Sabrina she was a little mad in any case; but it was more than that. Sometimes I felt I was watched from the banisters, from the corridors, and sometimes I hurried to the spot where I thought I had seen or heard a movement and there was nothing there. An old woman could certainly not have been agile enough to get out of Enderby and climb through the window.

My grandmother’s health had improved since we had come and my mother said it was time we thought of going home. Sabrina and my grandmother were sad at the prospect.

‘It has been so wonderful to see you,’ said Sabrina. ‘It has meant so much to us all. It has kept Dickon with us. It is a long time since he has been at Eversleigh for such a stretch.’

I said that our husbands would be wondering why we did not return and my mother added that they had only agreed that we should come because the visit was to be a short one.

I was determined to see Griselda before I left, and one afternoon I made my way to that part of the house where I knew her rooms to be.

It was very quiet and lonely as I ascended the short narrow staircase and came to a corridor. I had judged it from where I knew the window to be from the shadowy watcher who had looked down on me.

I found a door and knocked. There was no answer, so I went to the next and knocked again.

There was still no answer but I sensed that someone was on the other side of the door.

‘Please may I come in?’ I said.

The door opened suddenly. An old woman was standing there. The grey hair escaped from under a cap; her face was pale and her deep-set eyes wide with the whites visible all round the pupil which gave her an expression of staring. She was dressed in a gown of sprigged muslin, high-necked and tight-bodiced. She was very slight and thin.

‘Are you Griselda?’ I asked.

‘What do you want?’ she demanded.

‘I wanted to meet you. I am going soon, and I did want to make the acquaintance of everyone in the house before I do.’

‘I know who you are,’ she said, as though the knowledge gave her little pleasure.

‘I am Madame de Tourville. I lived here once.’

‘Yes,’ she said, ‘before my lady came here. You were here then.’

‘May I come in and chat for a moment?’

Rather ungraciously she stepped back and I entered the room. I was amazed to see Jonathan rise from one of the chairs.

‘Oh, hello,’ he said.

‘Jonathan!’ I cried.

‘Jonathan is a good boy,’ said Griselda; and to him: ‘Madame de Tourville thinks she should see everybody so she called on me.’

‘Oh,’ said Jonathan. ‘Can I go now?’

‘Yes, do,’ she said. ‘And come back tomorrow.’

She caught him and kissed him with emotion. He wriggled a little in her embrace and gave me an apologetic look as though to excuse himself for having been involved in such a demonstration.

As Jonathan went away, Griselda said: ‘He is a good boy. He looks after me and my wants.’

‘You never mingle with the family,’ I said.

‘I was the nurse. I came with my lady. I would to God we never had.’

‘You mean the lady Isabel.’

‘His wife. The mother of young Jonathan.’

‘And David,’ I added.

She was silent and her mouth hardened; her eyes looked wider and consequently more wild.

‘I’ve seen you,’ she said almost accusingly. ‘I’ve seen you … with him.’

I glanced towards the window. ‘I think I have seen you up there … from time to time.’

‘I know what goes on,’ she said.

‘Oh, do you?’

‘With him,’ she added.

‘Oh?’

‘I’ll never forgive him. He killed her, you know.’

‘Killed! Who killed whom?’

‘He did. The master. He killed my little flower.’ Her eyes filled with tears and her mouth quivered. She clenched her hands and I thought she looked quite mad.

I said gently: ‘I don’t think that is true. Tell me about Isabel.’

Her face changed so suddenly that it was startling to watch her. ‘She was my baby from the first. I had had others but there was something about little Isabel. An only child, you see. Her mother died … died giving birth to her just as …Well, there she was, my baby. And him, her father, he was a good man. Never much there. Too important. Very rich. Always doing something …. But when he was there he loved his little daughter. But really she was mine. He never tried to interfere. He’d always say, “You know what’s best for our little girl, Griselda.” A good man. He died. The good die and the evil flourish.’

‘I can see that you loved Isabel very much.’

She said angrily: ‘There should never have been this marriage. Wouldn’t have been if it had been left to me. It was the one thing I can’t forgive him for. He just had the notion that girls ought to marry and that Isabel would be all right just as others were. He didn’t know my little girl like I did. She was frightened … really frightened. She used to come to me and sob her heart out. There wasn’t anything I could do … though I would have died for her. So she was married, my poor little angel. She said, “You’ll come with me, Griselda,” and I said, “Wild horses wouldn’t drag me away from you, my love.”’

I said: ‘I understand how you feel. You loved her dearly just as a mother loves her child. I know. I have children of my own.’

‘And I had to see her brought here … to this house with him. He didn’t care for her. What he cared for was what she brought him.’

I was silent. I could agree with Griselda on that.

‘Then it started. She was terrified. You see, she had got to get this son. Men … they all want children … but it would be different, eh, if they had the bearing of them. She was frightened when she knew she’d conceived … and, then before three months had gone she had lost it. The second was even worse. That went on for six months. There was another after that. That was her life. That was all she meant to him—except of course the money. And when her father died he got that too. Then he was ready to be rid of her.’

‘You said he killed her.’

‘He did. They could have saved her … but that would have meant losing the boys. He wouldn’t have it. He wanted the boys. That was it. He got them … and it cost her her life.’

‘You mean there was a choice?’

She nodded. ‘I was mad with sorrow. I was there with her. She would have me and even he did not try to stop that. He murdered her, just as sure as you’re sitting there, Madame. And now he has his eyes on you. What does he want from you, do you think?’

‘Griselda,’ I told her, ‘I am a married woman. I have a husband and children in France and I intend to go back to them shortly.’

She moved close to me and lifted her face to mine; her eyes seemed luminous in her wrinkled face. ‘He has plans for you. Don’t forget it. He’s one who won’t see his plans go awry.’

‘I make my own plans,’ I said.

‘You’re with him all the time. I know him. I know his way with women. Even Isabel …’

‘You know nothing about me, Griselda. Tell me more about Isabel.’

‘What more is there to tell? She was happy with me. She came here and was murdered.’

‘Do stop talking about murder. I know she died giving birth to the twins. You’re very fond of them, aren’t you?’

‘David killed her,’ she said.

‘David!’

‘It was both of them. Him forcing that on her … using her … my little Isabel, just to bear children when she wasn’t capable of it. Her mother had died giving birth to her. It was a weakness in the family. She should never have been forced to try it. Then there was David. He was born two hours after Jonathan. She might have been saved. But he had to have David, you see. He wanted two sons … just in case something happened to one of them. Between them they murdered her … him and David.’

‘Griselda, at least you shouldn’t blame David. A newly-born child! Isn’t that rather foolish of you?’

‘Whenever I look at him, I say to myself: It was you … It was your life or hers. They had Jonathan. That should have been enough.’

‘Griselda, what proof have you of this?’

Her wild eyes searched my face and she did not answer my question. She said: ‘He never married again. He’s got his two sons. That leaves him free for his women. He’s brought them here sometimes. I’ve seen them. I used to wonder whether there’d be anyone set up in Isabel’s place.’

‘Isn’t it time to forget the past, Griselda?’

‘Forget Isabel? Is that what you’re saying?’

‘Why did you watch me?’

‘I watch all of them.’

‘You mean … ’

She leaned towards me again and said: ‘His women.’

‘I am not one of them.’

She smiled secretly. I remembered that moment in the minstrels’ gallery at Enderby and was ashamed.

I said: ‘Do you have helpers in your watching?’

‘I can’t get about,’ she said. ‘It’s my rheumatics. Had them for a long time. Makes getting about very hard.’

‘Do you see a good deal of Jonathan?’

She nodded, smiling.

‘And David?’

‘I don’t have him here. He was never what his brother was.’

‘So Jonathan comes on his own. What do you talk about?’

‘His mother. The past.’

‘Is it wise to talk about that to a child?’

‘It’s truth. All children should be taught truth. It says so in the Holy Book.’

‘Do you let Jonathan … do things for you?’

‘He wants to,’ she said. ‘He comes in all excitement. “What’s the scheme for today, Grissel?” he says … the little monkey.’

‘So he follows his father. He … spies on him?’

‘We all want to know if the master is going to marry again. It would make a difference to us all.’

‘As a nurse, don’t you think it is wrong to involve a child in these things?’

‘Jonathan’s not a child. He was born a man … like his father. I know much of what goes on. I learned through Isabel. I saw him through her eyes. Have a care, Madame. No one is safe from him. Remember he murdered my Isabel.’

I had a great desire to get away from the scrutiny of those mad eyes. The room seemed to be stifling me. I felt I was shut in with a crazy woman. She had accused Dickon of murder because his wife died giving birth to twins. She was teaching Jonathan to spy for her. The idea of that boy following us to Enderby … lying in wait there to spy on us, revolted me.

I wondered whether I should tell Sabrina what I had discovered. I felt someone should know, and yet who? My grandmother was not in a fit state to cope with the situation. Sabrina? My mother? Dickon?

I did not feel I could confide what I had discovered to anyone in this house. Then I thought: What harm can the old woman do with her spying? To Jonathan it was just a game. To spy on his father and report to Griselda! There was something decidedly unhealthy about that. But there was something unhealthy about the entire matter.

While I turned all this over in my mind, preparations for our departure went on apace and a few days after my meeting with Griselda, my mother and I were on our way to the coast.

The Wager

MY FATHER WAS AT Calais waiting for us when we landed. I was amazed and a little envious to see the overwhelming love he had for my mother, so strong that it could not be hidden. My mother took it for granted and I know felt the same towards him. I was sure she believed that this was how all married people felt towards each other. I often thought that her blind belief in such a bond was so convincing that my father, who was first of all a man of the world, was carried along in her belief. She was innocent of the world, it appeared, and here was an example of the strength of innocence. How different were Charles and myself. There was a passionate attachment, yes; we could say we loved each other with reservations. Yet I had almost succumbed to Dickon and I was sure Charles had his affairs. I accepted this as the state of marriage—the only way in which it could survive. How shocked my mother would be!

But it was heartwarming to see them together and he had a good deal of affection to spare for me. He saw me as the outcome of the great passion of his life. I was very happy to be in their company.

I stayed at Aubigné for a few days. They wanted me to stay longer, but I was longing to get home, to see Charles and my children. I remembered with pleasure that Lisette would be there too. Moreover it was not very comfortable to be in the château in which Sophie had shut herself away.

I should have liked to see her. I wanted to tell her that Lisette was back and it was almost like the old times and how often we talked of her and wished she were with us as she used to be.

‘She doesn’t grow any better,’ my father said, ‘and we have now ceased to try to make her do so. She keeps in her own apartments, presumably happy enough with Jeanne.’

I asked if I could pay a visit to her room but Jeanne let us know that it would not be wise and might bring back unpleasant memories for Sophie.

Armand greeted me with that special brand of cool affection and Marie Louise seemed more remote than ever. My father said her piety increased every day and there was no sign of a child and not likely to be.

Charles welcomed me boisterously and declared he had thought I was never coming back. Chariot hugged me tightly and so did Louis-Charles. As for Claudine, she had become quite a person and now and then uttered a word which was not unintelligible and could walk a few steps. The nicest thing of all was that she knew me and clucked with pleasure when I took her in my arms.

It was good to be home and I was immensely relieved that I had kept my head and my virtue. Here in my home it seemed incredible that I could ever have come near to losing them; and as the days passed Eversleigh with its mad Griselda and Enderby with its ghosts seemed very remote—except perhaps Dickon. The memory of him stayed with me and came back to me vividly in unguarded moments.

Lisette wanted to hear all about it. I told her of Griselda. I did not mention my feelings for Dickon. I felt that was something to be kept secret. She listened and said it had been very dull at Tourville without me.

Charles had lost none of his interest in the war between England and the American colonies. In fact, I told him, he talked of little else.

‘Your people are fighting a losing battle,’ he said. ‘They should know themselves beaten.’

‘I cannot believe they are going to be beaten by colonists who are our own people in any case. It’s like a civil war.’

‘They are the worst. Moreover, my dear, they are going to have the might of France behind them.’

‘I don’t believe it.’

‘Let me tell you something. Your English suffered a massive defeat at Saratoga and at Court they are talking of nothing else but what this means. Our Louis has made a pact with the colonists. What do you think of that?’

‘Against England?’

He grinned at me. ‘Poor Louis, he wants peace. They had a hard task persuading him that he was not running a risk of war. I was getting into a bit of a panic, I don’t mind telling you, because I was fearful that war might be declared while you were still in England.’

‘What would that have meant?’

‘Well, communications wouldn’t have been easy. You might not have been able to get back.’

‘You mean I should have had to stay in England?’

‘Don’t worry. I should have come to fetch you. But it might not have been easy. In any case we are not at war, but the British Ambassador has been recalled from Paris.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘That the English are not very pleased with us.’

‘I pray there won’t be war between our two countries.’

‘You are safely home now, Lottie, and here you are going to stay.’

That summer came early. Claudine was growing up. She had had her second birthday in February and could now chatter to us and run about. She was an enchanting child with a quick temper and a desire to have her own way; but she was also affectionate and her moods changed so quickly that there were dazzling smiles after tears and most of the household were her slaves.

It was the beginning of July when we had a visitor. Lisette and I were in the garden with the children when one of the maids announced that a gentleman was asking for me.

‘He has come a long way, Madame, and particularly asks for you.’

I rose and followed her.

And there he was, smiling at me and looking certain of a welcome, making my heart leap about in an uncomfortable fashion and filling me with emotions which were hard to analyse.

‘Dickon,’ I cried.

‘Well, you look pleased to see me, Lottie. I knew you would be. I had business in Paris and being in France I knew you would never forgive me if I did not come to see you.’

‘You should have warned me.’

‘No time. It was decided that I should visit Paris so I came without delay. And here I am.’

‘Well, come in. They’ll take your horse. You must be hungry.’

‘For a sight of you.’

‘Please, Dickon,’ I said, ‘while you are here in my husband’s house … ’

‘Point understood,’ he said. ‘I’ll promise. My behaviour shall be impeccable.’

The maid summoned a groom while I took him into the house.

‘H’m,’ he said. ‘A fine place. I fancied a glimpse of Aubigné but did not call. I had an idea that your mother would make me less welcome. She has never really been a friend of mine. In any case I want to spend as much time as I can with my delectable Lottie.’

‘You promised … ’

‘A delicate compliment to a delightful hostess, nothing more.’

Even as he looked round the hall I saw the speculative look in his eyes. He was assessing the value of everything. He could not help that. That was Dickon.

I sent one of the maids to see if she could find Charles and meanwhile told them to bring some food and prepare a room.

‘You will stay for a few days, I suppose,’ I said.

‘I shall certainly do so if invited.’

‘As a relation, of course you are.’

‘Lottie, you are so beautiful. Do you know, when I am away from you, I forget how beautiful you are. Then it bursts upon me suddenly when I see you and yet I tell myself that I carry an image of you in my heart for ever.’

‘Just another example of self-deceit,’ I said lightly.

Food was brought and I took him into one of the small rooms which led from the hall, and sat with him while he ate. I heard Charles come in and went into the hall.

‘Charles,’ I said, ‘we have a visitor. You have heard of Dickon. He had to come to Paris so he has called to see us.’

The two men seemed to fill the small room. I watched them intently while they took stock of each other.

Dickon was an inch or so taller and he seemed more blond than ever beside Charles’s darkness. Charles’s manner was faintly hostile. I thought: He is seeing Dickon as the persecutor of colonists … but it was more than that. Dickon was smiling, summing up Charles and being rather pleased by what he saw, which I guessed meant that he was discovering defects.

In any case they were making up their minds to dislike each other.

‘Welcome to Tourville,’ said Charles, but his tone belied his words.

‘Thank you,’ replied Dickon, speaking French with an exaggerated English accent. ‘It is a great pleasure to be here and meet you. I have heard so much about you from Lottie.’

‘I have heard of you too,’ said Charles.

‘Sit down, Charles,’ I said, ‘and let Dickon get on with his food. He was very hungry when he came and he has had a long ride.’

Charles sat down and Dickon went on eating. Charles asked him which way he had come and how he had found Paris.

‘In a state of some excitement,’ said Dickon. ‘But then it often is, is it not? They seem to fancy themselves on the brink of war. I had some black looks when certain people discovered my nationality, I was surprised and wondered how I had betrayed myself.’

‘It would be fairly obvious,’ said Charles drily.

‘Well, to tell the truth, I was hoping so. There is all this chatter. So many of them seem eager to leap into combat. I can’t think why.’

‘The French pride themselves on a love of justice.’

‘Do they?’ said Dickon, showing surprise and cutting himself a piece of capon. ‘This is delicious, Lottie. I congratulate you on your cook.’

‘I am glad you are enjoying it.’ I felt I had to change the subject from that of the war as quickly as possible, so I went on: ‘Tell me, how are my grandmother and Sabrina?’

They were uneasy days which followed. Dickon had some purpose and I guessed it was that he had no intention of letting me slip out of his life. He had chosen the first opportunity of coming to Tourville. I wondered if it were true that he had business in Paris and thought it might possibly be so as there had been hints of his being concerned in all sorts of affairs. He was in Court circles, Sabrina had proudly told us, and I wondered whether he was concerned in politics. He did not sit in Parliament but there were other posts … perhaps secret ones. I could imagine Dickon enjoying being involved in such adventures.

Lisette’s comment was that he was an outstandingly attractive man. ‘He has come here to see you, Lottie,’ she said. ‘How lucky you are!’

‘I don’t think it is lucky. I don’t want trouble.’

‘With Charles? Well, naturally husbands can’t be expected to like overpowering admirers turning up and throwing themselves on their hospitality.’

‘Dickon is really a relation of mine.’

‘He behaves more like a suitor.’

‘You are imagining things.’

Charles was suspicious of him and of me.

When we were alone in our bedroom on the first night after Dickon’s arrival, he said: ‘You saw him in England?’

‘Of course I saw him. Eversleigh belongs to him and that was where we went. It is where my grandmother lives. Remember I went there because she was ill.’

‘Was he there all the time?’

‘Most of the time.’

‘What is he doing here?’

‘Oh Charles, I am tired of this catechism. I know no more than you do. He has business in France and came to see me and the children.’

‘He hasn’t expressed any great interest in them.’

‘He will. He has two fine sons of his own. Parents always want to compare.’

‘I don’t like him very much.’

‘You don’t know him.’

‘He’s arrogant.’

‘Well, perhaps you are too.’

‘I wouldn’t trust him. What’s he doing here in France?’

‘You said that a moment ago. I can only reply, Ask him.’

‘I might.’

‘All right then.’ I put my arms about his neck. ‘Shall we forget about him now?’

He kissed me then; he was very possessive that night and I felt his mood had something to do with Dickon.

There was danger in the air. I supposed that was inevitable with Dickon there. He seemed to generate trouble and had done so all his life. It might have been because he pursued his own way without caring very much what happened to those whom he encountered in achieving it.

I longed for him to go and yet I wanted him to stay. Every hour that he was in the house seemed fraught with danger and yet at the same time I felt I was living at twice the rate I normally did.

He went round the estate with Charles and me and made comments which I was sure were very much to the point. If he saw anything to praise—which was rare—he did so; mostly he gave veiled criticism and made comparisons between estate management in France and in England, implying the excellence of the latter. He was knowledgeable and more interested than Charles had ever been; and I realized that all the time he was showing his superiority in every possible way.

Charles was inclined to lose his temper whereas Dickon remained serenely good-natured, enjoying the situation enormously. He was maddening.

He went to the nurseries and admired the children. Both Chariot and Louis-Charles were delighted with him, and he hovered between ignoring them and treating them as grownup individuals, which often seemed to earn the admiration of the young. His size and his overwhelming personality won their respect and even Claudine regarded him soberly when he picked her up, and she tried to pull the buttons from his coat, which indicated that she liked them very much.

He charmed my parents-in-law and when Amélie and her husband called to spend the day he did the same with them. He was determined to please everyone in the house except Charles.

Lisette said: ‘I should beware of such a man. He is far too attractive in a wicked way … and they are always the worst.’

‘Never fear,’ I replied, ‘I am on my guard.’

She knew something of him because in the past I used to confide in her. She said: ‘I understand why your mother wanted to keep you away from him. I can also see why you did not want her to succeed.’

‘I never knew anyone quite like Dickon,’ I admitted. ‘And I doubt I ever shall’.

‘Life with him,’ suggested Lisette dreamily, ‘would be one long adventure. Is he very rich?’

‘Very … now, I should imagine. He owns Clavering and Eversleigh and his wife brought him a lot of money.’

‘And you think he is satisfied now … financially?’

‘I should hope so.’

‘He isn’t, I’d be ready to gamble. His sort never are. When he marries again it will be a rich woman.’

‘Is that a prophecy?’

‘As good as,’ said Lisette.

‘Do you realize, I said, ‘that since Dickon has come we talk of little else?’

‘What else could be so interesting?’

‘I shall be glad when he goes. He is causing trouble here. He does, wherever he goes, my mother used to say.’

‘But it is trouble which you can’t help wanting. Come, be honest. You know it will be somewhat dull when he has gone.’

‘He irritates Charles so. Sometimes I don’t know how to get through the evening.’

‘Dickon is enjoying himself, I don’t doubt.’

‘I am sure Charles isn’t.’

In the evenings they would sit up late playing a card game. They both enjoyed gambling, Charles recklessly, his face flushed, his eyes blazing; Dickon calmly, raising the stakes ridiculously high, never showing the least bit of emotion whether he lost or won; but then he always seemed to win.

I would go to bed and leave them and when Charles came up pretend to be asleep.

Charles would be angry. I would hear him banging things about before he came to bed. Sometimes he lay sleepless beside me; at others he would wake me and indulge in a kind of stormy passion which meant that he was thinking of Dickon. He knew of course of Dickon’s feelings for me and that there had been some arrangement between us in my extreme youth. It didn’t help.

Dickon must go soon.

There was a good deal of talk about the war.

I remember that evening well. We were at table with my parents-in-law, Charles, Dickon and I, and Dickon, as he often did, turned the conversation to the war. The attitude of the two of them towards the war was typical of their entire relationship. It was almost a personal war. Charles delighted in the Colonists’ successes, which Dickon dismissed as mere skirmishes. But mostly Dickon would attack the intervention of the French and would become very eloquent in his denunciation of the folly of those who did so.

That night he sat there, his eyes a brilliant blue as they were when he was excited, his cravat a dazzling white against the blue velvet of his jacket, his strong hands with the gold signet ring on the table before him—calm and still as though to call attention to Charles’s gesticulations.

He continued on the theme of the war and the folly of French intervention.

‘It is beyond understanding. Here is this country … think of it. No one could say it is in robust health. Turgot … Necker … they have made brave attempts to grapple with finances and without very happy results. King Louis inherited disaster. Why, I have heard that his grandfather prophesied that it would come after him. It could come … soon. Your house is crumbling to ruin and instead of setting yourself to rebuild it, you turn your backs on it and rush off to harry your neighbours.’

‘The French have always been interested in just causes,’ said Charles. ‘These people overseas—mostly your own Englishmen—are being unfairly taxed. Quite rightly, they revolt and every Frenchman is in sympathy with them, as he must be with those who suffer from such harsh treatment.’

‘As I have noticed in France,’ cut in Dickon, smiling blandly. ‘How long is it since we had the Guerre des Farines when one class of people were in revolt against the injustice meted out to them by another? Would it not be better for the French to look first to their own before they worry so nobly about the wrongs of foreigners? Your country is verging on revolt. Can’t you see it coming? Did you know that it takes very little provocation for riots to break out in your towns? It is happening all the time. We don’t hear much about it because it is on a small scale … as yet. But it is there. It is a warning but you don’t see it because your eyes are staring overseas. I would say, “Frenchmen, put your own house in order first!”’

‘I can see,’ said Charles maliciously, ‘that you are very uneasy because of the strong feeling here in favour of the oppressed Colonists.’

‘Naturally we would rather not have those such as the Marquis de Lafayette raising men and shouting about bringing freedom to the world. At the moment the Comte de Brouillard is raising forces in Angouleme. He speaks in the square most eloquently and the crowd obediently shouts, “Down with the English! To America!”’

‘I know it,’ said Charles. ‘I have a mind to join him.’

‘Have you, indeed? Then why not, my friend? It is always well to follow one’s inclinations if one feels them strongly enough because if they are brushed aside they return to pester one all one’s days.’

Charles’s eyes were shining. ‘It is a great cause and my heart is in it.’

‘Then you should go.’

‘So you would urge me to what you consider an act of folly?’

‘I do not urge, and you do not see it as folly. It would be your act, and to you it is the way of chivalry—the strong defending the weak. If I felt as you did I should certainly go.’

‘Then why do you not go and fight for your King?’

‘I do not feel strongly as you do. I do not speak, as you know, of the rights and wrongs of this stupid war. What I have always stressed is the folly of a country such as France—in dire difficulties financially and, even worse, creaking with social injustice, to meddle in a cause which really does not concern it.’

‘And I have said that oppression should be fought wherever it occurs.’

‘And I have said that is a noble sentiment, but it is best to begin in your own backyard.’

‘You seem to know a great deal about my country.’

‘The looker-on often sees that which is not so obvious to those who are involved. Regard me as a looker-on. I hear of the odd riot now and then in the little towns all over the country; I hear the murmurs of the people, class against class. The Queen’s brother, Emperor Joseph, is a wise man. Do you know what he said when he was asked for his opinion of this cause for which you speak so nobly? He said, “I am a royalist by profession.” He meant that it is unwise to question the authority of kings, for when there is a precedent it creates uncertainty for those who come after. You are an aristocrat by profession, yet you talk of liberty … you stress the Tightness of those who take up arms against the monarchy. That is my point.’

‘You take a cynical view.’

‘I take a realist’s view which until now I thought was something the French always prided themselves in doing.’

I broke in: ‘I have had enough of this talk of war. You two seem to think of nothing else.’

Dickon looked at me reproachfully. ‘It is a matter of some importance to my country. If we lost it would mean giving up our foothold in North America. But win or lose, it means a great deal more to France.’

‘Nonsense,’ said Charles. ‘I can see the English are beginning to get very worried.’

‘Not beginning to,’ retorted Dickon. ‘They have been so from the start. They believed victory would be easier than it is proving to be. They did not realize how difficult it is to carry on a war so far from home.’

‘Come. Admit defeat.’

‘It is not over yet. There are many Frenchmen who are straining to go to the rescue. As you are, for instance. I can see the appeal. Lafayette, Segur, and this man in Angouleme … they have a point. Adventure … knightly, chivalrous adventure … a journey overseas …You can understand it well. I wonder you don’t take the trip.’

‘I would not be averse to it.’

‘How amusing if you and I met on opposite sides of the battlefield. A little different, eh … from our fighting our battles across the table.’

Determinedly I talked about the additions one of our neighbours was planning to make to his house. It was a subject which interested them both and I managed again to turn the conversation from the war. But they were in a strange mood and I noticed that Charles was drinking more heavily than usual.

When we rose from the table Dickon suggested cards. My parents-in-law were already nodding as they did after a meal in the evening, but they accompanied us into the small salon where there was a card table.

I sat with the old people while the two men played. At first they played quietly and there was silence in the room. I felt an intense uneasiness which I believed was due to the conversation at the dinner table, though why I should have felt more than usually disturbed I did not know. Dickon had baited Charles no more than usual, but somehow there had been a certain intensity behind his remarks, something which I construed as motive.

Charles continued to drink a great deal; Dickon took very little, and from his occasional laugh of triumph, I guessed that he was winning. I was not unduly disturbed because I knew that Charles could pay his debts; but there was something about Dickon on that night. His eyes burned with that brilliant blue light which I had noticed in moments of excitement. It had been there in Enderby when he had thought I was on the point of surrender. It was there now. It meant triumph in battle.

He would be leaving in a few days and I must really be relieved when he went. While he was here I could not stop myself waiting for disaster to break; and it would be of his making.

Why had he come? To see me. Yet if he could not seduce me in his home, it was hardly likely that he would in mine. Perhaps the more difficult the chase, the more it appealed to him.

I think there was some other reason. He knew so much about France. His knowledge amazed me. How did he learn of these outbreaks all over the country? People did not speak much of them. I fancied that the King and his ministers had no desire for the people to know of the unrest which was growing among the peasant classes. The King wanted no trouble with England. A war would be disastrous to France at this moment, but these adventurous aristocrats with the notion of liberty for others were doing their best to provoke war. Whatever their sympathies were, they would have been wise to keep them to themselves, for as Dickon said there was trouble brewing in their own backyard. How did Dickon become so knowledgeable about this? He was involved in Court circles, and knowing his adventurous nature I could imagine in what direction he would go. It could be that he had come to France as an ordinary traveller visiting relations. There was nothing to arouse suspicion in that. At the same time he could learn a great deal about what was going on. He would discover the strength of those expeditions to the New World; he could test the opinion in France.

He had been in Paris; he had travelled through the country and seen for himself what was happening there, and being Dickon he had implied that he had come to see me.

I was aroused from my reverie by the talk of the two at the card table. They had stopped and were discussing stakes.

‘Let us wager something other than money,’ suggested Dickon. ‘It makes the game more exciting. Some object … your signet ring against mine.’

‘I wouldn’t care whether I won your signet ring or not.’

Charles was speaking in a rather slurred tone. He had drunk too much. I would remind him that it was getting late and try to stop the game.

‘There must be something that you could be interested in. Your house? Men have staked houses before. Your house against mine.’

‘Of what use would a house in England be to me?’

‘It is hard to find something I have which you want,’ said Dickon. ‘This living in different countries makes it a little difficult. Let me think, what have you which I want?’

He had lifted his eyes and caught mine. I looked away quickly. I could not meet that brilliant blue gaze.

‘I see,’ Dickon went on, ‘that we are not going to reach any satisfaction. But I do feel there is something … I have it!’

There was a moment of tense silence in the room. I thought they might hear the violent beating of my heart. In those seconds I was thinking: He should never have come here. There is always trouble where he is. And what now? What does he plan?’

Dickon was speaking quietly, almost persuasively. ‘You said you wanted to go. I wonder whether I should too. What an adventure! I should like to see the New World. They say it is very beautiful. A variety of scenery. Tobacco … cotton … though perhaps not where we should go. This is what I suggest we play. The loser goes into battle. You to fight for the rights of the oppressed; I on the side of the oppressor.’

‘What a ridiculous idea!’ I cried. ‘I never heard anything so absurd. The idea of staking such a thing … on a card game!’

‘Alas, my friend, your wife forbids it.’

There was no mistaking the pity in Dickon’s voice for the man who could not choose for himself. Poor Charles, he was implying, you are not allowed a will of your own. Your wife decides for you.

He knew that would sting Charles into action.

‘I think it is an amusing idea,’ he said.

‘This is the first time you have agreed with Dickon,’ I reminded him. ‘And over such a foolish matter!’

‘It excites me,’ said Dickon. ‘The fall of a card … and one’s future changed. That is the true spirit of gambling.’

‘Deal the cards,’ said Charles.

‘Three games,’ cried Dickon, ‘as it is such an important issue. Too much so to be decided in one.’

I knew what he was doing. He wanted to be rid of Charles. But how could he be sure? Something told me that Dickon was always sure.

I looked at my father-in-law. He was asleep now. His wife was nodding. I could not take my eyes from the table.

The first game went to Charles. He was very merry.

‘I don’t think you are going to like it there,’ he said to Dickon.

‘If I go I shall make the best of it,’ retorted Dickon. ‘As I am sure you will.’

‘One up to me,’ said Charles. ‘The next one could be decisive. I have only to win one and there will be no need for a third.’

‘Here’s to me,’ said Dickon. ‘If you win this one it will cut short the excitement.’

I said: ‘Of course you are not serious.’

‘Deadly so,’ replied Dickon.

The game had begun. I heard the seconds tick away and then the final cry of triumph. Dickon was the winner.

Now I found the suspense unbearable. If Dickon went to America I might never see him again. I might not in any case. I ought not to. He was dangerous. There was no peace where he was. But I did not think he would ever go to America. If he lost he would find some excuse for staying at home.

The deciding game had started. I watched them, my heart throbbing. The silence seemed to go on for a long time. And then … Dickon was laying his cards on the table. He was smiling at Charles. I could not understand what Charles’s expression meant and neither of them spoke.

I could endure no more. I rose and went to the table.

‘Well?’ I demanded.

Dickon smiled at me. ‘Your husband will be leaving for North America to fight in the cause of justice.’

I was so angry with them both that I swept the cards from the table.

Dickon stood up and looked at me ruefully. ‘You should not blame the cards,’ he said; and taking my hand kissed it and bade me good-night.

I helped Charles to bed. He was bemused both by the wine he had drunk and the wager he had made. I don’t think he quite realized then what it meant.

‘An evening’s nonsense,’ I called it. I said: ‘I suppose it was a way of putting a bit of excitement into a card game.’

Charles slept heavily and in the morning he had fully recovered. I had slept very fitfully because although I had tried to assure myself that it was an evening’s nonsense, I was not at all certain of that.

Charles sat on the bed and said: ‘I shall have to go.’

‘How ridiculous!’

‘I have always paid my debts at cards. It is a matter of honour.’

‘This was just a bit of nonsense between you two.’

‘No. It was meant. I have often thought I ought to go and this has decided me. I shall go and see Brouillard today.’

‘You mean that man at Angoulême!’

‘It will be easier to go with him. Doubtless there will be several I know among his recruits.’

‘Charles, are you seriously meaning to go abroad?’

‘It is only for a short time. We’ll get the English on the run and it will be over soon. I’d like to be in on the end.’

‘So you really are serious!’

‘Never more.’

‘My God!’ I cried. ‘How foolish can men get!’

Two days later Dickon left and Charles had already made contact with the Comte de Brouillard and was in constant touch with the noblemen who were to form part of the Comte’s expedition.

Dickon was well pleased when he said au revoir to me. He wouldn’t have said goodbye. ‘Too final,’ he said. ‘We shall see each other soon, I promise you.’

‘What would you have done … if you had lost?’ I asked him. ‘Would you have left Eversleigh … your exciting life in London?’

He smiled secretly. ‘I try to make a point of not doing what I don’t want to,’ he said. ‘I can imagine nothing more dreary. To tell the truth—but just for your ears only—I am really on the side of the Colonists. I think our government are behaving as foolishly as the French and should never have levied those taxes which sparked it all off. But don’t tell a Frenchman that. I take back nothing of what I have said about them. Frenchmen are making another of their mistakes which could rebound. You should come home to England, Lottie. You’d be safer there. I don’t like what I see here. There is a cauldron of discontent … simmering at the moment, but there will come a time when it will boil over, and this War of Independence … or rather the French participation in it … is adding to the fuel under the pot. Foolish aristocrats like Lafayette and that husband of yours can’t see it. A pity for them.’

‘Don’t preach to me, Dickon. I believe you were determined to get him away.’

‘I must admit that I do not like to see him being so intimate with you.’

I laughed. ‘He is my husband you know. Goodbye, Dickon.’

‘Au revoir.’ he said.

The next weeks were given over to Charles’s preparations. He arranged for Amélie and her husband to come to the château and stay during his absence. Amélie’s husband had considered himself fortunate to marry into a family as rich as the Tourvilles and was only too ready to install himself in the château. As for Amélie, she was delighted to be home again.

So within a few weeks of Dickon’s visit, Charles left for the New World.

It was several months since Charles had left and I had heard nothing from him. For some weeks I could not believe he had really gone; then I wondered why he had gone so readily. It was true that he had indulged in that foolish game of chance, but I sensed that in his heart he had wanted to go. It showed me clearly that he must have been finding our marriage vaguely unsatisfactory. He had married me and desired me greatly in the beginning; he still did, for there had been nothing perfunctory about his love-making and on our last night together he had been definitely regretful, declaring again and again that he hated leaving me. On the other hand, the excitement of adventure was on him and he was eager to start out on a new way of life—for a while at any rate.

I was sure he thought he would not be away for more than six months. Yet I could not forget that he had gone with a certain amount of eagerness.

Then Dickon? What had been his motive. To separate us, I believed.

During the months I heard nothing from Dickon but Sabrina sent messages expressing the wish that I would come to Eversleigh. ‘Poor Clarissa, she is very weak now,’ she wrote. ‘She would love to see you.’

My mother received the same appeal and perhaps if she had suggested going I would have gone with her; but she did not. My father must have persuaded her that he needed her more than anyone else. Moreover the situation between France and England was worsening, and the more help France poured into America, the more difficult it was for the English to subdue the Colonists, and the greater was the rancour between our two countries.

So there were many reasons why it would not be wise for me to pay a visit to England at this time.

We had settled into the new routine at Tourville. Amélie and I had always been friendly in a mild way; her husband was a gentle person, very honoured and delighted to live in the château and take over the management of the estate. His own business affairs had been small and he was able to incorporate the two without much difficulty. As for my parents-in-law, they were delighted to have their daughter back. I think they understood her more than they had Charles, so his absence did not appear to concern them as much as I had thought it would.

I spent a great deal of time with the children and it was enjoyable to watch them growing up. Lisette was my constant companion and I was more in her company than that of any other of the adult inhabitants of Tourville.

I remember well that spring day when Lisette and I sat together in the garden. Claudine was running about on the grass and the boys were out riding with one of the grooms.

We were talking about Charles and wondering what was happening in that far-off land.

‘Of course,’ I was saying, ‘it is difficult to get news through. I wonder if there is much fighting.’

‘I imagine he will soon grow tired of it and long for the comforts of home,’ said Lisette.

‘Well, at least he did what he said he would do.’

‘Dickon rather forced him to it. Have you heard from Dickon?’

‘No, but from Sabrina.’

‘I wonder …

‘Yes, what do you wonder?’

‘About Dickon … whether he just likes to stir up a little mischief or whether this is part of a great design.’

‘A little mischief,’ I said; and just at that moment I saw a maid running across the lawn and behind her a man. I stood up but I did not recognize him immediately. It was my father, and I had never seen him look as he did then. He seemed to have aged by at least twenty years and what was so unusual for him, he was carelessly dressed and his cravat was ruffled.

I knew something terrible had happened.

‘Father!’ I cried.

‘Lottie.’ There was desolation in his voice.

He took me into his arms and I cried out: ‘What is it? Tell me … quickly.’

I drew away from him and saw the tears on his cheeks.

I stammered: ‘My mother … ’

He nodded, but he could not speak. Lisette was beside me. She said: ‘Is there anything I can do?’

I replied: ‘Perhaps you would take Claudine and leave us. Father,’ I went on, ‘come and sit down. Tell me what has happened.’

He let me lead him to the seat which Lisette had just vacated. I was vaguely aware of her taking a rather bewildered and inclined-to-protest Claudine across the grass.

‘You have just arrived. You must be worn out. Why … ’

‘Lottie,’ he said, ‘your mother is dead.’

‘No!’ I murmured.

He nodded. ‘Gone! She’s gone, Lottie. I shall never see her again. I could kill them … every single one of them. Why her? What had she done? God preserve France from the rabble. I would hang them all … every one of them … but that’s too good for them.’

‘But why … why my mother?’ I was trying to think of her gone, but I could only think of this poor broken man who now had to live his life without her.

‘Tell me what happened,’ I begged. ‘Talk … please … I must know.’

‘How could I have guessed how it would be? That morning she went off into the town … just as she had so many times before. She wanted to go to the milliner’s. She talked about the hat she was having made. She asked me about the colour of the feathers.’

‘Yes,’ I said soothingly. ‘And then she went to the milliner’s … ’

‘In the carriage. She had two grooms with her and her lady’s maid.’

In the carriage! I remembered it. A glorious vehicle with his crest emblazoned on it in gold.

‘I did not know that the day before one of the agitators had been preaching in the town. He had stirred them up to riot. It is going on all over France … not in any great degree and we don’t hear where it is happening, but they are working the people up in the remotest places … ’

‘Yes,’ I urged him. ‘Yes?’ I felt he was putting off telling me the dreadful truth because he could not bear to speak of it.

‘While she was in the milliner’s the riot started. It was at the bakery. She came out and must have heard the people shouting. She and her maid got into the carriage. It was immediately surrounded by the mob.’

‘Oh no,’ I murmured, and I recalled the occasion when I had been with the Comte and we had heard a man preaching revolution. I had never forgotten the fanaticism in his eyes.

‘The coachman tried to break through the crowd. It was the only thing to do.’

‘And then … ?’ I asked.

He shook his head. ‘I can’t bear to think of it. Some of those criminals seized the horses … tried to stop them. The carriage was overturned and the frightened horses tried to dash through the crowd. One of the grooms was saved, though badly hurt. The rest … ’

I put my arms round him. I tried to comfort him, but that was impossible. He sat for what seemed a long time, saying nothing, just staring blankly ahead.

I don’t remember much of the rest of that day. A shock such as this one had stunned me as it had him.

It was a week since he had come to tell me of my mother’s death but I still could not entirely believe that it had happened. I know my father tried to convince himself that he was dreaming, and that this overwhelming tragedy was a nightmare which he had conjured up out of a fevered imagination. The only comfort we could derive was from each other. We talked often of my mother, for that seemed to soothe us both and we were constantly together. I knew he could not sleep and Amélie, who was very sympathetic and eager to do all she could to help, made soothing possets conducive to sleep and I made him take them before retiring. In this way he did get a measure of rest. Sometimes he slept late into the mornings and I was pleased because that shortened the day.

I was in his room one morning when he awoke and for a few seconds he seemed happy, not remembering where he was. Then I glimpsed the man I had known. But for how briefly! It was tragic to watch the realization of what had happened dawn on him. I knew that he was never going to be happy again and he was not an old man.

While he stayed on at Tourville I devoted myself to him entirely. I realized then how deeply I had loved my mother, although we had drifted apart when she had separated me from Dickon and I had nursed a grievance against her. Now she was gone, I could understand how she had felt, how she had been ready to sacrifice herself for me. I wished that I could have told her that I understood and how much I had loved her. What she would have wanted me to do more than anything was to care for my father, and this I would do. Theirs had been one of the most romantic love-stories I had ever heard of. The idyllic adventure of youth, then the reunion in middle age when they had both grown wiser and realized what they could offer each other. Their perfect love had a bitter, tragic ending. Did every good thing in life have to be paid for? I wondered.

To see him now, this poor broken man who had once been so suavely sure of himself, wounded me almost as much as the loss of my mother. We had taken to each other on sight, and now there was a close affection between us. He had first brought me to France and looked after me when I needed special care; now it was my turn to look after him.

He seemed to be unaware of the passing of the days. He wanted to be with me all the time, to talk of my mother—of his first meeting with her, the excitement, the passion they had shared … and then the long years without each other. ‘But we never forgot, Lottie, neither of us … ’ And then the coming together, and the perfection of that later relationship. ‘It was a miracle,’ he said, ‘finding her again.’

I was thoughtful. She had written to him, telling him of my existence and the need to save me from an adventurer. Dickon! I thought, Dickon again. He moulded our lives. It was always Dickon.

There was comfort in thinking of him now because it took my thoughts momentarily from our tragedy.

One day my father said: ‘Lottie, I wish you could come home. Come back with me … bring the children. I think life would be bearable if you did.’

I replied: ‘I could come for a while, but this is my home. When Charles returns … ’

‘I know, I know,’ he said. ‘A selfish thought. But if only it could be …

‘We shall see each other often. You must come here and I will come to you.’

‘Dear daughter,’ he said, ‘how different you are from the others. But then you are her daughter too.’

‘Perhaps this will change Sophie. Perhaps now that she knows you need company … your own about you … ’

‘Sophie thinks of nothing but her own hurt. Armand … I never had much in common with him. He goes his own way. He is indifferent to me … to his wife … to our family … indifferent to life, I sometimes think. I have had one child who is dear to my heart. Oh, Lottie, I wish you would come home with me.’

He knew that I could not do that. I must wait here for Charles’s return.

I tried to make him talk of other things, but there were so many dangerous subjects. I dared not mention the state of the country because that would remind him of that terrible scene which had resulted in my mother’s death. Neither Sophie nor Armand was a happy subject. The children were a great help. Charlot delighted him and I was glad to see a friendship springing up between them. Claudine was interested in him and would sometimes allow him to pick her up, when she would peer into his face and scrutinize him.

She said to him: ‘Are you my grandfather?’

I saw tears in his eyes when he told her that he was.

‘You’re crying,’ she accused, looking at him in horror. ‘Big people don’t cry.’ She added: ‘Only babies do.’

I took her from him because I saw his emotion was too great for him to bear. He loved the child, though. He might be proud of Charlot but I think it was Claudine with her frank comments who had first place in his heart.

With the three of us together I think we could have found some semblance of happiness and I wished that I could go back with him.

The next best thing was that he should stay at Tourville and this he did, seeming in those first weeks to be unaware of the passing of time.

He talked to me a great deal of his past life. There had been many women between that first encounter with my mother and the reunion. ‘Yet never once did I stray in deed or even thought when she was with me. Perhaps that does not seem very remarkable to you, but for the man I was it was little short of a miracle.’ He went on: ‘I am pleased to see your friendship with Lisette.’

I am very fond of her,’ I replied. ‘It is not always easy for her. She was educated with Sophie and me and she was with us so much, and then there were occasions when it was brought home to her that she was only the niece of the housekeeper. I think she felt that a little.’

‘Perhaps I shouldn’t have done what I did.’ He shrugged his shoulders. ‘It seemed best at the time.’

‘It was good of you to allow Tante Berthe to have her niece with her.’

There was a faraway look in his eyes and he said at length: ‘I think perhaps I should tell you how it came about. It started years ago when Lisette’s mother came to the hôtel to bring some gowns for my first wife. She was a seamstress employed by one of the fashionable dressmakers, and if any alterations were required, Lisette’s mother used to come to the house to do them. She was very pretty … a dainty, slender girl. I came upon her struggling in with a bundle of materials … far too heavy for her. I carried them for her up the stairs to my wife’s room. That was the beginning of our acquaintance. I was interested in her. Her name was Colette. The inevitable happened. I visited her. She lived in one of those little streets close to Notre Dame … narrow, winding, not very salubrious, where the dyers had their tubs. I was often splashed by the red, blue and green streams which flowed down the gutters. She had two rooms in a house which was run by an old crone. On those days I found it quite an adventure to visit such an area. It meant dressing as an artisan. I was quite young then, so don’t judge me too harshly. I learned that Colette had come down in the world. Like many girls, she had come to Paris for a life of greater excitement than she could enjoy on her father’s farm. She was one of a strictly religious family and longed to escape from it, but she soon found that life in Paris was not what she expected. She could sew well but that was not enough to give her a living. She found a protector … some tradesman who was a little better off than she was. He left her after a while and then she found another. She was not a prostitute. She just took the occasional lover to keep her going.

‘She was a brave woman, Colette, but not very strong and it would have been better for her to have stayed in the country. I did not want to get very involved, being at that time concerned with another lady, but there was something about Colette’s refined looks and air of vulnerability which I found appealing, and I was not, in those days, one to think of restraining myself. What I wanted I took thoughtlessly.

‘So I visited Colette in the house near that nauseating Rue des Marmousets. I would stay for an hour or so and give her enough money to keep her for a month. She was delighted with the arrangement. I forgot her for a while and when she came to the house again my interest was revived, so I went to see her once more.

‘While I was there I was aware of something strange. A noise … a sort of presence. I became rather uneasy. I was in a low-class area. Colette knew who I was. I began to fear that she might have someone hidden there who would take an opportunity to rob me … or even worse. It was a most unpleasant sensation. I dressed hurriedly, gave her the money and escaped.

‘But I was quite fascinated by Colette. She had an air of innocence and I could not believe that she would be a party to anything dishonest, let alone any act of violence. I had gone there simply dressed, taking with me just the money I would give to Colette, but she would have that in any case, so that ruled out robbery. Blackmail? That was laughable. No one would have been very shocked if it were learned that I visited a girl who had invited me to do so. My wife? She knew that I had many mistresses and had raised no objection. No, the thought of someone’s being secreted in those two little rooms for the purpose of harming me was ridiculous. I laughed at myself and when I next met Colette she aroused the same desires in me and very soon I paid her another visit.

‘I heard the strange noises again. I felt the same uneasiness, and I knew for certain that we were not alone. Suddenly I could bear it no more. I had to know. I went to the door between the two rooms. To my astonishment there was a key in it and the door was locked from the side on which I stood. I unlocked it and opened it and there looking up at me was one of the prettiest little girls I had ever seen. She was clearly terrified. She ran past me to Colette and started to cry, “Maman, I didn’t move, I didn’t.” I looked from the child to Colette, who said, “Yes, she is mine. It is a hard job to keep her. When my friends come she must stay hidden.”

‘I can’t tell you how moved I was. For one thing Colette was so frail, the child so pretty; and the fact that I had entertained suspicions made me ashamed of myself and filled me with pity for the brave young woman.

‘After that, my relationship with Colette grew. I wanted to help the child. I bought clothes for her. She was only four years old, I learned. Colette told me that she tried to arrange to do a lot of work at home which was often possible for a seamstress. Then she knew that the child was all right. When she had to leave her she was in a state of dreadful anxiety. I was horrified. I gave her money so that there was always enough for them to eat and so that someone could look after the child when Colette was away. That went on for about a year. Colette was embarrassingly grateful.

‘She told me her story. It was not an unusual one: the coming to Paris, believing she would make her fortune there, perhaps marry a man who was wealthy by the standards she had been accustomed to. She said her family would not help her if they knew because they would be horrified to learn that she had an illegitimate child, but on consideration she thought her elder sister might. Berthe had always been the forceful member of the family and had looked after them all; she had been very upset when Colette had left home. Colette could not bear to tell them of her circumstances.

‘She had not been in Paris long when she found her tradesman. She had believed he would marry her. He had been devoted, but when the child was born he did not care for such responsibilities and his family arranged for him to marry another tradesman’s daughter. He came to see Colette for a while but the visits became less frequent, and then suddenly she learned that he had left Paris and she heard no more of him.

‘So there was poor Colette with a child to support when she found it was all she could do to support herself. She tried bravely. She was a good girl, Colette, admirable in many ways. I did not realize how ill she was. She was suffering from consumption as so many of those girls do, working in stuffy rooms, not having sufficient food … and warm clothing.

‘I did not see her for some time as I had been in the country and when eventually I went to her room I found her confined to her bed. She had at last sent for her sister and that was the first time I saw Berthe. I realized that Colette was dying, for in no other circumstances would she have sent for her sister. Berthe was clearly an admirable woman—stern, not very demonstrative but one who would do her duty as she saw it.

‘I talked to her and she said it would be difficult to take the child to the country. The family was strictly religious and would not take kindly to a bastard. Colette would have known that and it was only because she was desperate that she had begged Berthe to come to her and perhaps suggest some plan.

‘The sick woman for whom I had some affection, the stern but worthy aunt and the beautiful child all touched me deeply. I found the solution. It was that Berthe should come as a housekeeper. She was the sort of woman who would soon become skilled in the management of a household or anything she undertook. She should bring the child with her and the little girl could be brought up in my household.

‘As soon as I made this suggestion I saw that it was the way out for us all. Colette would die in peace; Berthe would have the sort of post which appealed to her and settle her family problems at the same time; the child would be well cared for and my conscience eased. You may be surprised to hear, Lottie, that I had a conscience in those days. But I did … and on occasions it would make itself heard to my discomfiture.’

I said: ‘It was good of you. And so Lisette came to the château.’

He smiled faintly. ‘I shall never forget Colette’s face when I told her what we were arranging. I was overwhelmed by her gratitude, which was embarrassing because what I was doing cost me little effort. She said I was a saint who had brought great happiness into her life and she would die in peace knowing that her little girl would be well cared for.’

‘It was good of you,’ I said, ‘although you could do it. Not all people bother themselves with the problems of others.’

‘And what did I get from it? The most excellent of housekeepers. So you see the advantage was mine. Colette died soon after that. I saw her lying in her coffin with a look of peace on her dead face which I shall never forget.’

‘Poor Lisette! Does she know of this?’

‘She wouldn’t remember very much—probably vaguely those rooms in which she used to be shut away, I don’t know. She couldn’t have been much more than five when she was taken away. She was told that her parents were dead and that Tante Berthe had taken their place. I don’t think the poor child got much pampering from Tante Berthe, but she would be given good food and brought up rather strictly—which might have been good for her. I gave orders that she was to share Sophie’s lessons and when you came she was with you and Sophie. I don’t know whether it was the right thing to have done. She was one of us … and yet not one of us,. I have always been a little anxious about Lisette.’

‘Lisette can take care of herself, I think.’

‘You know her better than any of us. You and she became friends right from the time you came here … you and she more than Sophie.’

‘Lisette was always easier to know. She and I had a good deal of fun together.’

‘Well, you know who she is now. Lottie, I don’t think it would be wise to let her know the story. Much better to let her go on believing that she is the child of a conventional marriage, which I agreed with her aunt was what she should be told.’

‘I shall say nothing of what you have told me. I can see no good in bringing it up now.’

‘No. She is a proud girl and might be upset to know she is the daughter of, well … not a prostitute but a poor girl who took the occasional lover in order to make ends meet.’

‘I think you are right. Poor Lisette! But she was fortunate really. I wonder what would have happened to her if Tante Berthe had not come along, and you too. Tante Berthe I suppose would have taken her to that farmhouse from which Colette ran away. One can imagine what sort of life Lisette would have had there. I think you can be pleased with what you did for Colette and her daughter.’

‘It has relieved me to talk to you of Lisette.’

Yes, I thought, and it has taken your mind off your own tragedy for a little while at least.

Of course he could not stay at Tourville indefinitely, and it was with great reluctance that he left. I told him that I would bring the children to visit him and whenever he felt the need to be with me he must come. I would welcome him at any time.

On that note he left—a poor, sad, broken man.

The months slipped past quickly. I went to stay at Aubigné. It was a sad house now. My father had become morose, though, Armand told me, he was in a much better mood since I had come. He and his father quarrelled a good deal and it was certainly not always Armand’s fault. Armand was a man deeply concerned with his personal affairs; he interested himself in the estate but not too much; he liked to go to Court; he was the sort of man who, because he had been born into the aristocracy, considered that those who had not been were beneath him. Such an attitude was not accepted as readily as it had once been; and my father told me that one or two members of the great families were beginning to wonder whether something should not be done to raise the condition of the poor. My father was one of these people.

He was a very honest man and he admitted to me that such thoughts had not come to him until he had realized that it might be expedient to have them.

Marie Louise was still barren and entirely devoted to her religion, which took the form of long prayer sessions and frequent celebrations of Mass in the château chapel. Sophie had become more of a recluse than ever, and with those rooms in the tower being more or less apart from the rest of the household, there was beginning to be attached to them one of those legends which spring up in such places. Some of the servants said that Jeanne was a witch who had arranged for Sophie’s mutilations so that she could have power over her. Others said that Sophie herself was a witch and her scars were due to intercourse with the devil.

What disturbed me was that no attempt was made on my father’s part to stifle such rumours. Tante Berthe did her best and that was very good, for she was one who was accustomed to being obeyed; but although the stories were never repeated in her presence that did not mean they were not in the maids’ bedrooms and the places where the servants congregated.

So it was not a very happy household.

Lisette enjoyed being there—for I had taken her with me—but she did not altogether relish coming under Tante Berthe’s scrutiny. ‘I am a married woman now,’ she said, ‘and even Tante Berthe must remember that.’ At the same time she loved the château, and said it was such a grand old place and Tourville was nothing compared with it.

My father took such pleasure in my company and talked most of the time about what he and my mother had done together; how they had been completely happy in each other’s company. As though I did not know!

‘We were singularly blessed to have such a daughter,’ he said, but I believed that when they had been together they had thought of little else but each other. It was only now that he had lost her that he turned pathetically to me.

He visited us at Tourville and I was inclined to think that he was happier there than when at Aubigné. There were not so many memories. Besides, the children were there and it was not always easy to travel with someone as young as Claudine. So I prevailed on him to come to us, which he often did.

It pleased me. It meant that I did not have to be in that grim house with Sophie brooding in her turret. The Tourville family were always happy to see him. I thought then that I had been very lucky marrying into such a family. They might not be so grand as the Aubignés but they were most certainly kindly, and the atmosphere at Tourville was in complete contrast to that of Aubigné, bland, comfortable; Lisette called it flat and unexciting, whereas at Aubigné she felt that anything might suddenly happen.

Amélie was happily married; her husband was a gentle, rather meek man, colourless but extremely kind … rather like Amélie herself. My father-in-law, I imagine, got on better with his son-in-law than he had with his less predictable son. Charles was of a fiery temper; he might be more significant as a person but not always so easy to live with and my parents-in-law, who liked to live in peace, were very happy with present arrangements.

We talked often of Charles. We had heard nothing of him. It was not possible to get news. He was so far away for one thing and how letters could be sent from a country engaged in war I could not imagine.

From time to time we had visitors at Tourville and some of them had returned from America so they were able to give us a little news of what was happening there. One or two of them had been with Charles, so we knew he had arrived safely.

They were earnest young men, those returning warriors. They talked enthusiastically about the struggle for independence.

‘Men should be free to choose who governs them,’ one young man said. He was very young, idealistic, and his pleasant features glowed with enthusiasm.

My father was with us at the time this young man came and years later I was to remember the manner in which he answered him.

‘I believe,’ said my father, ‘that you young men, when you return from America, preach freedom for the oppressed.’

‘That is so, Comte,’ said the young man. ‘There is a wonderful spirit abroad and this war has made it clear. Monarchs and governors have no right to oppress those whom they rule. The oppressed must stand up and fight for their freedom.’

‘And these are doctrines you are preaching here? Is that so?’

‘Assuredly, sir. They are the doctrines of truth and honour.’

‘And the doctrines which are inciting the mobs to riot?’

The blood flamed into my father’s face. I knew he was seeing my mother coming out of the milliner’s shop to face the mob whose fury killed her. It seemed that everything we discussed led to that dangerous subject.

‘We are only telling people that they have rights,’ said the young man.

‘Rights to kill their betters!’ cried my father.

‘No, sir, no, of course not. Rights which should be given them and if they are not … to fight for them as the Colonists are doing.’

I changed the subject hastily. It was what I had to do continually. I liked best to be with my father on our own and if then he talked of the war I could make sure that he was not reminded of the troubles in France.

He thought Charles was a fool to have gone to fight. First he said the quarrel had nothing to do with France; secondly it meant that Frenchmen were coming back with revolutionary ideas; thirdly France was paying heavily for her support of the Colonists … and in more than money, which it could ill afford in any case.

‘He has left his family … all this time. How long is it? It must be over a year now. I wish we had found a better match for you, Lottie.’

‘I am fond of Charles and I think he is of me.’

‘To leave you all this time! To go and fight for a cause which has nothing to do with this country!’

‘He was challenged rather … I think he saw it like that.’

‘Yes,’ mused my father, ‘I would have liked someone higher for you.’

‘He was going to marry Sophie. You approved of that.’

‘Sophie was not the sort to attract important men … as you would. I was glad to make a match for her and the Tourvilles were ready. If only … but then you see you were not born in wedlock, and foolish as these conventions are they have to be considered. It seemed that the Tourville marriage was a very good one for you at the time.’

‘It was, and then I have Charlot and Claudine.’

‘Those dear ones, yes. Lottie, how I should love to have them at Aubigné … always.’ He looked at me sharply. ‘I see you are thinking it is hardly the place for children. But they would change it, Lottie. We should forget Sophie in her tower with dragon Jeanne, and Armand who cares for nothing but his pleasure, and his psalm-singing wife who spends most of her days in prayer instead of bringing babies into the world. And then there is that old misanthrope—myself—who would be a changed man if only he could have his loved ones about him.’

‘One day Charles will come home,’ I said. ‘I must be here when he does.’

So once again we parted and my father went back to his life of mourning and I continued to wait for news of Charles’s return. Occasionally I heard news of the war. It was not yet over. There seemed to be a series of victories and defeats and I gathered the English were not doing well.

Then one day we had a visitor.

I had met the Comte de Saramand when Charles had been making his arrangements to go to America. He had been one of those who had answered the call and he had stayed at the château several times with us.

As soon as I saw him standing in the hall I knew that he had brought news of Charles and a feeling of dread swept over me.

Why was Charles not with him? They had gone together. Surely they would return together. And why had the Comte de Saramand called on me?

There was something about his demeanour which disturbed me. He looked very grave.

‘Welcome, Comte,’ I said. ‘You have news of my husband … ’

The Comte looked at me steadily and said: ‘I have bad news for you, I’m afraid.’

‘Charles … ’ I murmured.

‘He fell at the Battle of Eutaw Springs. I was with him at the end. His last thoughts were of you. He regretted leaving you and said he never should have done so. He wanted me to tell you that he loved you … that you were the only one.’

‘Dead?’ I murmured. ‘Charles … dead.’

‘He gave me this ring which I was to return to you.’

I took the ring. It was the gold ring with the lapis seal which he had always worn. There could be no doubt. Charles was dead.

Although I had come face to face with this possibility, the realization that it had actually come to pass was a great blow and shocked me deeply.

Charles … dead. Buried somewhere in a foreign land. Gone forever.

I mourned for Charles. I shut myself away to consider what his death would mean.

It was so long since I had seen him that I could not pretend the blow was as great as it would have been if he had been snatched away from me when I saw him every day. Life would go on the same at Tourville. Charles had for a long time not been a part of it, but death is shocking however it comes. Death is irrevocable. How many times had I thought during his absence, when he comes back we must discuss this … or plan that. And now … no more.

Chariot scarcely remembered him. Claudine had never really known him. His parents had lost their only son but they had a substitute in their son-in-law and this meant that Amélie and her husband would live permanently at Tourville.

When I broke the news to Chariot, I said: ‘Charlot, your father will never be coming back.’

‘Oh,’ said Charlot, looking up from his painting, ‘does he live in America now?’

‘He was killed in battle,’ I told him.

His eyes were round. ‘Did they shoot him with a gun?’

‘I … I think so,’ I faltered.

‘I wish I had a gun,’ said Chariot, and began to sketch one on the paper before him.

And that was what Charles’s death meant to Chariot.

I cried to myself indignantly: It is your fault, Charles, if you son does not care. You should never have left us.

I felt sad and lonely at night. He would never lie there beside me again. I should never feel his arms about me. But I had been lonely so long that I had grown accustomed to sleeping alone.

‘You should never have left us, Charles,’ I said again and again.

So I did not feel much change at Tourville.

When my father heard the news he came over at once. His first words were: ‘There is nothing to keep you here now.’

I had to admit it was true.

‘Aubigné should be your home. Do you agree, Lottie?’

I said I should need time to think.’

‘Please, Lottie, come home.’

He, who had once been so proud, who had rarely thought to ask for what he wanted, but merely to take it as his right, was pleading with me.

I knew what it would mean to him if I went. Was it the best thing for the children? Would it be right for me?

He had taken my hand. ‘Lottie,’ he said. ‘Please.’

And I knew that I was going to say yes.

A Tutor Comes

IT WAS SEVERAL MONTHS since we had arrived at Aubigné and it seemed more like home to me than Tourville ever had. The children loved it. I had been rather ashamed at the blithe manner in which Charlot and Claudine said goodbye to their Tourville grandparents, who had always been so kind to them. But the prospect of adventure and new places was irresistible to them and they were guileless enough not to hide this. I am sure the Tourvilles understood and were completely sincere in wishing us all every possible happiness in our new home. Louis-Charles also was excited at the prospect, and as the eldest of the children he had great influence on the others though Charlot certainly had a will of his own.

I had to stifle my emotion when the castle came into view. I had seen it many times, of course, but somehow because of the circumstances it looked different. It seemed as it had on that first time when I had come with my father and did not know then that it was to be my home. It was like a mighty fortress with its corbelled watch-towers and its stone-walled parapets and buttresses proclaimed its strength. I glanced up at what I called in my mind ‘Sophie’s Tower’ and I wondered what life was going to be like at Aubigné.

Lisette was delighted to be going back. She had found life at Tourville excessively dull and she had always had a special feeling for Aubigné.

My father was overjoyed to receive us and he could not take his eyes from the children. I thought, He is happy … at least as happy as he can be without my mother. Armand welcomed us with that brand of nonchalance which could be construed as indifference, but at least he had no objection to our coming. Marie Louise was even more indifferent. My father said derisively: ‘She has her eyes so firmly set on her place in Heaven that she has become unaware that she is still on Earth.’

Sophie kept to her tower and for a long time the children did not know of her existence.

So we settled in and the weeks stretched to months. Strangely enough, bereaved widow that I was—and I still thought nostalgically of Charles and the old days although it was so long since I had known them—I felt more alive at Aubigné than I had at Tourville. Aubigné seemed closer to affairs. My father rarely went to Paris now but he said that when he did I must go with him; and I did believe that since our coming he had begun to take a more lively interest in what was happening in the country.

I had been about two months at Aubigné when Dickon arrived.

My grandmother had died. Dickon said that the death of Zipporah had been the end of her. She had gradually lost what grip she had had on life.

He talked to me more seriously than he ever had before and as he was continually striving to be alone with me these talks were frequent. Once when we were riding he suggested that we tether our horses and sit by the stream, for it was not easy to talk on horseback.

He sat there occasionally picking up a stone and throwing it into the stream.

‘Poor Zipporah,’ he said. ‘That she should meet such an end! She was always such a quiet person. I was very fond of her, you know. Oh, you can look at me sceptically. I know she didn’t like me, but I don’t have to like people just because they like me, do I?’

‘I really believe you think you would have to like almost the whole of the world if you did that.’

He laughed. ‘No … not quite. Zipporah was against me right from the start. It was understandable. I was an impossible child. I hope none of yours turn out as I did. I rather think one of mine—Jonathan—might. We shall have to watch him. Zipporah summed me up in her quiet way and put the black marks against me. Then she did the incredible herself. I don’t think she ever stopped being amazed. But look what it brought her! You … the incomparable Lottie … and then that wonderful romance. It was beautiful to see. A perfect love-story. The passion of youth … the separation, and then the final reunion when they were both older, wiser and capable of realizing what true love meant. It is an example of us all.’

I guessed what he was leading up to and did not want him to say it … yet. I felt very insecure and I doubted his intentions. I believed I would always do that. I told myself that I could never entirely trust him again.

‘They were so happy together,’ I said. ‘So ideally suited. He so worldly, she was innocent. But she was an idealist and I think she made him the man she believed him to be.’

‘It is possible. And to die like that! The victim of fools … for there are many fools in this country.’

‘Aren’t there in all countries?’

‘You are right. But France at this time cannot afford her fools. Can you feel it in the air? It is like the quiet before the storm.’

‘I can feel nothing.’

‘That is because you are not aware of what is going on.’

‘I do live here and you are a visitor.’

‘I travel a little in France and I watch … ’

‘Dickon, your mother said something about fingers in pies. Are you here on a mission?’

‘If I were it would be essentially secret, wouldn’t it, and therefore you would not expect an honourable man to divulge it.’

‘I always thought there was some motive … ’

‘The main motive in my life is to be with you.’

‘I don’t believe that.’

He sighed. ‘How can I make you believe it?’

‘You never could. There is too much behind us. You once talked of marrying me, but you took Eversleigh instead. You married soon afterwards … most suitably.’

‘I made one big mistake. I should have waited for you.’

‘But think what Eversleigh meant to you.’

‘I can only think what you mean to me. Lottie, we have the example of your parents. How wise they were! Think of their idyllic life together.’

‘It would never be like that for us.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because we are different. You will tell me that you and my father have a lot in common. But it needs two to make a perfect union and I can assure you that I am not in the least like my mother.’

‘Lottie, come back to me. Marry me. Let’s start where we should have started all those years ago.’

‘I don’t think it would be wise.’

‘Why not?’

‘If I married again I should want something wonderful. I remember seeing my parents together. I have heard my father talk of his marriage to my mother … nothing less would satisfy me. If I cannot have that I prefer to stay as I am, free, independent.’

‘You shall have everything you want.’

‘It’s too late, Dickon.’

‘It’s never too late. You have some feeling for me.’

‘Yes, I have.’

‘You feel better for having me around.’

I hesitated. ‘I … I am aware of you.’

‘Very much aware of me. There is a sparkle in your eyes when you see me.’ He turned to me and, putting his arms round me, kissed me. I could not hide the fact that I was moved, that I responded, that I wanted him to go on kissing me; but I kept seeing my mother, hearing her voice, and she was warning me against him. She seemed closer to me now that she was dead.

I pushed him away vehemently. ‘No, Dickon,’ I said. ‘No.’

‘We are both free now,’ he reminded me. ‘Why not? Let’s take it up where we should have done all those years ago.’

I could not deceive myself. I wanted to say Yes. I knew life with Dickon would be a hazardous adventure, but I wanted to embark on it. Yet I could still see my mother warning me as it were from the grave; and so vivid was that image that I could not ignore it.

‘You could find someone very suitable in the circles in which you move,’ I said. ‘London society, is it? Some rich woman?’

‘I have a fair share of worldly goods now, you know.’

‘But you would still like more.’

‘Who can honestly say No to possessions?’

‘Certainly not Dickon.’

‘Well, you would hardly be a penniless parti,’ he said lightly. ‘I am sure your father, who is immensely rich, would not allow that. Then you must have dues to you from Tourville.’

‘I see that in the midst of your devotion you have had time to calculate my worth.’

‘Your worth is above diamonds, which I always considered to be more worthy than rubies. The fact is, Lottie, I love you. I always have. I always knew you were the one for me, ever since I set eyes on the beautiful child with the wilful ways and the passion which matched my own. Do you imagine that your romantic birth did anything to stem my love for you?’

‘No, I don’t think that. The dam was Eversleigh.’

‘Cruel! Cruel and cutting. A man makes one mistake. Is he never to be forgiven for it?’

‘Forgiven, yes. But the mistake—if mistake it was—is not easily forgotten.’

My mood towards him had changed. When he talked about my father’s wealth I remembered how interested he was in the estate, his speculation, his pleasure in it which he had shown when we were riding about it.

If I married again it would not be for my possessions, and although I was sure Dickon’s feeling for me went deep, I knew that he could not help considering every advantage.

He desired me. I was well aware of that. But I had seen with Charles that such desire does not last and when it begins to be less urgent there must be some firm foundation on which to build a love such as that which I had seen between my mother and father.

Dickon went on pleadingly: ‘There are two very good reasons why you should come to England. The first is that I need you and you need me. The second is that this is a very uneasy country. You are shut away in this rural district and you forget it. Can you ever forget, though, what happened to your mother?’

I shook my head. ‘Never,’ I said vehemently.

‘Why did it happen? Ask yourself why. France is in a ferment. I know that. It is my business to know it.’

‘Secret mission?’ I asked.

‘It is obvious that if there is trouble in France we on the other side of the Channel will not be very sorry about that. They deserve what is coming to them, and remember this, Lottie, it is coming. It’s in the air. Wise people are aware of it. Look back a little. Louis XIV left a strong France, but during the reign of the fifteenth Louis France’s fortunes were dissipated. The extravagant excesses of that king enraged the people. They hated the Pompadour and du Barry. The finery … the carriages in the streets … the glittering entertainments … the fortunes spent on dresses and jewels by the aristocrats had been noticed. And beside this are the poor … the starving poor. Such contrasts exist in other places but in no other have the foolish people called such blatant attention to them. They are nearly bankrupt. They have a young, idealistic King with an extravagant wife who is an Austrian—and the French hate foreigners. There are agitators in this country whose sole task is to promote trouble. They started with the Guerre des Farines but it misfired somehow and instead of becoming a revolution it was a rehearsal for one … probably due to the courage of the King when the mob marched on Versailles … and luck, of course. He had that.’

‘You hate them, Dickon.’

‘I despise them,’ he answered.

‘You have never forgiven them for their attitude towards the Colonists. They thought they were helping the oppressed. Charles thought that.’

‘And he left you, the fool. He lost you … and his life. He earned the reward of his folly. I understand why he went to fight for the Colonists. I wouldn’t tell any French man or woman this, but I think they were right to stand out against the imposition of taxes. But for the French to raise companies of men and go to their aid when the money was needed in their own country, and then to come back and preach republican ideas when their monarchy and the whole structure of their country is beginning to crumble, that is the utmost folly. It is more than that—it is madness.’

‘And you think it will have some effect?’

‘Have some effect! You have seen what happened to your mother. She knew nothing of their grievances but the mob does not care on whom it wreaks its vengeance. She was an aristocrat in a grand carriage. That was enough for them. You have never seen these agitators. You don’t know how persuasive they can be.’

‘I did see one once. But I did not stay long to listen. I was with my father and we left immediately.’

‘That was wise of you. Don’t make any mistakes. There is danger in the air. It could catch up with you. Come away while you are safe.’

‘What of my father?’

‘Bring him with you.’

‘Do you think he would ever leave Aubigné?’

‘No.’

‘I shall not leave him as long as he wants me. It would be too cruel to go away. It would be worse for him than my being at Tourville. At least then I was in France.’

‘And what of me?’

‘You, Dickon? You are capable of taking care of yourself.’

‘You will see that I am right.’

‘I hope not.’

‘And I shall not give up. I shall continue to harry you. And one day you will realize that it is useless to hold out any longer.’

‘You mean you will come to France again on your secret mission?’

‘On my romantic mission. That is the only mission important to me.’

We talked and I swayed. I believed at some times I was on the point of giving up everything for Dickon. He had that effect on me. Then I heard again the voice of my mother and I remembered that I could not leave my father. So I tried to be content and make a happy life for myself in Aubigné.

Time passed quickly at Aubigné. There was so much to do. Lisette had added the task of governess to that of lady’s maid. She had always taught Louis-Charles when he was young and now she took over Claudine. I helped her and we enjoyed our sessions with Claudine, who was a bright child.

My father said the boys should have a tutor and he would look out for someone reliable and suitable.

The American war had come to an end and even King George had given his consent to the independence of the colony. Everyone was very pleased about that, including my father, who pointed out that the English had been soundly beaten and that as well as losing half a continent they had added millions to their national debt.

‘A piece of folly,’ he said.

And I thought of what Dickon had said about French participation in it. It had taken Charles; it had brought a republican spirit into France; Dickon had said that it could have far-reaching consequences, and although I tried to dismiss those implications from my mind I could not do so entirely.

I had been up to see Sophie on several occasions. I think she could bear to see me now that Charles was dead. Neither of us had him now. I believed that was how she saw it.

She managed to look quite pretty in a way. Jeanne, who was an expert seamstress, had devised a method of attaching hoods to her gowns; they always matched in colour or were beautifully blended; and they were designed to hide her scars completely.

I tried to make her believe that Charles and I had not been lovers before our marriage. I insisted that the flower she had found in his room had not been dropped there by me. I wished I could have found that flower, but although I had searched, I never had been able to. Charles had given it to me so long ago and I had never given it a thought until Sophie mentioned it. I greatly regretted that it was lost and I could not show it to Sophie to prove that I was speaking the truth. But she did not want to hear any more on the subject and I knew that if I persisted I should be prevented from going again to see her and I was trying very hard to get back to that relationship which we had once shared.

The children were a safer subject, but I did not take them to see her. It occurred to me that it might make her resentful of me if she saw the children, for she would immediately think that they might have been hers. So I merely told her about Charlot’s prowess at sport and how he enjoyed playing with Louis-Charles.

I knew that Lisette went to see her, and I thought it was a great breakthrough when Lisette and I went together and there were the three of us just as there used to be in the old days.

Lisette was a great asset. She could keep the conversation flowing in the right directions. She brought materials to show Jeanne and we all discussed the making of a new gown for Sophie.

I thought: One of these days we shall persuade her to come down and live like an ordinary member of the household. There was no reason why she should not. She looked rather pretty in her cleverly fashioned gowns, and the hood seemed like a charming fashion.

Jeanne would welcome us when we went up so I supposed we were making good progress.

There was a sudden change in Armand. He seemed to have become almost lively and there was a new sparkle in his eyes. It was as though he were taking a new and sudden interest in life.

I mentioned it to my father when I was sitting with him in the small room of his own apartments which he regarded as his very private sanctum. I was one of the few who were invited to join him there.

When I mentioned Armand, he smiled and said: ‘Yes, he has changed. So you noticed. He really is getting quite enthusiastic about this project.’

‘Has he a project then?’

‘Yes. Perhaps he is rather over-reacting. But on the other hand, it is a change to see him really getting interested in something. He is gathering together quite a little band of his friends. He was deeply affected, you know, by what …’ My father faltered and went on briskly: ‘By what happened to your mother.’

I nodded.

‘He has always had strong feelings about the rights of those born in high places and what happened was an outrage against his class.’

‘So it was that which affected him so deeply, not … ’

‘Armand’s feelings for people do not go very deep. But he can feel strongly for causes. People are like that. Have you noticed? Those who campaign on behalf of the masses very often have little feeling for the individuals. Armand is such a one. So what deeply affected him was the outrage against class. It has stirred him to action, and he is gathering together a number of his friends with some scheme in mind for forming an armed band to deal with those agitators who are making speeches in the towns. They seem to be the ones who are stirring up trouble. Indeed it was one of those … ’

I put my hand over my father’s. ‘Don’t talk of it,’ I said.

‘You are right. I should stop myself. It brings it all back more vividly. We were saying that Armand had changed and it is a change for the better. It is good to know that he can show some spirit about something. I thought he never could.’

‘What do they plan to do?’

‘I don’t quite know. When they find these agitators speaking to the people they will attempt to answer them … and if there is trouble they will be ready to deal with it.’

‘There really is a great deal of trouble in the country, I fear,’ I said.

‘That is so, my dear. Sometimes I say to myself as our King did, “Perhaps after me the deluge.” But it won’t come to that. There are men like Armand all over the country. They would soon deal with a revolt. Sometimes I wish it would come to the boil so that we could deal with it. It is these undercurrents, these subversive attempts to undermine law and order, which terrify me.’

I could see that the subject was dangerously near that one which could bring back such poignant memories and although they were never far from the surface of his mind I wanted to stop his plunging into them. So I talked of Charlot and asked how he was getting on with his chess which my father was teaching him.

‘Not bad … not bad at all. He lacks the necessary concentration … but he might play one day.’

‘He enjoys being with you.’

‘He likes best to talk about the castle.’ My father smiled. ‘I have had to look up our family history to satisfy him.’

‘Claudine likes too to get into this room.’

‘Ah, Claudine. She is a minx.’

There was no doubt what the children’s presence meant to him. How could I ever go to Dickon and take them away from him!

I vowed to myself that I would never leave Aubigné while my father lived.

The castle had its effect on Lisette. I realized that before we came here there had been a vague dissatisfaction in her manner. She had never talked about her farmer husband and I had not asked because I had quickly understood that that period of her life was something of which she did not wish to be reminded. It had brought her Louis-Charles, it was true, but although she was ambitious for him, she did not show him a great deal of tenderness.

But since we had returned to the castle she had become more like the old Lisette whom I had known when we were young girls. She used to come to my room to dress my hair and we had a great deal of fun trying out new hairstyles. At Court, under the influence of the most extravagant of queens, they were becoming more and more ridiculous. Ladies vied with each other to build up these towers of folly on their heads, using jewels, feathers and stuffed birds. Lisette amused herself by trying out ideas on her own and my hair.

I had always been fond of her but since my father had told me the pathetic story of her beginnings, I felt tender towards her, and when she was laughing and talking with me I often used to wonder what her life would have been like but for my father.

We talked about everything that came into our heads. We often discussed the children and I told her that now that they were growing up my father wanted to find a good tutor for the boys.

‘We can manage Claudine for a little while yet,’ she said, ‘but boys in their teens certainly do need a tutor.’

‘I dare say my father will find someone soon. He is waiting really until he goes to Paris and then he can make enquiries in certain quarters. He is most anxious to find the right sort of person.’

‘That is very important. And this tutor … he will teach Louis-Charles as well?’

‘But of course.’

I glanced at Lisette in the mirror. Her mouth had that old square look which I had noticed before. I construed it as a form of bitterness. She was very proud, I knew, and hated to accept charity.

I said quickly: ‘It is good for Charlot to have a companion round about his own age. I am so glad you had a son, Lisette.’

‘He certainly made a lot worth while.’ She had recovered and was smiling.

‘Armand seems to have changed lately,’ she added.

‘Oh yes, he has a project. The Comte was telling me about it.’

‘A project? What sort of project?’

‘Well, you know there is some concern about what is happening in the country.’

‘Is there?’ said Lisette.

‘Lisette, you must give some serious attention to these matters.’

‘Why?’

‘Because they concern you.’

‘How could they concern me?

‘Remember my mother.’

‘Oh yes,’ said Lisette quietly.

‘There was an agitator in the town. It was his talk which aroused the fury of the mob.’

‘I know. Don’t talk about it. I can’t bear it. Your mother was such a charming … good lady.’

‘Apparently these agitators are travelling round the country. They are men with a gift for words. Well, people are getting rather worried about it. Even Armand.’

‘Even Armand!’ She echoed my words.

‘Yes, he and some friends are getting together apparently.’

‘What are they going to do?’

‘They will try to do something about it. I don’t know what.’

‘Oh … I see. Armand has certainly changed. He seems to have found something he can really care about.’

‘Armand was incensed by what happened to my mother. It evidently stirred him.’

‘To a hatred of the rabble?’

‘He always had that. But this brought home to him how much damage they could do. Well, he and his friends are getting together and they are going to do something. I think it’s a good thing, don’t you?’

‘That people should be aware of what is going on, yes.’

‘Dickon is always talking about it.’

‘Dickon! I thought when he was here he talked of other things!’

‘He does, but he talks a good deal about the state of affairs in France as well.’

‘What does he—the Englishman—know of French affairs?’

‘He seems to make it his business to find out.’

‘Does he tell you what he finds out?’

‘No. It is all rather secret, I gather. I accuse him of being on some mission.’

‘It would be against France, I suppose.’

‘I don’t know. He won’t talk of it.’

‘He is a fascinating man. I don’t know how you can resist him.’

I was very frank with Lisette as I had been in the past and I admitted that sometimes it was not easy.

She understood.

‘What if you married him?’ she said.

‘I have sworn never to leave my father.’

‘He would not wish you to stay, surely, if you would be happier married.’

‘It would be too much for him. If he knew I wanted to go he would say I should, I know. Think of it. I should take the children with me. It would be too cruel.’

‘And me … ? Would you take me with you?’

‘But of course you would come. You and Louis-Charles.’

‘I think the Comte is a little bit fond of Louis-Charles. Do you agree?’

‘I am sure he is. Louis-Charles is a delightful boy.’

‘I fancy I see the Comte’s eyes on him now and then, which is rather strange, don’t you think?’

‘No, I don’t. The Comte likes lively children. He is desperately missing my mother and the best thing that can happen to him is to have children in the house.’

‘His own … yes. But the way in which he looks at Louis-Charles … ’

‘Oh, Lisette, stop being so obsessed.’

‘With what?’ she asked sharply.

‘With position. You are always remembering that you are the niece of the housekeeper.’

‘Well, am I not?’

‘Yes, but it is not important.’

‘It is … now,’ she answered. ‘If those agitators had their way, perhaps it would be a good thing to be the niece of the housekeeper and not such a good thing to be the daughter of a Comte.’

‘What an absurd conversation! How do you think my hair would look with this green feather stuck in it at a ridiculous angle?’

‘Very amusing … and far more important than all this talk about boring matters.’ She snatched the green feather from me. ‘Here! Let’s put it there, so that it sticks right up at the back. Isn’t that grand?’

I gazed at my image in the mirror and grimaced at Lisette, who was watching me with her head on one side.

About a week later we had a visit from the Duc de Soissonson. This was quite unexpected and put the household in a turmoil.

Tante Berthe complained that she should have been told and immediately set to work ordering her staff in her usual efficient and peremptory manner. They were busy in the kitchens. The cook plunged into her prodigious memory and remembered that when the Duc had last stayed at the château, which was twelve years before, he had shown a preference for a very special potage, the recipe for which was a guarded secret known only to her family.

In appearance the Duc was quite insignificant, in spite of his wealth which I gathered was immense, and his influence in the country was also great.

He chided my father for not visiting Paris nowadays.

‘I heard what happened to the Comtesse,’ he said. ‘A sorry business. This rabble … I wish we could do something about them. Did they find the ringleaders?’

My father, with great emotion, said that they had been unable to trace the agitator who was the real villain. It was impossible to accuse a mob. They had rioted and in the mêlée the horses had been frightened and the carriage overturned.

‘We ought to put a stop to it,’ said the Duc. ‘Don’t you agree?’

‘With all my heart,’ answered my father. ‘If I could find those responsible … ’

I wanted to beg the Duc not to talk about it.

We sat down to dine in the great hall of the castle. Tante Berthe and the cooks had certainly made sure that all the culinary and domestic arrangements ran smoothly and I was sure there could not have been more attention to detail in the ducal establishment itself.

The Duc, however, did not stand on ceremony. He was friendly and easy-going and conversation at the table was far from stilted.

Inevitably it drifted to the troubles in France and my heart sank as I looked at my father.

‘Something should be done about it,’ said Armand. I noticed he was eyeing the Duc speculatively and I wondered whether he was contemplating asking him to join his band. ‘These fellows are getting really dangerous.’

‘I agree,’ said the Duc. ‘Something should be done. But what, my dear fellow, what?’

‘Well, we should stand together … those of us who want to keep law and order.’

‘Stand together … that is the idea,’ cried the Duc.

‘We are not going to stand idly by,’ Armand told him.

‘Certainly not!’ went on the Due. ‘Nice boys you have here, Comte. I watched them from my window. Grandsons, I suppose.’

‘One of them,’ said my father. ‘And I have a granddaughter too. I hope you will meet them before you leave us.’

‘I want to do that. Do you have a tutor for the boys?’

‘Strange you should say that. We are in fact looking out for one now.’

‘Léon Blanchard,’ said the Due.

‘What’s that, Soissonson?’ asked my father.

‘I said Léon Blanchard … best man in that line, my cousin’s boy Jean-Pierre tells me. Ought to get him for your boys, but I suppose you couldn’t do that. Jean-Pierre wouldn’t let him go.’

‘I dare say we shall find a good man.’

‘It’s not easy,’ said the Duc. ‘A bad tutor can be a disaster, a good one worth his weight in gold.’

‘I agree with that,’ said my father.

Armand put in: ‘There are quite a number of us. We are not going to stand by and let the mob take over in these small towns.’.

‘Mind you,’ the Duc was saying, ‘Jean-Pierre employs the man only two or three days a week now. I wonder … ’

‘You mean the tutor?’ I asked.

‘Yes, the tutor. He’s the man. You ought to try and get hold of him. He might manage three days a week. Three days with the right man is better than the whole week with the wrong one.’

‘I think you are probably right,’ said my father.

‘Leave it to me,’ said the Duc. ‘My cousin was telling me about this man and how pleased Jean-Pierre was with him. Said his boys were getting too old for a tutor now. They’ll be going to their university soon. But they still get coaching for two or three days a week. I’ll ask.’ He shook his finger at my father. ‘You will be most unwise to engage anyone else until you have seen Léon Blanchard.’

‘We must certainly see the man,’ said my father. ‘It is good of you, Duc, to take such an interest.’

‘Nice boys,’ said the Duc. ‘Look as if. hey should have the best.’

The Duc de Soissonson spent three days with us. He talked a great deal to my father and continued to chide him for shutting himself away from his friends. My father presented Charlot to him, and because I felt that Lisette was more hurt to see her son left out than she had been for herself, I arranged that Louis-Charles should be presented to the Duc at the same time.

He was a little vague and seemed unsure which boy was his friend’s grandson but he was very complimentary about them both. After he had gone, my father said: I hope he doesn’t forget about the tutor. He can be a little vague.’

But the Duc did not forget and in less than a week after his departure, Léon Blanchard came to see us.

We were all impressed by Léon Blanchard. There was about him an air of dignity and a certain indifference whether or not he was employed, which was unusual in someone applying for a post. Not that there was anything insolent in his demeanour—far from it. His manners were impeccable. My father said to me afterwards that it was probably because several others were trying to secure his services.

His dress proclaimed him to be something of a dandy; his white wig accentuated his blue eyes which were startling in his dark face; his high cheekbones and lean looks were quite attractive. His clothes were of good though far from gaudy material, his shoes sturdy but of fine good leather. He had a pleasant voice and because his manner and speech and everything about him suggested a man of breeding he was treated as such.

He was in my father’s private sitting-room when I was called in to meet him.

My father said: ‘You had better tell Monsieur Blanchard what will be required.’

Monsieur Blanchard took my hand and bowed over it. He could have come straight from Versailles.

‘I am very glad that you have come to see us, Monsieur Blanchard,’ I said.

‘I could not ignore a command from the Duc de Soissonson, Madame,’ replied Monsieur Blanchard, smiling.

‘Oh, was it a command?’

‘A very urgent request. The Duc is anxious that I shall be of help to you.’

‘Then I hope we can come to some arrangement.’

We talked about the boys and what they had learned so far. He shook his head gravely implying that they must certainly be in need of his tuition.

‘It would be my pleasure to take on that task,’ he said. ‘But it may well be that your boys need a full-time tutor.’

‘That was what we were hoping for,’ I said.

‘Then, Madame, I cannot be of service. I have two charges whom I must see into the university. They are advanced and I spend three days at the Château de Castian. They are connections of the Duc de Soissonson, as you are probably aware. I could not desert them at this stage and in the circumstances would only have four days a week to spare here. You see how I am placed.’

My father said: ‘These boys you are teaching … I understand they will in due course go to the university.’

‘Indeed they will, Monsieur le Comte, but until they do I am in duty bound to stay with them.’

‘It does not sound very difficult to me. You could spend four days of each week here and the other time with your present pupils. How would that work out?’

‘Excellently, if it were not necessary to tie me down. I could come here and teach your boys for four days of the week. But there might be a time when I would feel it necessary to give an extra day to my original pupils …who … forgive my saying so … have first claim on me.’

‘It does not seem an insurmountable problem,’ I said.

Then we laughed and chatted and it was agreed that Léon Blanchard should come to us for part of the week and if he should need a day off to spend with the boys of Castian, no obstacle would be put in the way of his taking it.

When he left we had agreed that he should start at the beginning of the next week.

After he had left my father said he thought it was an excellent arrangement. It would give us a chance to see how we liked each other.

I was pleased to see my father in an almost merry mood. I had Léon Blanchard and the boys to thank for that.

So Léon Blanchard came into our household and he appeared to be a great asset.

First, the boys liked him. He had a knack of making lessons interesting. He came to table with us. He, being such a gentleman, had made that natural and the servants accepted him, which was in itself something of a miracle because they usually took umbrage if anyone, as they would say “stepped out of their class”. I was not sure into which class a tutor fitted, but it seemed that in Léon Blanchard’s case there was no question. He fitted naturally.

I thought Lisette might be a little put out because he took meals with us, something which I had wanted her to do, but she had refused. However, at least she showed no resentment.

He used to sit over the dinner table and talk with my father, usually about the state of the country. He had travelled widely and could discuss other countries with first-hand knowledge; and he could be very entertaining. He had a wonderful gift of words and could create a scene vividly with a few well-chosen sentences.

‘I am grateful to the Duc for sending us such a man,’ said my father.

There was one thing he did which was the most outstanding of all.

One day he was looking for the boys and strayed up to Sophie’s turret. Thinking that part of the castle was uninhabited, he opened a door and walked in. Sophie and Jeanne were playing a card game together.

I can imagine her horror. Fortunately she was wearing her hood and that must have saved her considerable embarrassment.

She must have been horrified, for the rest of the household respected her wish for privacy and whenever we did attempt to see her we did so by asking Jeanne if it were possible first.

Lisette got out of Jeanne exactly how it had happened.

‘There was Mademoiselle Sophie seated at the table,’ said Jeanne, ‘and this man was walking into the room. I stood up and asked what he wanted. He guessed I was a servant and went straight to Mademoiselle Sophie. She got to her feet, her face scarlet with mortification, and he took her hand and bowed and explained that he was the tutor looking for his charges and she must forgive him for the intrusion. Well, she surprised me. She asked him to be seated. He looked at her as though he was interested. She always says she is hideous but that isn’t so. With her hood on she looks like a lady wearing a special fashion, and fashions, heaven knows, are crazy enough these days. She asked him to take a glass of wine with us and there she was telling him how she had got her scars. I’d never heard her talk like that with anyone before. She explained her terror when the crowds pressed in on her … and the pain … and everything.

‘He listened attentively and said he could well understand her horror of crowds. People en masse could be terrifying. And he said he thought what a charming fashion it was to wear a hood in the way she did. It would be the rage at Court if she appeared there in it. She said she was not likely to do that, but it was clear that she enjoyed his company and when he rose to go he apologized once more for coming in so unceremoniously, and he asked if he might come again. You could have knocked me down with a feather when she said he might.’

How amazing it was that this stranger had been able to break through what had seemed an impenetrable barrier.

Even Lisette was a little charmed by him, and I thought what a happy solution it would be if he married her. She needed a happy married life. Her experiences with the farmer whom, I began to understand, she had come near to loathing, had embittered her in some way. I was sure that a happy marriage with an attractive man would heal her wounds.

Lisette and I found great pleasure in riding together and we often tied up the horses and stretched ourselves on the grass and indulged in the pleasure of light-hearted conversation. Lisette was an inveterate gossip and if she could discover a hint of scandal about anyone in the neighbourhood she was delighted. What she liked most was discussing the royal family. She had the Frenchwoman’s dislike for Marie Antoinette and declared her belief in the rumours about her when they were scandalous. She often went into the town and once brought back two books which were allegedly about the Queen. One was Les Amours de Charlot and ’Toinette which told of the supposed love-affair between the Queen and her brother-in-law Charles, Comte d’Artois. The other was even worse. This was Essai Historique sur la Vie de Marie Antoinette … a scurrilous production.

I read it with indignation and told Lisette she should burn the book. ‘It is obviously full of lies,’ I said. ‘It doesn’t make sense.’

‘I think it is only fair that when queens behave immorally they should not be allowed to escape criticism. Think what happens to poor girls who are not queens. One false step and their lives are ruined.’

‘But this is lies. You have only to read it to see through it. It is written by someone who hates the Queen.’

‘It is printed in secret but that does not prevent people seeing it. I was told that you could buy it in most of the towns, and all over the country people are reading about the private life of their queen. So why shouldn’t I?’

‘No sensible people will mistake such rubbish for truth.’

Lisette looked at me slyly. ‘I will not show you anything else,’ she said.

‘I hope you will not show this sort of thing to anyone.’

‘How fierce you are! It is only a joke.’

‘It wouldn’t be to the Queen.’

‘I am sure she would laugh. They say she is very frivolous.’

I refused to discuss the scandals about the Queen with Lisette and she stopped talking about them. Instead she talked about Léon Blanchard and marvelled that he had become quite friendly with Sophie.

‘Lottie,’ she said one day, ‘do you think he might marry Sophie?’

‘Marry Sophie! She would never marry.’

‘Why not? She allows him to visit her. Hasn’t she changed since he came?’

I flushed a little. A short while ago I had been thinking he might be a suitable husband for Lisette.

‘I know,’ went on Lisette, ‘he is only a tutor and not therefore of the right social standing to mate with the daughter of a Comte, but she is scarred … damaged goods, you might say.’

‘Don’t talk about Sophie like that!’ I said sharply.

‘You are soft, Lottie. Women in families like this one are regarded as so much merchandize or bargaining counters. Marriages are made for them … suitable marriages. Poor Sophie is not of the same value as she once was. I am sorry if I offended you by referring to her as damaged goods, but that is really what she is.’

‘If she could marry and have children, it would be wonderful. She looks quite pretty in her hoods.’

‘But for a husband she would have to take off her hood.’

‘I think Léon Blanchard is a very kind man.’

Lisette was silent.

‘I should be happy if she married,’ I went on. ‘I would cease … ’

‘To feel guilty for marrying the one who was to have married her?’

‘I know she had rejected him.’

‘For good reason. Oh, Lottie, you should never feel guilty in life. What happens happens, and if one person’s tragedy is another’s good fortune that is all the luck of the game.’

Sometimes Lisette made me see myself too clearly for comfort. I did feel guilty though, and if Sophie would only marry and be happy I should be able to wash all guilty feelings from my mind.

Lisette smiled at me knowingly.

‘Let us pray for a match between them … for her sake and for yours.’

It really seemed as though this might not be impossible. Sophie had changed. She even joined us for dinner now and then. She sat next to Léon and seemed to draw comfort from him and she began to look prettier in her beautifully coloured hoods, and there was a certain contentment visible on her face.

What a change since Léon Blanchard had come to our household!

Armand talked about his friends when we gathered over the meal and the servants had brought in the last of the dishes. There would be an atmosphere then almost of conspiracy.

‘These agitators are doing their work more frequently now,’ said Armand. ‘There was one in Aurillac last week. The trouble is we never know when they are going to strike. It is the same procedure every time. A man suddenly gets up in the market-place, begins to harangue the crowd, tells them how they are maltreated, rouses them to fury and usually that starts it.’

‘Why is it that you cannot find out where they are likely to be?’ asked Leon. ‘If you did … and your band could be there waiting for them … ’

‘We plan to have our agents watching for them, visiting the towns, listening. We shall catch up with them in time. Then we shall be ready for them. You should join us, Blanchard.’

‘I doubt I should have the time. But if I had I should be with you.’

‘I am sure we could arrange something.’

‘Unfortunately I have to prepare lessons for my pupils. I think perhaps that in taking on two sets of them I may have given myself too much.’

My father said: ‘Of course Monsieur Blanchard has not time to join your band, Armand. You should know better than to ask him.’

Any suggestion that Blanchard might leave threw my father into a panic. He had assured himself that having been recommended by the Duc de Soissonson, Blanchard must indeed be the best possible tutor. His coming had made such a difference to us all. The boys seemed to enjoy their lessons; they were more docile, more serious; the Comte himself enjoyed Léon’s conversation and would miss his company; but perhaps above all was what he had done for Sophie. It was so much more natural that she should join us for meals and live like a normal member of the family. Shutting herself away in her turret had been most unhealthy.

‘I shall see what can be done,’ said Léon. ‘I do realize the importance of your mission. It may well be that I can find a little time … ’

Armand was delighted and beamed his approval of Léon Blanchard. He went on to talk at length of the aims and intention of his band.

I often wondered what it was about Léon Blanchard that people seemed to find so attractive. I myself was growing interested in him but that was because I was seeing him as a possible husband for Sophie; but I did find he was in my thoughts very often.

One day when I returned from a ride I saw him going into the stables and I was suddenly aware of an extraordinary feeling, almost as though I remembered living that moment before.

It was uncanny. A kind of déjà vu.

Léon turned and faced me and the strange feeling vanished. He bowed with his customary graciousness and remarked that it was an excellent day for a ride.

That summer Dickon visited us again. He came unexpectedly and caught me completely off my guard. With characteristic aplomb he expected to be warmly welcomed. I told him that he should have warned us but he really was behaving as though my father’s château was one of the family homes. ‘Anywhere you are I think of as my home,’ he said.

I told him he was ridiculous and I should have to make his excuses to my father.

My father, however, had taken quite a fancy to him. It was not surprising. When my father had been young he must have been a little like Dickon. They both possessed an overwhelming masculinity and therefore perhaps irresistible charm for the opposite sex; deeply rooted in this was an assurance that they would be welcome wherever they went.

Dickon told me that he had two reasons for coming to France. One he need not explain because it was obvious: Myself. The other was that France was becoming the most interesting country in Europe and the eyes of the rest of the continent were fixed on it asking, What is going to happen next? Wildly conflicting stories were circulated about the Queen’s diamond necklace and the whole of Europe was agog for news. Some reports said it had been a gigantic swindle to discredit the Queen, but her enemies were sure that she had been involved in the conspiracy. The French exchequer was in a dire state and everywhere the Queen was blamed for her extravagance. The necklace was just another excuse to denigrate her. She was becoming known as Madame Deficit. In Paris there were demonstrations against her.

Dickon was very interested to meet Leon Blanchard. He regarded him intently and said: ‘I have heard your praises sung throughout the household, Monsieur. I understand the boys profit from your excellent tuition. I have two myself so you will forgive me if I am a trifle envious. We have tutors who never seem to be able to endure my sons for more than a few months. What is your special secret?’

‘I think,’ answered Léon, ‘it is to make the lessons interesting, to understand the young and to treat them as individuals.’

‘Monsieur Blanchard certainly has the gift,’ said my father warmly.

It was obvious even at the first meal that Dickon was eager to find out all he could about what was happening in France.

‘What do you think of this necklace affair?’ he asked.

Leon Blanchard said: ‘The Queen does not understand the state of the country and the effect her extravagances are having on the people.’

Armand put in: ‘The people will never be satisfied. The Court has to preserve its dignity. It is quite clear that the Queen has been cheated over this matter of the necklace and rogues and vagabonds have sought to commit a great fraud and have used her name to bring it about.’

‘That certainly seems to be the decision of the courts,’ said my father.

‘The people are rising against her,’ added Léon. ‘They blame her for everything.’

‘They have to have a scapegoat,’ replied Armand. ‘I am for harsher punishment for the rioters. We shall track them down eventually.’

‘Have you had any luck in discovering who the people are who are causing all this dissension?’ asked Dickon.

‘It’s organized,’ said Armand. ‘That much we know. We don’t so much want to catch members of the mob as the people who are inciting them. That is our motive.’

‘But what are you doing about it?’ insisted Dickon.

‘Don’t imagine we are standing aside and letting them ruin this country,’ cried Armand. ‘We are going to find these people, I tell you. We are very busy doing just that.’

Léon Blanchard said: ‘The Vicomte is deeply concerned with what is happening and has formed a band of men who share his opinions. I am happy to be one of them. We are doing very good work. I, alas, cannot be of as much use as I would wish. I have my work to consider … ’

‘You are doing excellent work with us,’ said Armand.

I watched Sophie while Léon was speaking. I was surprised that she had joined us as we had a visitor. Dickon had not shown by a flicker of his eyelids that he was surprised by her presence; he had talked to her naturally and although she was a little quiet she appeared to be at ease. In fact she looked pretty in a gown of pale lavender and a hood to match. I noticed how often her eyes rested on Léon Blanchard and although I was glad to see her changed and happier, I did feel a certain apprehension as to what the future held for her. Was it really possible that he would marry her? If he would, some of the happiness she had known during her engagement to Charles might be brought back to her.

Armand was talking enthusiastically about the work he and his band were doing, gathering together noblemen from the outlying districts. ‘We’ll get these agitators,’ he cried. ‘They’ll get their just deserts and that will hit at the root of the trouble.’

When we left the table Dickon said he wanted to take a walk round the ramparts and asked if I would join him.

I said I would. I took a wrap and we went to the top of the tower and walked round the path, pausing now and then to lean on the stone between the battlements and look out over the countryside.

Dickon said: ‘It looks deceptively peaceful, doesn’t it?’

I agreed.

He put an arm round me. ‘You shouldn’t stay here, you know. It’s going to blow up at any minute.’

‘You have been saying that for a very long time.’

‘It has been simmering for a long time.’

‘Then perhaps it will go on for a little while yet.’

‘But not too long a while, and when it comes the deluge will be terrible. Marry me, Lottie. That is what you should do.’

‘And come to England?’

‘Of course. Eversleigh awaits you and the children. My mother hopes every time I come to France that when I return you will be with me … you and the children to grow up with mine. Of course, I can’t promise you such a paragon of a tutor as Monsieur Blanchard appears to be. Who is that man, by the way? He is a very distinctive character.’

‘Did you think so? You have only seen him at dinner.’

‘He’s the sort of man who makes his presence felt. He seems to have changed the whole household. Not you perhaps. I hope your thralldom is for one only.’

I did enjoy Dickon’s company. I liked the way he could be light-hearted when discussing the most serious subjects.

‘I am in thrall to no one, Dickon,’ I answered. ‘You should know that.’

‘To my sadness, yes. But why don’t you come to England? Get away from this cauldron of discontent.’

‘Which you have said several times is on the point of boiling over.’

‘It will be no joke when it does. Some will be sadly scalded. But not my Lottie. I shall not permit that. It would be much easier though if you summoned up your good sense and left while it is easy to do so.’

‘I can’t go, Dickon. I won’t leave my father.’

‘Eversleigh is a very big house. Don’t underestimate it because you have passed your days in châteaux. Let him come too.’

‘He never would. This is his home, his country.’

‘A country, my dear, from which men such as he is will soon be trying to escape.’

‘He never would and I would not leave him.’

‘You care more for him than for me.’

‘But of course. He loves me. He brought me here to acknowledge me. I have been treated as his daughter. You chose Eversleigh.’

‘Will you never forget that?’

‘How can I? It is there while you are there. You are Eversleigh and I was the one whom you rejected for its sake.’ I laid my hand on his arm. ‘Oh, Dickon, I have forgiven it … if there was anything to forgive. You were just behaving naturally as Nature designed you should. No. What I mean is that it is not important any more. But I won’t come to England while my father lives. You can see how he relies on me. If I went and took the children—and I would never go without them—what would happen to him?’

‘I know his feelings for you. That is obvious. You are the one. Poor Sophie means little to him and he does not like his son overmuch. I see that. I am not surprised. Armand is a fool. What is all this about a band?’

‘It’s some sort of society … an organization. They are trying to scent out agitators.’

‘I gathered that, but with any success?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘But what do they do?

‘They meet and talk … ’

‘And talk and talk,’ said Dickon derisively. ‘That sort of thing should be done in secret. He should not announce his plans at the dinner table.’

‘Well, it is the family.’

‘Not entirely. There is the tutor for one.’

‘Oh, but he is one of them. Armand eventually persuaded him and Monsieur Blanchard is very obliging. He likes to live on good terms with everyone. He did plead too much work at first but eventually he agreed.’

‘Such an obliging man. How did you come by him?’

‘By recommendation. The very best. It was a great stroke of luck when the Duc de Soissonson visited us and the matter of getting a tutor came up. Monsieur Blanchard looks after the Duc’s cousin’s children … or some such relationship. He still does for a few days a week. So we have to share him.’

‘The gentleman seems in great demand. The Duc de Soissonson, did you say?’

‘Yes. Do you know him?’

‘I know of him. He is much talked of in Parisian circles.’

‘I have often wondered, Dickon, how you come to know so much.’

‘I am glad you respect my knowledge.’

‘Why do you come here so often?’

‘Surely you know the answer to that.’

‘No, I don’t. At least I am not sure. Dickon, I have come to the conclusion that there is much about you that I am not sure of.’

‘The mystery makes me more attractive perhaps.’

‘No, it does not. I should like to know more about your motives. Sometimes I think you are rather pleased … perhaps that is not quite the right word … rather gratified about the troubles here.’

‘As an Englishman whose country has suffered a great deal at the hands of the French, what do you expect?’

‘Are you by any chance engaged in work for the government of England?’

He took me by the shoulders and looked into my face. He was laughing. ‘Am I a spy?’ he whispered. ‘Am I here on some secret mission? Why won’t you believe that I have one purpose in my life and that is to win you?’

I hesitated. ‘I know that you would marry me, but I would never be first in your life, would I? There would always be other things … like Eversleigh. Property, possessions which mean power, I suppose. Yes, that would come first with you, Dickon, always.’

‘If I could convince you that nothing else mattered to me, would you alter your determination to stand out against me?’

‘I would never believe it.’

‘There will come a day when I shall convince you.’

He caught me to him and kissed me wildly, passionately, over and over again. I wanted to cling to him, to tell him that I was ready to accept what he could give me, and if it were not all that I wanted, I would take what I could get. I tried to remind myself that I was a widow who had been long without a husband; and I was a woman who needed the love of a man. I had loved Charles in a way; I had missed him sorely; but I knew that what I felt for Dickon went deeper than that. It had its roots in the past when I had been a young idealistic girl, innocent and unworldly, dreaming of perfection. I drew away from him.

‘That will not convince me,’ I said.

‘When I hold you in my arms, when I kiss you, I know that you love me. It is something you cannot hide.’

‘I won’t deny that I could deceive myself, but I won’t, Dickon. I will have everything or nothing. Besides, as I have told you I would never leave my father.’

He sighed and leaned over the parapet.

‘How quietly beautiful it is—the château land. The moonlight makes the river shine like silver where it catches it. Château land …rich land … all the wood of the forest and the farmlands. The Comte must be very proud of his possessions.’

‘He is. They have been his family’s for generations.’

And to think they will go to that fool Armand! He has no notion of how to manage an estate of this size.’

‘There are people to do it for him as you have at Eversleigh when you make your mysterious jaunts to the continent.’

‘Still … a pity. But for him it might come to you.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, you are his daughter and he is very proud of the fact.’

‘Armand is very much alive. And in any case Sophie would come before me.’

‘Sophie! I wouldn’t gamble on that. You are the apple of his eye. I am sure he will want to see you well provided for.’

‘Dickon!’ I cried.

‘Well?’ He smiled at me lazily.

I said: ‘Are you calculating again?’

‘I always calculate.’

‘And you think that my father will make me a rich woman. Oh, now I see why you are so ardent.’

‘I should be ardent if you were a pauper.’

‘But perhaps not for marriage.’

‘If you were a peasant in the field I should still yearn for you.’

‘I know that you have yearned for many women and some of them doubtless of humble station. It is getting cold. I want to go in.’

‘Not until you have listened to me. Why are you so suddenly incensed?’

‘Because for a moment I forgot what you are like. You want to marry me because you have somehow discovered that my father is leaving me something, and although you won Eversleigh and Clavering … and heaven knows what from your wife … you are still looking for more.’

‘You get so angry, Lottie. What a temper you have!’

‘Good night, Dickon. I am going in.’

He took my hand and pulled me towards him. ‘We should not part on bad terms.’

I repeated wearily: ‘Good night.’

Then he held me against him once more and in spite of the fact that I had followed the trend of his thoughts, I was moved to respond to his embrace. He was dangerous. He could catch me unaware.

I wrenched myself free.

‘You have misunderstood,’ he said.

‘No. I understand perfectly. You are following your custom of courting rich women. Well, my father is not dead yet and I pray it will be a long time before he is, but you may be sure that what he leaves me is not going to be added to what you have accumulated through your matrimonial manoeuvrings.’

‘Lottie, I have told you that if you were a peasant gleaning in the field … ’

‘You would want to make love to me, yes. I understand you perfectly, Dickon. And as you believe me to be an heiress you would like to marry me. Once more … Good night.’

I ran off, and I was rather surprised that he did not attempt to follow me.

In my room I lay in my bed staring up at the ceiling.

‘Go away, Dickon,’ I murmured. ‘Leave me alone.’

I mistrusted him and yet I longed for him. He was becoming very dangerous and I should have to be wary.

I spent a disturbed night thinking about Dickon, trying all the time to make myself see him as he really was, and to upbraid myself for wanting him in spite of what I knew.

He, too, might have been disturbed by our conversation of the previous night because he went off during the morning on horseback on what I began to think of as his secret missions.

I walked round the gardens with my father in the morning and he told me that Léon Blanchard had taken the boys on a ramble. They were learning something about forestry and botany and finding it very interesting.

‘They will be looking for specimens of various plants,’ said my father. ‘It is good for them to learn these things. Blanchard seems to have some knowledge on every subject.’

I said: ‘Dickon is very concerned about the position here.’

‘Ah yes. Who is not?’

‘He thinks it is getting more dangerous.’

My father smiled. ‘He would like you to return to England with him.’

I was silent.

He insisted: ‘That is what he wants, is it not?’

‘He has suggested it.’

‘And you, Lottie?’

‘I am going to stay here, of course.’

‘Is that what you want?’

‘Yes,’ I said determinedly.

‘He interests me, that man. I have never ceased to be grateful to him, you know. It was due to him that I found you and your mother. If your mother had not been so much afraid of him she would never have written to me and I should never have known of your existence. My feelings towards him are mixed. Your mother always disliked him and was a little afraid of him, I think. But I have to say that I have strong admiration for him. In spite of everything he might well be the man for you, Lottie.’

‘I should have to think a great deal about that!’

‘I have been thinking. You are too young to spend your life here like this. You should marry. You should have more children.’

‘Do you want to be rid of me?’

‘Heaven forbid! What I want is your happiness and if that takes you away from me, then … so be it.’

‘I should never be happy away from you.’

‘God bless you, Lottie,’ he said emotionally. ‘Bless you for the happiness you have brought into my life. I want you to promise me that if you should long to go with him—or to anyone—you will not let any feeling of duty, or whatever you feel towards me, stand in your way. I am old; you are young. Your life is before you. Mine is finished. Remember, that more than anything I want your happiness.’

‘And do you know,’ I said, ‘I want yours.’

He walked away from me for a moment. Then he said: ‘All will be well. This kingdom has stood firm in all the troubles which have beset it through the centuries. France will always be France. There has to be a future for our children. I won’t deny the fact that I want Charlot to inherit Aubigné. Of course, if by any chance Armand has children it would have to go to them first … but that is hardly likely. After Armand, it must be Charlot. I have drawn this up with the lawyers.’

‘I hate all this talk of wills,’ I said. ‘I want everything to stay as it is now. You have years ahead of you yet.’

‘Let us wait and see,’ he said.

At midday Léon Blanchard and the boys came back with their specimens which they had found in the woods and the countryside. My father was very amused by the conversation at the table, which was all about the amazing things which could be found in the forest and the meadows. They were going to spend the afternoon listing their specimens. On the days when Léon Blanchard was with them, they usually worked mornings and afternoons to make up for those days when he was with his other pupils—though he always left them work to do in his absence.

Dickon came back late in the afternoon. I saw him arrive and I watched while he left the stables and sauntered into the castle.

I was still thinking of him as I dressed for dinner.

Sophie was there. She was talking to Léon Blanchard when I came in; she was flushed and smiling, almost sparkling, as she did in his company. I decided to ask my father whether he would consider a match between them. I was sure he would give his approval for he was very impressed by Léon Blanchard, and as Lisette had said, he would be very relieved to find a husband for Sophie.

Armand had not appeared and my father asked Marie Louise if he were coming down. Marie Louise looked surprise as though it was remarkable that she should be asked about her husband’s whereabouts. She had no idea, she said. So my father sent up one of the servants to find out.

The servant came down with the news that the Vicomte was not in his rooms. His valet said that he had laid out his clothes, for he was expecting him back, but he had not returned.

No one was very surprised for Armand was never very precise in his movements. He had been known to go hunting and not come back until morning. Now that he was enthusiastic about his Band, he sometimes stayed a night with one of the members if he had what he called business to do.

So the meal progressed as usual and Léon Blanchard talked about the boys’ enthusiasm for botany and said he thought that it was an excellent subject for them to pursue. Sophie listened intently to him when he spoke. The change in her was growing more and more noticeable every day and I intended to speak to my father at the first opportunity.

Dickon was unusually quiet and after the meal he did not suggest we take a walk through the castle grounds or round the parapet.

I slept well that night to make up for the previous one and the next morning, when I was alone with my father, I broached the subject of Sophie and Léon Blanchard. We were sitting on the grass overlooking the moat when I said to him: ‘What a difference there is in Sophie nowadays.’

‘It is remarkable,’ he agreed.

‘You know why. She is in love.’

‘Yes … Léon Blanchard.’

‘Suppose he offered to marry her?’

My father was silent.

‘You have a high opinion of him,’ I said.

‘I would never have thought a tutor a suitable husband for my daughter.’

‘In the circumstances … ’

‘I agree, the circumstances make a difference.’

‘You could not wish for a more cultured man. He is connected with the Duc de Soissonson, I believe.’

‘Very remotely, apparently.’

I turned round. Sophie was standing very near to us. I flushed scarlet because it was Sophie.

‘Sophie,’ I cried scrambling up.

‘I was taking a walk,’ she said.

‘It’s a lovely day.’

Our father said: ‘Good morning, Sophie.’

She returned the greeting and started to walk away.

‘Won’t you … ’ I began, but she walked on.

I sat down again. ‘How strange that she should appear like that. So quietly … ’

‘We wouldn’t have heard the footsteps on the grass.’

‘I hope she didn’t hear that we were discussing her.’

‘She should have made herself known before.’

‘I think she was trying to escape notice altogether.’

‘We were saying that she has changed, but she doesn’t seem quite to have got over that ridiculous recluse attitude.’

‘Only when Léon Blanchard is there. If the matter were raised you would not withhold your consent, would you?’

‘I should be as pleased as you to see Sophie happily settled.’

‘I am so glad.’

Then we talked of other things.

When Armand did not appear at dinner that night we began to be uneasy. My father said if he was not back on the next day he would send a man to some of Armand’s friends to see if they had news of him.

It was rather an uneasy meal for we were all wondering about Armand. Léon Blanchard said he was sure he was with one of his friends because there had been a meeting on the day Armand had left the château. He himself had been too involved in the boys’ lessons to leave the château during the whole day, and from the first he had made it clear to Armand that his post with the boys came first with him.

The following day we heard the disquieting news that Armand had not arrived at the meeting which had taken place at the house of one of his friends. They could not understand why he did not come, as he had definitely arranged to be with them and had sent no message to say he could not come or why he had failed to turn up.

Now we were really alarmed.

‘There must have been an accident,’ said the Comte and began questioning the servants. Armand had left on horseback in the early afternoon, the groom told us, and he seemed in excellent spirits. He had gone alone.

There was no news of him all that day. Dickon went out with the men, scouring the countryside but it was the following day before anything was discovered. It was Dickon who found Armand’s horse. It was tethered to a bush close to the river. The animal was in a state of panic, not having been fed for so long; and by the river bank was a feathered hat which we identified as Armand’s.

The river was deep and fairly wide at that point but Armand was a strong swimmer. It seemed possible, however, that there had been some accident and the Comte ordered that the river be dragged. This was done but nothing came to light. We tried to conjecture what could have happened.

The Comte thought that Armand might have been near the river when he slipped, was knocked unconscious and fell into the water. It was swift-flowing and could have carried his body away and eventually reached the sea.

Dickon said: ‘This looks like foul play. He was on one of his Band excursions. Is it possible that this was known? Indeed, it is impossible that it was not known. All the Band seemed to do was talk, and there must have been many who were against such an organization.’

‘Wouldn’t they have attacked the entire Band?’ asked my father. ‘We must find Armand.’

A week passed and nothing came to light. Armand had completely disappeared. Dickon had a theory that someone had killed him and buried the body, and he took Léon Blanchard with him and they went out with spades to search the spot by the river.

Everyone joined in the task of trying to find Armand. There were no lessons during those days and the boys joined enthusiastically in the search.

At length we really began to accept the fact that Armand was dead. This seemed certain, for Armand would never have forgotten his horse unless circumstances made it impossible for him to do otherwise.

A gloom had fallen over the house.

‘It is true,’ said the Comte, ‘that we live in dangerous times. Armand should never have got involved in that Band. Poor Armand, he never did succeed in anything he undertook and all this has done has brought him to his death.’

‘He may not be dead,’ I said.

‘Something tells me that I shall never see him again.’

The search went on. In the town, in the castle nothing else was talked of; it went on and on; there were continual searches; but the weeks passed and there was no news of Armand.

It was about three weeks after Armand’s disappearance when a messenger came to the castle.

It was mid-afternoon. Dickon had gone out. He was still hoping to find some clue which would solve the mystery of Armand’s disappearance. The boys were in the schoolroom because it was one of Leon Blanchard’s days to be at the château and Lisette and I were in my room. She was making a shirt for Louis-Charles and I was seated at the window looking out.

I was still hoping for news of Armand and I had a notion that Dickon might well be the one to find it.

As I sat there I saw a stranger riding towards the castle.

‘I think he’s coming here,’ I said.

Lisette dropped her sewing and came over to stand beside me.

‘Who is it?’ I wondered.

‘We’ll soon know,’ she said. ‘Why don’t you go down and see?’

‘I will. It might be news of Armand. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if he were alive and well!’

I was in the hall when one of the grooms came in with the stranger.

‘He is asking for Monsieur Blanchard, Madame,’ said the groom.

‘I think he is in the schoolroom.’ One of the maids had appeared and I said to her: ‘Go and fetch Monsieur Blanchard.’ I turned to the visitor. ‘Not bad news, I hope.’

‘I am afraid so, Madame.’

I sighed. He did not continue and I felt it would be incorrect to pry into Léon Blanchard’s business.

Léon appeared on the stairs, his expression bewildered, and when he saw the man and recognized him, he was very anxious indeed.

‘Jules …’ he began.

The man said: ‘Ah, Monsieur Léon, Madame Blanchard is very ill. She is asking for you to come to her at once. Your brother sent me off and I have been two days getting here. It is necessary for us to leave without delay.’

‘Mon Dieu,’ murmured Léon. He turned to me. ‘This is sad news. My mother is very ill and asking for me.’

‘Well, you must go to her,’ I said.

‘I’m afraid I have no alternative. The boys … ’

‘The boys can wait until you come back.’

Lisette was beside me. ‘They will need some food before they go,’ she said.

‘Thank you,’ said Léon. ‘I think we should leave at once. We could get quite a way before nightfall and perhaps make it the next day.’

‘That would be the best, Monsieur,’ said the messenger.

The boys came running into the hall.

‘What’s happening?’ cried Charlot.

I said: ‘Monsieur Blanchard’s mother is ill and he is going to see her.’

‘What about those poisonous toadstools you were going to show us, Monsieur Blanchard?’

‘You can see those when Monsieur Blanchard comes back.’

‘When?’ demanded Chariot.

‘Before long, I hope,’ I said. ‘Oh, Monsieur Blanchard, I do hope you find your mother recovering when you get to her.’

‘She is very old,’ he replied sadly. ‘But if you will forgive me … I have very little time. I must prepare. I could be ready to leave within an hour.’

I went to find my father to tell him the news. He was most concerned.

While we were gathered in the hall wishing Léon Blanchard godspeed, Sophie appeared on the stairs. Léon Blanchard stood very still as she came towards him.

‘What has happened?’ she asked.

He replied: ‘I have a sudden message from my brother. My mother is very ill. I have to go to her at once.’

Poor Sophie! I thought. How she loves him!

‘You will come back … ’

He nodded and, taking her hand, kissed it.

She was with us when we went into the courtyard to watch him ride away. Then without a word she went back to her tower.

When Dickon returned he was most interested to hear that Léon Blanchard had left. He said that he too must think of leaving. He had been away a long time, far longer than he had planned to be.

Two days later he left.

He took my hand and, holding me close to him, kissed me with fervour.

‘I shall be back soon,’ he said, ‘and I shall keep coming until that day when I take you back with me.’

When he had gone a gloom settled on the castle. There was no news of Armand. Marie Louise did not seem unduly upset but insisted that whatever had happened to her husband was God’s Will. Sophie returned to her old way of life, shutting herself away with Jeanne. I seemed to spend my time between Lisette and my father and I was thankful that I found the conversation of both of them lively enough to compensate for the brooding sense of doom which seemed to be settling over the castle.

Sometimes when I went out I would glance up at Sophie’s turret. She was often there at the windows looking out along the road … waiting, I knew, for the return of Léon Blanchard.

Several months passed. We had now ceased to talk of Armand. It was presumed that he was dead.

My father had changed his will. I was to inherit his estate in trust for Charlot. He had left Sophie amply provided for and he said that if Léon Blanchard returned and asked for her hand he would make a handsome settlement.

Dickon came again. I was surprised to see him so soon. He looked more pleased with himself than ever.

He said: ‘I have been very busy and I have news for you.’

‘I am all eagerness to hear it.’

‘I would like to tell you in the presence of your father.’

While he was washing off the grime of the journey I went to my father and told him that Dickon had come and that he wanted to see him immediately because he had news which he wanted us both to hear.

My father smiled at me. ‘I guessed who it was,’ he said. ‘I could tell by your face.’

I was surprised and a little horrified that I should show my feelings so clearly.

‘Yes,’ he went on indulgently, ‘there is a shine in your eyes … a softness. That is what makes me think that you and he.

‘Oh please, Father,’ I said, ‘I have no intention of marrying … not yet in any case.’

He sighed. ‘You know I would not stand in your way.’

‘I know. But let us hear what Dickon has to say.’

Dickon was clearly very proud of himself but then that was habitual with him; but on this occasion he was more than usually self-congratulatory.

My father sent for wine and we settled down in his little sitting-room to hear what Dickon had to say.

‘You are going to be amazed,’ he said, ‘but I am not entirely surprised. I always thought it had worked out a little too neatly to be genuine.’

‘Dickon,’ I cried, ‘you are keeping us in suspense to shock and surprise us and show us what a clever creature you are. Please tell us.’

‘Let us start at the beginning. In the first place the Duc de Soissonson has no cousin whose boys require a tutor.’

‘That’s impossible!’ cried my father. ‘He was here himself and told us so.’

Dickon smiled slyly. ‘I repeat, he has no relations whose boys require a tutor.’

‘Are you suggesting that the man who came here calling himself the Duc de Soissonson was not the Duc at all?’ I asked.

‘Absurd!’ cried my father. ‘I know him well.’

‘Not well enough,’ retorted Dickon. ‘It was indeed the mighty Duc who came here, but there are certain aspects of his character which have escaped your notice. He is a crony of the Duc d’Orléans.’

‘What of that?’

‘My dear Comte, have you never heard what goes on at the Palais Royal? The Queen’s chief enemy is Orléans. Who knows what his motives are! Does he want to topple the monarchy and set himself up as ruler? If he did he would be the leader of the people—my Lord Equality. There is much intrigue at the Palais Royal. These men are the traitors to their own class and are more to be feared—or as much as—the mob.’

‘Tell us what you are suggesting,’ said my father. ‘The Duc recommended Blanchard to us because … ’

‘Because,’ finished Dickon, ‘he wanted one of his men in your castle.’

‘A spy!’ I cried. ‘Léon Blanchard … a spy!’

‘Difficult as it is to believe of such a paragon … yes.’

‘But why here? We are remote from all this trouble.’

‘Armand was not. He had his little Band, didn’t he? Mind you, I don’t think Orléans or Soissonson could be very alarmed about that. But they are acting with caution and they could not allow such meetings to go unnoticed.’

‘This is a monstrous suggestion,’ said my father. ‘What proof have you?’

‘Only that Blanchard’s story was false. He was not a part-time tutor. When he was not here he was carrying on the work his fellow conspirators had designed for him.’

‘But he was an excellent tutor.’

‘Of course he was. He is a clever man … cleverer perhaps than Soissonson and Orléans himself. But he was not a Duc, was he? Therefore he takes orders until the time comes when he will be one of those to give them himself.’

‘He has promised to come back.’

‘We shall see if he does,’ said Dickon. ‘My bet is that he will never return to this château.’

‘And my son Armand … ’ said the Comte.

‘It seems most likely that he was murdered.’

‘No!’

‘Monsieur le Comte, we are living in dangerous times. What seems like melodrama in one age is commonplace in another. Blanchard knew there was to be a meeting that day.’

‘Blanchard spent the whole day in the château. He could not have been involved in murder.’

‘Not in the act of carrying it out, but he could have given the information as to where Armand would be. My theory is that your son was set upon and killed, and his murderers made it appear an accident and that he had been drowned in the river and carried away by it.’

‘It is a fantastic story.’

‘Fantastic things are happening in this country now.’

‘I really cannot believe it,’ said my father.

‘Then,’ retorted Dickon, ‘you must disbelieve.’

‘If Blanchard comes back he will be able to refute this story.’

‘But he has not come back, has he?’

‘It might be that his mother is still very ill and he must stay with her.’

‘Where does he say he has gone to?’

‘A place I never heard of. What was it, Lottie? Paraville. It is a good many leagues south. I trust he comes back soon. I should like to hear from his own lips that this is just wild conjecture.’

‘How do you explain Soissonson’s lack of relatives with children?’

‘Soissonson is vague. It might have been some connection … not exactly related.’

‘He doesn’t appear to have anyone, and he is hand in glove with Orléans who is doing his best to bring this country to revolution.’

‘My dear young man,’ said the Comte, ‘you have worked so hard and I know it is for our good. You must forgive me if I tell you I find it hard to believe that Soissonson would have a hand in murdering the son of an old friend.’

‘When revolution comes old friends become new enemies.’

‘You are very kind to take such an interest in our affairs,’ said my father. ‘I trust you will be staying with us for some little time.’

‘Thank you, but no,’ answered Dickon. ‘I must return to England in a few days.’

He was really quite angry with my father. He had been so excited when he arrived with his news—which I had to admit, like my father, I did not believe—that he found the reception of it a somewhat bitter anticlimax.

He was quite subdued when he dined with us and afterwards when he suggested a walk on the ramparts, I readily agreed because I was sorry for the reception he had had.

He said: ‘The sooner you leave this place the better. People are half asleep. They cannot see what is going on around them and when it is thrust under their noses they turn away and call it melodrama. I tell you this, Lottie: these people deserve what is coming to them. Don’t be as foolish as they are. Come back with me … now. This is no place to be in, I do assure you.’

‘Dickon,’ I said, ‘how can you be sure?’

‘You should go to Paris. You should see the crowds every night at the Palais Royal. The gardens are full of them. They are preaching to the people … and who is behind all this? Orléans … men like Soissonson. Traitors to their own class … and therefore the most dangerous traitors. It is all as clear as crystal. Did it not strike you as fortuitous that Soissonson should arrive just at the time when you needed a tutor and provide one?’

‘But he was such a good tutor!’

‘Of course he was. These people know what they are doing. They are not half asleep. He comes because rumour has reached Orléans and his gang that bands are being formed throughout the country. I take it they have disbanded this little one. You might say that Armand was ineffectual, and I agree wholeheartedly with that, but men such as Orleans are too thorough to allow even the inefficient blunderers to have a little success. I see it all clearly. Blanchard comes to spy out the land. He even joins the band.’

‘He did not want to at first. He had to be persuaded.’

‘Of course he had to be persuaded! He wouldn’t appear eager. His was a secret mission.’

‘It’s too wild.’

‘And what of Armand?’

I was silent and he went on: ‘Yes. Poor foolish Armand, he will never inherit his father’s estates now. I’ll warrant they’ll be for you.’

I looked at him quickly and he went on: ‘For the boy, of course. That would be how the Comte’s mind would work. After all, there are only you and that pathetic Sophie now. She was not considered for a moment.’

I looked at him coldly. ‘At such a time you concern yourself with such matters … ’

‘They are there, Lottie. You cannot ignore what is there.’

I wasn’t listening to him. I was thinking of Armand, going down to the river … a group of armed men springing out on him. But perhaps there was only one.

I felt sick and frightened.

I said: ‘I want to go in.’

‘Think about what I have said, Lottie. Marry me. I’ll take care of you.’

‘And the estate,’ I said, ‘and Chariot’s inheritance … ’

‘I’d take care of everything. You need me, Lottie, as much as I need you.’

‘I don’t feel that need,’ I said. ‘Good night, Dickon.’

He left the castle the next day. He was clearly very displeased with his reception.

Lisette wanted to know what had happened and as she knew something important had, I told her.

‘Blanchard!’ she said. ‘Yes, when you come to think of it, he was too good to be true. He was quite handsome, wasn’t he, in a manly way. Yet he never seemed to look at anyone except Sophie. He never made the slightest attempt to be flirtatious with you, did he, Lottie?’

‘Of course not.’

‘With no one but Sophie. That was a very gallant sort of relationship, wasn’t it? It could have been because he was sorry for her. But what was I saying … handsome and courtly. His manners were of the very best … and such a good tutor, recommended by a noble Duc. It was all so very satisfactory. Tell me what Dickon discovered.’

I told her what I knew of the Duc d’Orléans and the Palais Royal, and Soissonson’s connections with them.

‘Dickon tells a good story. When you come to think about it, as good a one could be made up about him.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, let’s allow our imaginations to run loose, shall we? Dickon wants you … very much he wants you but he would like you even better if you brought something substantial with you. I suppose the Comte’s wealth is vast. Armand would naturally inherit the bulk … but if Armand were no longer there … well, it is likely that Sophie’s being hors de combat, so to say, all that wealth might descend to you.’

‘Stop it,’ I cried. ‘It’s … horrible.’

‘You know what’s coming. If Armand were out of the way, you see … ’

I could not shut out the vivid pictures which came into my mind. Armand going to the river … someone waiting there for him … leaving the horse tethered … dropping the hat by the river … burying the body. Dickon had been out all that day, while Léon Blanchard had spent the morning with the boys in the wood and the afternoon they had sorted out their specimens. Dickon had been out, I remembered. He had come back late.

‘This is nonsense,’ I said.

‘Of course it is. The whole thing is nonsense. You will see Léon Blanchard returning soon and all this suggestion about the Duc de Soissonson will be explained.’

‘There is one thing which cannot be explained,’ I said, ‘and that is Armand’s disappearance … perhaps death.’

‘Yes.’ Lisette looked straight ahead. ‘It may be that one of our theories is right after all.’

Soon after Dickon’s departure the messenger who had come before to see Léon Blanchard arrived at the castle. He did ask to see my father but as he was out at the time left a letter for him.

When my father returned he sent for me and I went to his sitting-room where I found him anxiously awaiting me.

‘Come and look at this,’ he said and gave me the letter which the messenger had brought.

It was from Léon Blanchard and explained that he could not come back to us. He had found his mother very ill indeed when he returned and although she had recovered she was still in a weak condition. He had decided that he could not be so far from her and was most regretfully telling us that he was giving up his posts and was taking something near his mother’s house so that he could live with her and care for her. He thanked us for the happy time he had had in the castle.

He had sent separate notes to the boys telling them that they must work harder, that Louis-Charles must look to his grammar and Charlot to his mathematics. He would be thinking of them and the happy relationship they had enjoyed when he was under the Comte’s roof.

There could not have been more sincerely written letters.

‘And we are to believe that this man was a spy sent to us by Soissonson!’ said my father.

‘Reading those letters it does seem improbable,’ I agreed.

‘Well now,’ went on my father, ‘we have to look for a new tutor. I promise I shall keep Soissonson out of this!’ he added with a laugh.

I wondered what Dickon would have said if he could have seen those letters.

I was sure he would have insisted that they proved his case.

The whole household was talking about Léon Blanchard who was not coming back. The boys were clearly upset and Charlot said they would hate the new tutor. I explained that it was unfair to hate someone before you had seen him.

‘His trouble will be that he is not Léon,’ said Charlot.

The servants talked continually of what a delightful man he had been. ‘Always the gentleman,’ they said.

He certainly had the power to charm.

Lisette told me that Jeanne had said Sophie was taking Léon’s departure very badly.

‘I think that is the really tragic part of it all,’ I said. ‘I wonder if it would have come to anything if he had stayed.’

‘If he had intended it should, surely he would have done something about it.’

‘I am not sure,’ I pondered. ‘Class distinction comes very strongly into it and I imagine a man like Léon Blanchard would be very much aware of that. Perhaps he was just being chivalrous to Sophie and she, poor girl, longing to escape from what her life is here, imagined something which was not there.’

‘Poor Sophie,’ said Lisette. ‘His going is a tragedy for her.’

That night I was awakened by some dream to find myself in a state of terror. I could not understand what was happening. Then I was suddenly aware that I was not alone.

For those first waking seconds I was transported back in time to the days before my wedding to Charles when I had been awakened in just such a way to see Sophie at the foot of my bed in my wedding veil.

I cried: ‘Who is that?’

Then she came out of the shadows. She stood by my bed. She had taken off her hood and her face looked grotesque in the moonlight.

‘Sophie!’ I whispered.

‘Why do you hate me?’ she asked.

‘Hate you! But Sophie … ’

‘If you don’t, why do you try to hurt me? Haven’t I been hurt enough to please you?’

‘What do you mean, Sophie?’ I replied. ‘I would do anything I could for you. If it were in my power … ’

She laughed. ‘Who are you? The bastard. You have come here and won my father from us all.’

I wanted to protest. I wanted to cry: He was never yours so how could I take him from you?

She stood there at the end of my bed as she had done on that other night. She said: ‘You took Charles from me.’

‘No! You gave him up. You wouldn’t marry him.’

She touched her face. ‘You were there when this happened. You went off with him and left me.’

‘Oh, Sophie,’ I protested. ‘It was not like that.’

‘It is long ago,’ she said. ‘And then you told my father, did you not, that Léon wanted to marry me … and you persuaded him that it would not be right because he was only a tutor and I was a Comte’s daughter. I heard you talking to him about me at the moat.’

‘It is not true. I said no such thing. I said it would be good for you and for him. I assure you, Sophie, that is what I said.’

‘And he was sent away. There was this story about his mother … and now he is to stay with her and he won’t come back here. That is your doing.’

‘Oh Sophie, you are quite wrong.’

‘Do you think I don’t know? You tried to pretend first that he was a spy … you and your friend … that man … that Dickon. You are going to marry him, are you not? … when my father is dead and everything comes to you. What of Armand? How did you and your lover get him out of the way?’

‘Sophie, this is madness.’

‘Madness now, you say. Is that what you want them to say of me? I hate you. I shall never forget what you have done to me. I will never forgive you.’

I got out of bed and approached her, but she put out her arms to ward me off. She walked backwards to the door her arms stretched out before her as she went. She looked like a sleepwalker.

I cried: ‘Sophie … Sophie … listen to me. You are wrong … wrong about everything. Let me talk to you.’

But she shook her head. I watched the door shut on her. Then I went back to bed and lay there, shivering.

A Visit to Eversleigh

GLOOM HAD DESCENDED ON the castle. I could not forget Sophie’s nocturnal visit and I wondered how I could ever get her to accept the truth. I had not realized how much she had resented me. It was only since the coming of Charles, of course; before that she had accepted me as her sister.

Perhaps I had been too taken up with my own affairs to give enough attention to hers. Poor girl, so fearfully scarred, and then to lose the man she was to marry and again to have lost the chance of happiness. I must try to understand.

Marie Louise announced her intention of going into a convent. She had long thought of doing so and now that it was almost certain that her husband was dead, there was nothing to keep her in the château. My father was delighted to see her go. He said he thought it would lessen the gloom a little.

He was very anxious about me.

‘You are pining for Dickon,’ he said.

‘No, no!’ I protested. ‘Nothing of the sort. When he comes he creates … disturbances.’

‘But it is disturbance that makes life worth living for you and without it … is it not a little dull?’

‘I have the children and you.’

‘The children are growing up. Claudine is nearly thirteen years old.’

‘So she is.’ When I was that age I had been overwhelmed by Dickon for some time and had thought of marriage to him. Charlot was almost sixteen and Louis-Charles was a little older than that. It was indeed true that they were growing away from childhood.

‘And you are getting older, my dear,’ went on my father.

‘We all are, of course.’

‘It must be thirty-four years ago when I saw your mother for the first time. It was so romantic … dusk … and she stood there like a phantom from another world. She thought I was a ghost too. I had been hunting for a fob I had lost and I rose up suddenly on that haunted patch of land and really startled her.’

‘I know. You have told me.’

‘I should like to see it all again before I die. Lottie, you should go back. You should go to Eversleigh. You should make up your mind what to do about Dickon. I think you are in love with him. Are you?’

I hesitated. ‘What is love? Is it being excited by someone … enjoying the presence of someone … feeling alive when he is there and yet at the same time knowing too much about him … knowing that he wants power, money … and that he is prepared to do almost anything for them … not quite trusting … ? You see, I am trying to see his inadequacies. Is that love?’

‘Perhaps you are looking for perfection.’

‘Didn’t you look for it … and find it?’

‘I never looked for it because I did not believe it existed. I stumbled on it by chance.’

‘It was because you loved so deeply that you found it. My mother might not have been perfect.’

‘Ah, but she was.’

‘In your eyes, as you were in hers. Were you perfect, Father?’

‘Far from it.’

‘But she thought you were. Perhaps that is love. An illusion. Seeing what is not there and perhaps the more deeply one loves the more one deceives oneself.’

‘My dearest child, I should like to see you happy before I die … even if it means not having you with me. The greatest happiness I have known came through you and your mother. Who would have believed that a chance meeting could lead to that? It was an enchanted night, that one, and she was there and I was there … ’

I leaned over and kissed him. ‘I am glad that we pleased you … my mother and I. You pleased us every bit as much, you know. I loved the man I believed to be my father. He was kind and gentle … but you … you were different. You were so romantic and gallant in your castle. It was wonderful to learn that you were my father.’

He turned away to hide his emotion. Then he said almost brusquely: ‘I don’t want you to go on living here … growing older, wasting your youth. You are not like your mother. You are more able to take care of yourself. She was innocent. She did not see evil. You are not like that, Lottie.’

‘More … earthy,’ I said.

‘I would say more worldly. You know more of men than she did. You would understand the imperfections and bear them, and perhaps even love the more because of them. I think often of Dickon. He is no saint. But do you want a saint? They can be hard to live with. I think you are fond of him in a special way, and will never forget him whatever happens. So he is with you. He is indeed a man full of faults, but brave and strong, I would say. I think he should be the father of a child for you … before it is too late.’

‘I am not going to leave the château. I like it here.’

‘In this gloomy castle with Sophie in her turret casting her own special sort of spell over the place.’

‘The children are happy here.’

‘They will grow up and have lives of their own. I want you go to England.’

‘Go to England? What do you mean? To Eversleigh?’

‘I do. I want you to take the children, to see Dickon in his home, and there to decide what you really want. I think you should go there to discover.’

‘I shall not leave you.’

‘I thought you would say that. That is why I have decided that I will go with you.’

I stared at him in astonishment.

‘Yes,’ he went on, ‘I have promised myself. I too am tired of the château. I want a rest from it. I want to forget what happened to Armand. I want to forget Sophie brooding in her tower. I want a bit of excitement. What do you say that you and I, with the children, cross the water to England?’

I just looked at him in amazement.

He said: ‘You have answered. I can see the joy in your face. That is good. I am going to tell the children at once. There is no reason why we should delay.’

Charlot was wildly excited about the proposed visit to England. So was Claudine. Louis-Charles was so disconsolate that I said we must take him with us, and Lisette agreed that he might go. I was happy listening to them, making plans, talking of England which they had never seen, counting the days.

My father talked to them of what he knew of Eversleigh. Claudine would sit at his feet on a footstool, her arms clasped about her knees as she dreamily stared into space. Charlot plied him with questions; and Louis-Charles listened in the respectful silence he always showed in the presence of the Comte.

It was four days before we were due to leave when my father asked me to walk with him down to the moat. He took my arm and said slowly: ‘Lottie, I cannot make this journey.’

I stopped and stared at him in horror.

‘I have been letting myself pretend I would, shutting my eyes to truth. See how breathless I am climbing this slope? I am not young any more. And if I were ill on the journey … or in England … ’

‘I should be there to take care of you.’

He shook his head. ‘No, Lottie. I know. I have a pain here … round my heart. It is because of this that I want to see you settled.’

I was silent for a moment. Then I said: ‘Have you seen the doctors?’

He nodded. ‘I am no longer young, they tell me. I must accept my fate.’

‘I think a messenger should go to Eversleigh at once. They will be making preparations for us. And I will tell the children now that we are not going.’

‘No! I said I could not go. You and the children must.’

‘Without you?’

He nodded. ‘That is what I have decided … ’

‘And leave you here … sick!’

‘Listen to me, Lottie. I am not sick. I am merely old and unable to make a long and exhausting journey. That is not being sick. I don’t need nursing. If you stay here, there is nothing you can do. You cannot disappoint the children. You will go with them. That is my wish. And I shall stay here. I am well looked after. I have good servants. And you will come back to us in due course.’

I said: ‘This is a blow.’

He stared at the water of the moat and I wondered whether he had ever intended to come.

I couldn’t help being caught up in the young people’s excitement. We set out on horseback, considering the carriage too cumbersome and slow. Claudine rode between the two boys; she was growing very pretty and had a look of my mother. I think that was one of the reasons why she was the Comte’s favourite. She was sturdy, strong-willed and a little resentful of the protective air both boys showed towards her and the fact that they were inclined to treat her as a little girl. Charlot was handsome, dark-eyed, dark-haired with a quick alert look; Louis-Charles might have been his brother; they were close friends and got on very well, apart from the occasional disagreement which would end in fisticuffs as they were both hot-tempered.

We stayed a night at an inn which delighted them all, the two boys sharing a room and Claudine coming in with me. She was awake at dawn, eager to get on with the journey and making me rise with her.

She said: ‘There is only one thing missing to make this perfect. That is Grand’père.’

‘Pray don’t call him a thing,’ I said. ‘He would not appreciate that.’

We both laughed, but sadly because he was not with us.

The sea crossing provided a further delight to them and when we landed on English soil they could talk of nothing but Eversleigh. Dickon was at Dover to escort us to the house and there was wild excitement when Claudine flung herself at him and hugged him while the boys stood by grinning. Over Claudine’s head Dickon smiled at me, his eyes warm, but I did detect a hint of triumph in them and I thought: Even now he is thinking of winning.

But a visit did not mean that I had made up my mind. Perhaps I had been foolish to come. I had a fear that I was going to be swept off my feet, unable to make clear decisions, and I knew I must be wary of Dickon. He had the effect on me of potent wine.

Such memories came back. It was long since I had seen Eversleigh, but it always gave me a feeling of home. I did not know why that should be so since most of my life in England had been spent at Clavering. But this was the home of my ancestors. It seemed to wrap itself around me; it seemed to say: You have come home. Stay home. Home is the place for you.

Sabrina was waiting with a very warm welcome. She was as excited as the young people.

‘What a lovely house!’ cried Chariot.

‘It is not a castle,’ added Louis-Charles a trifle disparagingly.

‘Houses are really what you should live in,’ put in Claudine. ‘Castles are for sieges and holding out against the enemy.’

‘Some of our houses had to do that during the Civil War,’ said Sabrina. ‘But let me show you your rooms and you can explore the house later on. I am sure you will like it. It’s rambling and full of odd nooks and crannies. Your mother knows it well. It was once her home.’

Dickon said he would show them round in the morning when it was light.

We went to our rooms. I had my old one. I felt a twinge of sadness as I ascended the stairs because the last time I had been here my grandmother had been alive … so had my mother.

Sabrina knew what I was thinking. She said: ‘Your grandmother died peacefully. She never really got over Zipporah’s death.’

‘My father never has,’ I said.

‘I know.’ She pressed my hand. ‘But, Lottie, my dear, she wouldn’t want you to be sad while you are here. She would be so delighted that you had come.’

My old room. It must be more than ten years since I had been in it but it was still familiar to me.

Sabrina said: ‘Come down when you have washed and changed. We are eating almost immediately. Dickon thought you would be in need of a good meal.’

I washed and changed from my riding habit, and when I went downstairs I could hear the sounds of excited talking and laughter. The others were already in the punch-room close to the dining-room where, I remembered, they assembled before meals. I could hear Claudine’s high-pitched voice and the gruffer masculine ones.

I went in. There was a brief silence and then Dickon said: ‘You remember the twins, Lottie.’

Dickon’s sons! They must be almost twenty. Could that really be possible? I always thought of Dickon as being perpetually young. He must be forty-three. I had a sensation of time rushing past. My father was right. If we were ever going to make a life together, it should be soon.

I remembered David and Jonathan well. They had a look of Dickon and there was a certain resemblance in them which one would expect of twins. Jonathan took my hand first and kissed it; then David did the same.

‘I remember you came here once before,’ said Jonathan.

‘My dear boy,’ said Dickon, ‘she lived here. It was her home.’

‘It must be interesting to come back to a place which was once your home, especially when you haven’t seen it for so long,’ said David.

‘It is very interesting indeed,’ I told him; ‘but best of all to see you and your family.’

‘Don’t talk about my family, Lottie,’ protested Dickon. ‘It is your family as well.’

‘That’s true,’ said Sabrina. ‘Now we are all here, shall we go in? Our cook is a little temperamental and throws a tantrum in the kitchen if we let the food get cold.’

We went to the dining-room with its tapestried walls and oak table lighted by two candelabra—one at each end. It looked very beautiful. Sabrina set at one end of it and Dickon at the other; she had placed me on Dickon’s right hand. Claudine was between David and Jonathan who, I could see, were amused by her bilingual conversation. She could speak English very well, for I had taught her, but she kept forgetting that she was in England and breaking into French with results which the twin brothers seemed to find hilarious. Louis-Charles had always been a young man who knew how to take care of himself and he and Sabrina chatted together in a mixture of bad French from Sabrina and execrable English from Louis-Charles. Dickon devoted himself to me. He was watching me intently, I knew, proud of this gracious dining-room, of the meal which was served, of the fact that I had at last succumbed to his repeated requests to visit Eversleigh.

It was a happy evening and when it was time to retire, Claudine voiced the feelings of us all when she said: ‘It is wonderful for us to be here. But I don’t think I shall ever get to sleep tonight. I am too excited.’

Sabrina insisted on accompanying me to my room. She shut the door and sat down in one of the armchairs.

‘I can’t tell you how happy we are to have you here, Lottie. Dickon has always talked a lot about you and every time he went to France he said he was going to bring you back with him. I gather things are not very happy over there.’

‘There is a good deal of rumour.’

She nodded. ‘Dickon is full of foreboding. He has been saying for some time that you ought to get out.’

‘I know. He has mentioned it to me.’

‘Well … this is your home, you know.’

I shook my head. ‘My home is over there.’

‘I was sorry your father could not come with you.’

‘So were we all.’

‘Dickon says he is a very fine gentleman.’

‘Dickon is right,’

‘But he is getting old, of course. After all, you are English, Lottie.’

‘My father is French.’

‘Yes, but you were brought up here. There was never anyone more English than your mother.’

‘And never anyone more French than my father.’ I smiled at her. ‘You see, that makes me a mixture. I love Eversleigh. I love it here … but my husband was French and my children are. That is my home, over there.’

She sighed and said: ‘I am very sad sometimes. Your grandmother and I were very close, you know.’

‘I do know that.’

‘Now she is gone I miss her terribly.’

‘I know that. But you have Dickon.’

A smile illumined face. ‘Oh yes … Dickon. How I should love to see him completely happy. It was your grandmother’s dearest wish … ’

I interrupted her. ‘Yes, I know. She adored him.’

‘He is a wonderful person. It is a long time since poor Isabel died. People think it is strange that he did not marry again.’

I said with a sudden burst of anger which Dickon could arouse in me: ‘Perhaps a good enough proposition did not arise. He had Eversleigh, Clavering and a great deal, I gather, from Isabel … ’

Sabrina was the same as ever. In her mind, Dickon was above criticism and she did not see it even when it was blatantly expressed.

‘I know why he has never married,’ she said.

‘Well he has two sons. That is one reason why ambitious people marry, isn’t it?’

‘I remember in the days long ago when you were a child staying with us at Clavering—do you remember? You two were always together.’

‘I remember. That was after my mother inherited Eversleigh.’

‘He was so fond of you. We all were. He talked of nothing but Lottie … his little Lottie. And you … to you he was the sun, moon and stars and the whole universe thrown in.’

‘Children get fancies.’

‘It is rather charming when they persist through life.’

I said: ‘Dickon knows that my half-brother disappeared. It is some little time ago now. His body was never found but because of the situation in France we think he was murdered. My father is a very wealthy man. I have heard it said that he is one of the most wealthy in France. Charlot will inherit in time, but it will come to me first when my father dies … ’

She looked blank.

‘Dickon was very interested in the estate. I always remember how he came here to Eversleigh. He was just overwhelmed by it because it was so much grander than Clavering. I imagined Aubigné is much more valuable than Eversleigh, so you see he has discovered a great affection for me.’

‘He admired Eversleigh. Of course he did. Who wouldn’t? But he loved you, Lottie. He truly did. He never ceased to. I think he is unhappy at times. Do you know, my great desire in life is to see him happy.’

‘I know that,’ I told her. ‘Sabrina, you must be the most doting mother in the world.’

She smiled at me and said: ‘Well, I am keeping you from your bed and you must be so tired.’ She rose from her chair. ‘Good night, my dear. It is lovely to have you here. We are going to do our best not to let you go from us, Lottie.’

She paused at the door. ‘By the way, do you remember poor Griselda?’

‘Yes, I do. She kept Isabel’s rooms as they were at the time of her death. She was a little uncanny.’

‘She took a dislike to Dickon and spread tales about him and Isabel. She was so jealous of anyone who came between her and Isabel. We tried to stop her, but she was too old … senile really. It was a happy release when she went.’

‘So she is no longer with us?’

‘It must be all of five years since she died. The rooms have been thoroughly cleaned out and it is all very normal up there now.’

‘As you say,’ I murmured, ‘a happy release.’

She put her fingers to her lips and blew a kiss to me. ‘Goodnight, dear Lottie. Pleasant dreams. Don’t forget we are going to do everything we can to keep you with us.’

As Claudine had said, we were too excited to sleep that night.

I was happy at Eversleigh. I knew I was going to miss it when I went away. There was something about the green fields and the May sunshine that was essentially England and not quite the same anywhere else in the world. I loved the way the sun would rapidly be obscured and if we were out we would have to take shelter from the sudden showers.

It was the end of May and the April showers seemed to be lingering longer than usual this year. The hedges were full of simple wild flowers and I remembered how, when I was very young, my mother had taught me how to make a daisy-chain. I remembered the names of plants like silverweed, bird’s-foot trefoil, and lady’s-smock. I rode a great deal with Dickon and the boys. We were a merry party.

Sabrina would come in the carriage and we would meet at some special beauty spot where we would have a picnic. We went to the sea; but I liked the country best, for the sea reminded me of that land only just over twenty miles away where my father would be counting the days until our return. The sea reminded me, too, that this was ephemeral, and I was realizing with every passing day that I wanted it to go on.

I wanted to forget that Dickon loved power and money more than anything else, that he had married Isabel for what she could bring him, and that her faithful nurse had accused him of murder; and although there was such happiness at Eversleigh there were dark shadows too. I thought a great deal about Isabel, and those months when she was awaiting the birth of babies that did not come and the two who had killed her. How frightened she must have been, poor Isabel! It was as though her ghost had remained behind to come to me in quiet moments and sometimes very happy ones to remind me.

Dickon was constantly there. Charlot admired him very much, so did Louis-Charles who was very happy at Eversleigh. Lisette had never really given him that deep mother love which children need; she had not wanted him and had so disliked the farmer whom she had married that she must see that period of her life often through Louis-Charles. He threw himself into the life of Eversleigh and he and Charlot often went off together and came back with stories of the inns they had visited and the towns through which they had passed.

Claudine loved Eversleigh too. She went riding with the rest of them on some days and was delighted when Jonathan taught her how to take high jumps. I was a little worried about her, but Dickon said she had to learn and Jonathan would take care of her. She enjoyed the attention of both twins and I fancied rather revelled in bestowing her attentions first on one, then on the other. At Eversleigh it was brought home to me more than ever how fast my daughter was growing up.

Time was flying past.

‘Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,

Old time is still a-flying,

And this same flower that blooms today Tomorrow will be dying …’

sang Sabrina, as she sat at the spinet and I knew that she meant me to take heed.

Dickon was constantly with me, but he was clever. He did not suggest that I stay. He wanted Eversleigh to work its own magic on me.

I was conscious, too, of the peace of the countryside. There was a quietness in the air and I realized how different it was in that land from which that strip of water divided us. When I looked at those waves lapping on the shore, sometimes grey and angry, sometimes blue and gently swishing, I thought it was the great divide between this peaceful happy life and that of suspense and brooding menace.

I knew, when I was alone in my bedroom at night, that I wanted to be here, to stay here. It was my home, my country. And Dickon was here. If I were truthful I must admit I wanted Dickon.

Sabrina was watchful. To her Dickon was the whole meaning of life. She was blind to his faults; she thought he was perfect. Surely she must know what he was really like. Did she refuse to see it because she did not want to? She adjusted all his actions to fit her perfect picture of him. Her face changed when he appeared. Her eyes would follow him, her mouth curved in gentle contentment.

‘Nobody,’ I once said to Dickon, ‘has any right to be adored as your mother adores you. It’s irreligious. It’s blasphemous. I really do believe she thinks you are greater than God.’

He did refer then to his plans. He said: ‘There is only one thing needed to make me absolutely perfect in her eyes.’

‘Nonsense,’ I retorted. ‘There is nothing. You are that already.’

‘Yes, there is. She wants me to be happily married and nobody will be quite right for Sabrina but you.’

‘God is perfect … omnipotent, omniscient … and that is you in Sabrina’s eyes. Never mind whomsoever you marry, provided it is your choice; that will be good enough for Sabrina.’

‘It won’t be. It has to be you, for she knows that you are the only one for me. Therefore you are for her. Give her her heart’s desire. She is a lady who likes everything to be well ordered, neatly rounded off. She took the husband your grandmother Clarissa wanted, and although to her her marriage was perfect—you see, she finds perfection in her relationships—she was always worried because she took him from Clarissa. Now if Clarissa’s granddaughter married the son of that other Dickon whom both Clarissa and Sabrina loved, it would be a neat rounding off, wouldn’t it? Everyone can say amen and be happy.’

I laughed. ‘Except perhaps the two who had to bring about this neat solution.’

‘They would be happiest of all. You are learning that, Lottie. I have always known it.’

‘Oh, I remember. You were always omniscient. I shall have to go back to my father soon.’

‘We will bring him over here. I assure you that in a very short time men in his position will be giving everything they have to get away from the coming storm.’

That was the only time he mentioned our marriage. He let Eversleigh do the rest and more and more every day I longed to give in.

One night after I had retired there was a knock on my door and Sabrina came in.

‘I was afraid you might have gone to bed,’ she said. ‘I want you to have a look at this.’

‘What is it?’

‘It’s a diary.’

‘Oh … an old one? One of those family ones?’

‘Not those weighty journals. This is quite a slim volume, you see. When Griselda died we found it in Isabel’s room. It was caught up at the back of a drawer, otherwise I am sure Griselda would never have allowed it to fall into our hands.’

‘A diary! I always thought it was like prying to read other people’s diaries.’

‘So do I. But I did read this one. I felt it was important, and I do think it is important that you should see it.’

‘Why me?’

She laid the book on the table beside my bed and I felt reluctant to touch it.

‘Because I think you may have some misconception. This is the truth. It must be, because it was written by Isabel herself.’

‘Has Dickon seen it?’

‘No. I did not think that was necessary. I did give it to the twins, though. Griselda used to make a great deal of Jonathan. She used to have him to her room.’

‘Yes. I do remember that.’

‘She had a crazy notion that David killed Isabel. I suppose it was the second birth which weakened her, but Griselda—mad old woman—actually blamed David. That shows how senile she was.’

‘Yes. I see what you mean.’

‘Read it,’ she said. ‘I think it will tell you a great deal.’

She kissed me and left me.

The reluctance to open the book persisted. Diaries contained private thoughts. Perhaps it held an account of Dickon’s meeting with her, their early life together. In view of my own strong feelings for Dickon I found the thought of prying quite distasteful.

However I got into bed and lighted an extra candle, opened the book and started to read.

I became absorbed almost immediately. I was seeing Isabel clearly—the quiet, shy daughter of a powerful man—a man who loved her and wanted the best for her but who really did not understand what was the best.

There were references to Griselda. She was mentioned on every page. There were intimate little details. ‘Griselda curled my hair in rags last night. I found it hard to sleep for them, but Griselda said I must keep them in so that I had curls next day.’ ‘Griselda has put a blue fichu on my white dress. It looks rather pretty.’ There were accounts of assemblies she had been to. She wrote of her dread of them, her painful shyness. I went on reading until I came to the entry about Dickon.

Today I met the most handsome man I have ever seen. He is in London from the country where, my father says, he owns a large estate. He asked me to dance and I did … most awkwardly. He said he wasn’t much of a dancer either and he didn’t mind my mistakes at all. He talked a great deal, so cheerily and wittily. I couldn’t keep up with him. My father was very pleased.

Yesterday my father sent for me and I knew he had something very serious to say because he called me ‘Daughter’. ‘Daughter,’ he said, ‘you have a suitor.’ Then he told me it was Richard Frenshaw. It is that wonderful man who danced with me. I don’t know how I feel. I am in a panic and yet it might have been that horrible old Lord Standing. Instead it is this wonderful, handsome man. ‘But,’ I said to Griselda, ‘at least Lord Standing would not have minded that I am not clever and that my hair will not curl unless it is all night in rags, and that I stumble when I dance and am shy.’ Griselda said, Nonsense. He would be lucky to get me, and he knew it. I had a great fortune coming to me and that was when men liked. Moreover she would always be with me. That was my great comfort.

There were several entries about the clothes which were being made and the announcement of the engagement at a ball given by her father. There were meetings with Dickon—brief and never alone. And then the entry: ‘Tomorrow I am to marry Richard Frenshaw.’

Evidently after that she had not written in it for a long time. Then there were the brief entries.

‘This afternoon it rained and there was some thunder.’ ‘Went to the Charletons’ ball.’ ‘We had a dinner party for twenty.’ Just bald statements with very little hint of what she was feeling. Then it changed.

Another disappointment. Shall I ever achieve my heart’s desire? If I could have a little baby it would make up for everything. Dickon wants a boy. All men do. I wouldn’t mind what it was … just a baby. That’s what I want.

I saw Dr Barnaby today. He said there should be no more pregnancies and that he should speak to my husband. I begged him not to. I told him how much having a child meant to me. He shook his head and kept saying, ‘No. No.’ Then he said: ‘You have tried and failed. You did your best. Now, no more.’ They don’t understand, I must have a child. If I don’t I shall have lost Dickon completely. It is the only way.

There is to be another chance. Griselda will be angry. She hates Dickon because of this. It is silly of her, but then she is silly sometimes. I know it is only because of her feeling for me, but she is so difficult. She gets so anxious and worried. She frightens me. I haven’t told her yet. I haven’t told anyone. I want to be sure. I am determined this time my child will be born.

They know. Dickon is delighted. That makes me so happy. He takes a lot of notice of me and makes me take care of myself. I could be happy if only … But it will be all right this time. It must be.

Dr Barnaby has been today. I have had a long talk with him. He is concerned about my condition. He says he should not have allowed me to dissuade him from speaking to my husband. ‘However,’ he said, ‘it is done. You must be very careful. You must rest and rest. If you can get through the first three months we can still hope.’

Three months … and all is well. How I long for the time to pass. Every morning I awake and I say to myself rather like someone in the Bible: ‘I am with child. God be praised.’

My time is getting near. I have dreams … sometimes nightmares. It is because of all those failures. I saw Dr Barnaby today. I had a long talk with him. I said to him: ‘I must have this child. More than anything I want it.’ ‘I know that,’ he replied. ‘Now pray don’t get upset. It is bad for the little one.’ ‘I have had so many disappointments,’ I said. ‘I couldn’t bear another.’ ‘Do as you are told,’ he answered, ‘and it will very likely be all right.’ ‘Sometimes,’ I said, ‘there is a choice between mother and child. If there is a choice I want it to be the child who is saved.’ ‘You’re talking nonsense,’ he said. But I knew I wasn’t. I said, ‘I want you to promise me … ’ He looked exasperated and I remembered how he used to frighten me when I was a little girl and I hadn’t taken my physic. ‘This is nonsense,’ he said sternly. ‘You are worrying yourself about something which hasn’t happened.’ But I refused to be frightened of him. I insisted, ‘But it may. I have had difficult pregnancies, all of which so far have ended in disaster. I know that if I failed this time there would not be another chance. I want you to promise me … that if this situation should arise you will save the child and let me go.’ ‘These matters are for a doctor to decide when they happen,’ he said. ‘I know,’ I cried. ‘I am saying if … if … if … !’ ‘You are getting agitated,’ he said, ‘and that is bad for the child.’ ‘I shall be more agitated until I have your promise.’ ‘This is very unethical,’ he said severely. But I would not let him go. I made him swear. I brought my Bible to him, for I knew he was a very religious man, and only when he began to get alarmed for my state did he swear. He said, ‘If such a contingency should arise—and there is no reason to believe it will—and if there should be a choice between the lives of the mother or the child, then I swear I will save the child.’ He stayed by me for five minutes until he had satisfied himself that I was calm. I was calm, calm and happy, for something told me that whatever happened there would be a child.’

There was one more entry.

The time is near. It could be any time now. Today I went and looked at my nursery. The cradle is ready for the child. I had a vision. It was so strange. The cradle seemed to be surrounded by light and I knew there was a healthy child in it. I did not see myself. It seemed unimportant. The child was there.

I laid down the book. I was deeply moved.

The next morning Sabrina looked at me expectantly, when I put Isabel’s diary in her hands.

I told her how touched I had been.

‘She was such a dear, good girl. I remember it so well. She was so long in labour. Jonathan was born easily enough. It was David. They had to take him away from her and she didn’t survive. Dr Barnaby was very unhappy. When I saw the diary I knew why. I often wondered if he could have saved Isabel at the cost of David. It would not have occurred to me to think so if I had not read the diary. But I wanted you to see it because of Griselda. I think it turned her brain. Isabel with her child … the whole meaning of life to her. When she lost her there was nothing to live for, so she went back to the past. She was bitter and angry and she blamed Dickon. She had it in her mind that there had been a choice between Isabel and the baby and that Dickon had made the choice to save the child. She called him a murderer. I wondered whether Isabel had ever mentioned her own feelings to Griselda. It was clearly very much on her mind, as you see from the diary. It was dreadful to live in the house with that. I wanted to turn her away but your grandmother was against it, and I don’t think Griselda could have gone on living if she hadn’t had Isabel’s things to brood on. It was a great relief when she died.’

‘I understand,’ I said.

‘There was a time when I thought she would do David some harm. And she made too much of Jonathan. It was almost as though she was trying to set the boys against each other … and certainly against their father. If only … ’

She was looking at me appealingly.

‘Lottie,’ she went on, ‘if you came back to us, it would be like a fresh start for us all. It was what we wanted, your grandmother and I. It was only your mother who was against it. You were blaming Dickon, weren’t you? Griselda had told you something. But you don’t believe her now, do you?’

I said: ‘I see clearly what happened through Isabel’s diary.’

‘You know that there was nothing callous about Dickon’s behaviour to her. He was always kind to her. It wasn’t his fault that he was not in love with her.’

‘I know.’

She bent over and kissed me.

‘I am glad you understand now,’ she said.

I did. I saw clearly that in this respect I had wronged Dickon.

They were winning me over.

A few days later Dickon was called to London.

‘I shall be away for a week at most,’ he said.

I asked Sabrina what sort of business he had in London.

She was vague. ‘Oh, he inherited a lot of property through Isabel.’

‘I knew she was very rich and that was the reason for the marriage.’

She looked at me sharply. ‘Isabel’s father was very eager for the marriage. So was Isabel herself. There was a very big settlement and when her father died a great deal came to Isabel.’

‘And now to Dickon,’ I said. ‘Is it something to do with banking?’

‘Something like that,’ said Sabrina. ‘He goes often. Not so much of late because you are here, I expect. But he travels a good deal normally. He was very concerned in all that about the American War.’

‘Yes, I gathered that. He came to France because the French were helping the Colonists.’

‘He came to France to see you,’ said Sabrina fondly.

It was only two days after Dickon had left when the messenger came bringing a letter from Lisette, and I knew that something was wrong before I opened it.

‘You should leave at once,’ she had written. ‘Your father is very ill indeed. He was calling for you when he was delirious. He has said that we are not to send for you but we thought you would want to know. I think, if you want to see him before he dies, you should return at once.’

Sabrina had seen the messenger arrive and came down to see what it was all about.

‘It’s my father,’ I said. ‘He is dangerously ill.’

‘Oh, my dear Lottie!’

‘I must go to him at once,’ I said.

‘Yes … yes, of course. Dickon will be back soon. Wait and hear what he has to say.’

‘I must leave at once,’ I said firmly.

The messenger was standing by. Sabrina pointed out that he looked exhausted and called one of the servants to take him to the kitchens and give him food. He would want to rest too.

When they had gone she turned to me.

‘I don’t think Dickon would want you to go back. He has talked to me about the state of France and was so glad that you had left at last.’

‘This has nothing to do with Dickon,’ I said. ‘I am going and I shall leave tomorrow.’

‘Lottie, you can’t!’

‘I can and I must. Oh Sabrina, I am sorry but you must understand. This is my father. He needs me. I should never have left him.’

‘You said that he wanted you to come, didn’t you?’

‘He did because … ’

‘I dare say he thought you were safer here. He would know … as Dickon did.’

I wanted to stop her talking about Dickon. I was going and that was it. I could not possibly stay here while I knew my father was ill …dying, perhaps, and calling for me.

‘I am going to get ready immediately,’ I said.

She caught my arm. ‘Wait, Lottie. Don’t be so hasty. Suppose I sent someone to London to tell Dickon.’

‘It would take too long and this has nothing to do with Dickon.’

‘He will be upset if you go.’

‘Then he must be upset because I am going.’

‘The children … ’ she said.

I hesitated. Then I made up my mind. ‘They can stay here if you will allow it. They can come home later. I will go alone and as quickly as I can.’

‘My dear Lottie, I don’t like it. I don’t like it at all. Dickon … ’

‘I will go and see the messenger. He can have a good night’s rest and I will go back with him. He will start first thing in the morning.’

‘If only Dickon were here!’

‘Nothing would stop me, Sabrina. The children will be happy here. They must stay?’

‘Of course. Of course.’

‘Perhaps Dickon and you, too, will come back with them and stay for a while at the château.’

She looked at me fearfully. ‘If you are intent on going you must take two grooms with you. There are certain things you will want to take for a journey … and it will be safer. You must do that. I insist.’

‘Thank you, Sabrina,’ I said, and I went to the kitchens to find the messenger.

Farewell France

I HALF HOPED THAT Dickon would come back that night. I knew he would attempt to persuade me not to leave but when he saw that I was adamant, it might well be that he would come with me.

I longed for him to do that. I was terrified of what I would find when I returned to France and kept reproaching myself for leaving my father even though it was he himself who had insisted that I should do so.

Eversleigh was not far from Dover and the journey was quickly accomplished. The crossing was smooth, for the weather was good. It was when we reached the other side of the Channel that everything seemed different.

The July sun beat down on us; there seemed to be a stillness in the air, a breathlessness as though the country was waiting for some tremendous event. It was something in the atmosphere of the towns through which we passed. Sometimes we saw little knots of people standing together in the streets. They watched us furtively as we rode through; they seemed to be whispering together. Some of the towns were deserted and I imagined that people were peeping at us through their windows.

‘Everything seems to have changed in an odd sort of way,’ I said to one of the grooms.

He said that he noticed nothing.

We came to the town of Evreux and I remembered how, when I had first come to France with my father, we had stayed there. It seemed very different now. There was that same air of brooding menace which I had noticed in the towns and villages through which we had passed.

I was very relieved when the château came into sight. I spurred up my horse and rode into the courtyard. One of the grooms took the horse and I hurried into the castle. Lisette, who must have been watching from one of the windows came running into the hall.

‘Lisette!’ I cried.

‘So you have come, Lottie.’

‘I want to see my father at once.’

She looked at me and shook her head.

‘What do you mean?’ I asked quickly.

‘He was buried nearly a week ago. He died the day after I sent the message to you.’

‘Dead! My father! It is not possible.’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘He was very ill. The doctors had told him.’

‘When?’ I cried. ‘When did the doctors tell him?’

‘Weeks ago. Before you went away.’

‘Then why … ?’

‘He must have wanted you to go.’

I sat down at the big oak table and stared at the long narrow windows without seeing them. I understood now. He had known how ill he had been and he had sent me to England because of that. He had never had any intention of coming with me, but he had said he would just to make me plan to leave and then when we were on the point of departure he had said he could not accompany us.

‘I should never have gone,’ I said.

Lisette lifted her shoulders and leaned against the table looking at me. If I had not been so stricken I might have noticed the change in her attitude. But I was too shocked, too immersed in my grief.

I went to his bedroom. She followed me there. The curtains were drawn back showing the empty bed. I knelt beside it and buried my face in my hands.

Lisette was still there. ‘It’s no use,’ she said. ‘He has gone.’

I went through his rooms. Empty. Then I went to the chapel and the mausoleum beyond. There was his tomb.

‘Gerard, Comte d’Aubigné’ and the date 1727 to 1789.

‘It was so quick,’ I murmured and I saw that Lisette was behind me.

‘You have been away a long time,’ she reminded me.

‘I should have been told.’

‘He wouldn’t have it. It was only when he was unable to give orders to prevent anyone’s sending for you that I acted as I thought was right.’

I went to my room. She was still with me. Then I saw that she was different and had been since my arrival. Everything had changed. I could not understand Lisette. She was not unhappy. There was something secretive in her manner. I did not know how to describe it. It was as though she was amused in some mysterious way.

I am imagining this, I told myself. I am suffering from acute shock.

‘Lisette,’ I said, ‘I want to be alone for a while.’

She hesitated and for a moment I thought she was going to refuse to leave me.

Then she turned and was gone.

I lay in bed, unable to sleep. The night was hot … stifling. I was thinking of my father as I had never ceased to think of him since I had heard that he was ill and needing me.

Oh, why had I gone! Why hadn’t I guessed? He had seemed to grow older suddenly. I had thought that was due to the fact that he had lost my mother. Indeed, I had felt he never really wanted to go on living after he had lost her. And all the time he had known how ill he was and he had wanted me to go to England … to marry Dickon. He had been worried about what was happening in this country and had wanted me to find a secure haven outside it.

I thought of how happy I had been at Eversleigh—the rides, the walks, the verbal tussles with Dickon … how I had enjoyed them all. And all the time he was here … dying alone.

The door of my room opened suddenly and I started up in bed to see Lisette gliding into the room. There was an air of suppressed excitement about her.

‘I didn’t hear you knock,’ I said.

‘I didn’t,’ she answered. ‘It has happened. At last it is here.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I have just had the news. Did you hear the noise in the courtyard?’

‘No. Who … ’

‘News,’ she said. ‘News from Paris. The mobs are roaming the streets and the shopkeepers are barricading their shops.’

‘More riots!’ I cried.

Her eyes were shining. ‘Great men are speaking in the Palais Royal gardens. Desmoulins. Danton. Men like that.’

‘Who are these men?’ I asked.

She did not answer and went on: ‘They are wearing the colours of the Duc d’Orléans … red, white and blue … the tricolor. And listen, Lottie, this is the most important of all. The people have taken the Bastille. They have killed the governor, de Launay and have marched into the prison with his head on a pike. They have freed the prisoners … ’

‘Oh, Lisette. What does it mean? This rioting …’

Again that secret smile. ‘I think,’ she said slowly, ‘it means the revolution has begun.’

It seemed a long time before the morning came. I sat at the window waiting …waiting for what I did not know. The countryside looked the same as ever—quiet and peaceful. At daybreak the household was astir. I could hear the servants excitedly talking. They shouted and laughed and I knew that they were discussing what had happened in Paris.

All through the day we waited for news. People were different. They seemed to watch me furtively and they seemed vaguely amused and secretive.

I saw nothing amusing in fearful riots when people went mad with fury and others lost their lives. Dickon had said it would come. Could it be that it already had?

An uneasy day was followed by an uneasy night. I felt lonely without the children but what a relief it was that they were not here!

Something was about to break. I wondered what I should do. Should I go back to England? There was nothing to keep me here now that my father was dead.

The rioting will die down, I told myself. The military will suppress it. But the Bastille … to storm a prison! That was a very big riot indeed … very different from the looting of shops which had been going on in the little towns all over the country on and off over the last few years.

I was trying to behave as normal, but there was nothing normal about the château. How could there be when my father was no longer there?

When I arose next morning I rang as usual for hot water. I waited … and waited. No one came. I rang again and still I waited.

I put on a robe and went down to the kitchens. They were deserted.

‘Where is everyone?’ I called.

It was Tante Berthe who finally came to me. She said: ‘Most of the servants have gone and those who haven’t are getting ready to leave.’

‘Leaving! Why? Where have they gone?’

She lifted her shoulders. ‘They are saying they will never wait on anyone again. Others think they might be blamed for serving the aristocrats and get what is being planned for them.’

‘What is going on?’

‘I wish I knew, Madame. It’s confusion … everywhere. There are rumours going round that they will march on all the châteaux and kill everyone in them.’

‘It’s nonsense.’

‘You know what servants are … without education … ready to believe any tale.’

‘You will not go will you, Tante Berthe?’

‘This has been my home for years. Monsieur le Comte was very good to me and mine. He would not have expected me to run away. I’ll stay and face whatever it is.’

‘Where is Lisette?’

Again that shrug of the shoulders.

‘I have scarcely seen her since the day I arrived.’

‘She knows what she is doing, I’ll swear. What did you come down for?’

‘Hot water,’ I said.

‘I’ll get it for you.’

‘Who is left in the château?’ I asked.

‘There’s the two in the turret.’

‘Jeanne is still here then?’

‘You don’t think she would ever leave Mademoiselle Sophie?’

‘No, I did not think that she would. Jeanne is loyal and Sophie is the most important thing in her life. Who else … ?’

‘If any of the servants are here they are on the point of going, as I said. Some talk of going to Paris to join in what they call “the fun”. I don’t think there’ll be any need for them to go to Paris. They’ll find it nearer at hand.’

‘Is it really as bad as that?’

‘It’s been coming for a long time. I thank God that He took Monsieur le Comte before he was able to see it.’

‘Oh, Tante Berthe,’ I cried, ‘what is going to happen to us all?’

‘We’ll wait and see,’ she replied calmly.

She went away to get hot water. I stood waiting while the silence of the château closed in on me.

It was evening of the next day. Tante Berthe had been right. All the servants had left except Jeanne and herself. There were just the few of us left in that vast château with that terrible sense of foreboding hanging over us. I would not have been surprised at anything that happened.

During the day I went to the watch-tower and looked down. Nothing but the peace of the fields. It was difficult to believe that terrible things were happening not far away. I must go to England, to the children, to Dickon. I would take Lisette with me … and Tante Berthe; Sophie and Jeanne too if they would come. I should not delay. I was well aware of that. I must talk to Lisette. We must make plans.

The silence was broken by sounds in the courtyard. We had visitors. It was with a sense of relief that I ran down, not knowing what to expect. It could be those who had come to harm us; but at least the monotony was broken. Something was about to happen at last.

Lisette was just behind me.

Two men were there. They were both dirty and unkempt. One of them was supported by the other, for clearly he found it difficult to stand. They were both in a sorry state.

‘Who … ?’ I began.

Then one of them spoke. ‘Lottie … ’ he said.

I went to him and stared.

‘Lottie,’ he said again. ‘I … I have come home.’

The voice was recognizable, but not the man.

‘Armand?’ I cried. But no, this filthy creature could not be Armand.

‘It was a long way … ’ he murmured.

‘He needs rest … nursing,’ said his companion. ‘We … both do.’

Lisette said: ‘Did you break out of prison?’

‘We were let out … by the people. The prison was stormed.’

‘The Bastille … !’ I cried. ‘So … that is where you went!’

I saw at once that this was no time for explanations. Armand and his companion needed immediate attention. Armand’s feet were bleeding and he was in great pain when he stood on them; and in any case he was in no condition to stand.

Lisette and I tended them and the practical Tante Berthe came to our aid. We washed them, removed their clothes and got them to bed.

‘We’ll burn these things at once,’ said Tante Berthe, even at such a time determining that such garments should not sully the château.

We fed the men with food in small quantities, for we could see that they were nearly starving. Armand wanted to talk and, weak as he was, would do so.

‘I went off that day to a meeting,’ he said. ‘By the river I was met by a party of royal guards. Their captain handed me the lettre de cachet. I guessed it was due to the Orléans faction. I was working for the good of the country. I was no traitor. But they took me to the Bastille. The Bastille!’ He shivered and could not stop shaking.

I insisted that he did not talk. He could tell us everything later when he was in a better condition to do so. We badly needed help. We had two very sick men on our hands, and there were only three of us to look after them. But there were two others in the house, and I decided that they could no longer live apart in their secluded turret. I went up the spiral staircase to Sophie’s apartment.

I knocked and went in. Sophie and Jeanne were sitting at a table playing cards.

I cried out: ‘We need your help.’

Sophie looked at me coldly. ‘Go away,’ she said.

I cried: ‘Listen. Armand is here. He has escaped from the Bastille.’

‘Armand is dead,’ said Sophie. ‘Armand was murdered.’

‘Come and see for yourself,’ I replied. ‘Armand is here. He was not murdered. Some traitors betrayed him and he was given a lettre de cachet. He has been imprisoned in the Bastille.’

Sophie had turned white and the cards fell from her hands on to the table.

‘It’s not true,’ she said. ‘It can’t be true.’

‘Come and see for yourself. You’ve got to help. You can’t sit up here playing cards. Don’t you know what’s happening in the world? We need all the help we can get. The servants have gone. We have two men here who will die if they don’t get proper nursing. They have walked all the way from Paris. They have escaped from the Bastille.’

Sophie said: ‘Come, Jeanne.’

She stood by the bed looking down at her brother. ‘Armand,’ she whispered. ‘It is not you?’

‘Yes, Sophie,’ he answered. ‘It is your brother Armand. You see what the Bastille does for a man.’

She fell on to her knees beside the bed.

‘But why? What did they accuse you of … you … ?’

‘There does not have to be an accusation with a lettre de cachet. Someone betrayed me … ’

I interrupted: ‘This is not the time for this talking. I need help in nursing them, Sophie; you and Jeanne must help. We have no servants now. They have all left.’

‘Left? Why?’

‘I think,’ I said wryly, ‘it is because they believe the revolution has come.’

Sophie worked indefatigably - and Jeanne with her; and with their help we managed to make the men reasonably comfortable. Armand was in worse shape. His skin was the colour of dirty paper and his eyes completely lustreless; he had lost most of his hair and his jaws were sunken. Those years he had spent in prison had killed the old Armand and left a feeble old man in his place.

His companion, without whom he would never have been able to make the journey from Paris, was responding to treatment and although very weak still was showing signs of recovery, which was more than we could say of Armand.

He told us that he had found Armand outside the prison when the mob trooped in and he had said that he wanted to get to Aubigné. He himself had nowhere to go so he helped Armand and together they crossed Paris. He described something of the scenes there. The people were in revolt. There were meetings everywhere and crowds formed into mobs who went about looting the shops and attacking anyone who looked worth robbing, shouting as they did so ‘A bas les aristocrats.’

I wouldn’t let him talk too much—and Armand not at all. It excited them and they were both desperately weak.

We couldn’t have managed without the help of Jeanne and Sophie. Tante Berthe was very good at knowing what could best be done, and cooking the little food we ate. Lisette was less energetic than the rest of us but she comforted us in a way because she refused to be gloomy and insisted that in time everything would come right.

I had abandoned all thought of leaving France since the arrival of Armand and his companion. I was needed here and I doubted in any case that with the country in the state it was I should be allowed to get very far.

Nothing happened for several days and I was beginning to feel that we should be left alone. There was rioting in Paris.’ There was a revolution in progress, Lisette said; but here, apart from the fact that we had no servants, everything was at least peaceful.

Lisette said to me: ‘Let’s go into the town. We might find out what is happening there and perhaps buy some food.’

I agreed that it was a good idea.

‘It is better for us to look like servants,’ she said. ‘Some of them left in such a hurry that they went without all their clothes. We could find something to wear.’

‘Do you think that is necessary?’

‘A precaution.’

She laughed at me in the dress which I had put on.

‘It reminds me of the time we went to see Madame Rougemont. Ah, no longer the grand lady. Not the Comte’s daughter but a simple serving-maid.’

‘Well, you look the same.’

‘I am, after all, only the niece of the housekeeper. Come on.’

We took two ponies from the stables and rode in on them. It was all there was. The grooms who had left had taken the horses with them. On the outskirts of the town we tied up the ponies and went in on foot.

Crowds were gathering.

‘It looks as though it is a special sort of day,’ said Lisette with a smile.

We passed through the crowd in our simple dresses and the only glances which came our way were those which some men give to women who could be called young and good-looking.

‘It seems as if something special is about to take place,’ I said.

‘Probably someone coming from Paris to speak to them. Look! There is a platform set up in the square.’

‘Shouldn’t we try to buy some food?’ I asked.

‘Haven’t you noticed most of the shops are boarded up?’

‘Surely they are not afraid of a riot here!’

‘Aubigné country is not sacred any more, Lottie.’

She gave a laugh as she said that and I looked at her quickly. Her eyes were shining with excitement.

There was a hush in the crowd as a man began to mount to his rostrum. I stared at him. I knew him at once. L é on Blanchard.

‘But what … ’ I began.

‘Hush,’ whispered Lisette. ‘He is going to speak.’

A cheer went up in the crowd. He raised his hand and there was a deep silence. Then he began to speak.

‘Citizens, the day has come. That which has long been due to us is almost within our grasp. The aristocrats who have ruled us … who have lived in luxury while we starved … the aristocrats who for generations have made us their slaves … are now being conquered. We are the masters now.’

There was a deafening cheer. He held up his hand again.

‘But we are not yet there, comrades. There is work to be done. We have to rout them out of their haunts of luxury and vice. We have to cleanse those haunts. We have to remember that God gave France to the people. What they have used for centuries now belongs to us … if we take it. You have lived your lives in the shadow of the great château. You have slaved for your masters. They have kept you in a state of servile starvation to make you work the harder for them. You have lived in fear. Citizens, I tell you, that is over. It is your turn now. The revolution is upon us. We shall take their châteaux, their gold, their silver, their food, their wine. We shall no longer live on mouldy bread for which we have to pay those hard-earned sous and of which we have often not had enough to buy even that. We will march as the good citizens of Paris have shown us how to. Citizens, it is happening all over the country. We will march on the Château d’Aubigné. We will take that which is ours by right.’

While he was talking understanding flashed upon me. He was the man the Comte and I had seen all those years ago. No wonder I had felt I had seen him before. I had not completely recognized him, for when I had first seen him he had been dressed like a peasant, as he was now. He wore a dark wig which slightly changed his appearance. He did not look quite like the gentleman who had come to tutor our boys. But it was the same man. Dickon had been right. He was an agitator in the service of the Duc d’Orléans whose plan was to bring about a revolution so that he might step into the King’s shoes. As Dickon had said, Blanchard was an Orléanist. The Duc de Soissonson was too and he had come to Aubigné to investigate Armand’s band which had resulted in Armand’s receiving his lettre de cachet …arranged no doubt by men in high places. Orléans … Soissonson …

‘It is monstrous,’ I said.

‘Hush!’ warned Lisette.

I turned to her. She was staring at Léon Blanchard as though entranced.

I whispered: ‘We must get back quickly. We must warn them … ’

‘Are you ready, Citizens?’ asked Blanchard; and there was a roar from the crowd.

‘In good order then we will assemble here at dusk. These duties are best carried out at night.’

I felt as though I was choking. I wanted to shout: This man is a traitor. My father was always good to his people. Our servants lived well. How dare you say we starved them! My father always cared for their welfare. They were never given mouldy bread. And Léon Blanchard, wicked traitor that he was, lived with us … as a member of the family when he deceived us and played the part of tutor.

How we had been deceived. Dickon had been right. If only we had listened to Dickon!

Lisette was gripping my arm. ‘Be careful,’ she hissed. ‘Don’t open your mouth. Come on. Let’s get out of here.’ She almost dragged me through the crowds. We found the ponies and rode back to the château.

‘So that wicked man was a traitor all the time,’ I said.

‘It depends what you mean by traitor,’ replied Lisette. ‘He was true to his cause.’

‘The cause of revolution! What are we going to do? Leave the château?’

‘Where would we go?’

‘Are we going to wait for them to come, then?’

‘The crowd didn’t harm you, did it?’ I looked down at my plain dress. ‘No,’ she went on, ‘you look like a good servant … a woman of the right class.’

‘If they take the château … ’ I began.

Again there was that familiar lifting of her shoulders.

‘Lisette,’ I went on, ‘what’s the matter with you? You don’t seem to care.’

We went into the château. It was very quiet. I thought of the mob listening to the traitor Blanchard and I wondered if I should ever see it like this again.

I said: ‘What are we going to do? We must warn Sophie and Jeanne.’

‘For what purpose?’

‘And Tante Berthe …’ I went on.

‘She will be safe. After all, she is only a servant.’

Lisette had followed me up to my bedroom.

I said: ‘Lisette, did you know that Léon Blanchard was going to be there today.’

She smiled at me mysteriously. ‘You were always so easily deceived, Lottie,’ she said.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Léon sent word to me. He and I were great friends … intimate friends. We had such a lot in common, you see.’

‘You … and Léon Blanchard!’

She nodded, smiling. ‘I knew him during those miserable years when I was at the farm. He brought me here.’

I closed my eyes. So much was becoming clear. I remembered the groom who had brought her and that odd feeling I had had of something familiar about him.

‘What does this mean, Lisette?’ I demanded. ‘There is something you are trying to tell me. What has happened to you? You’re different.’

‘I’m not different,’ she said. ‘I was always the same.’

‘You look at me now as though you hate me.’

‘In a way,’ she said reflectively, ‘I do. And yet I am fond of you. I don’t understand my feelings for you. I always loved to be with you. We had such fun together … ’ She began to laugh. ‘The fortune-teller … yes, that was, in a way the beginning.’

‘Lisette,’ I said, ‘do you realize that that wicked man with his mob will be marching on the château at dusk?’

‘What should I do about that, Lottie?’

‘Perhaps we should get away. Hide … ’

‘Who? You and Sophie with Jeanne. What about those sick men? I don’t suppose the mob will care very much about them. They look like scarecrows anyway. Jeanne and Tante Berthe will have nothing to fear. Servants don’t.’

‘I had decided we couldn’t go and leave the men.’

‘Then we stay.’

‘Lisette, you seem … pleased.’

‘I’ll tell you, shall I? I have wanted to so many times. It goes back a long way. We are sisters, Lottie … you … myself … and Sophie. The only difference is that I was never acknowledged as you were.’

‘Sisters! That’s not true, Lisette.’

‘Oh, is it not? I have always known it. I remember our father from my babyhood. Why should he have brought me here if it were not so?’

‘He told me who you were, Lisette.’

‘He told you!’

‘Yes, he did. You are not his daughter. He didn’t know you until you were three or four years old.’

‘That’s a lie.’

‘Why should he lie to me? And if you had been his daughter he would have acknowledged you as such.’

‘He did not because my mother was a poor woman … not like yours … living in a great mansion … as noble as he was almost … and he married her.’

‘I know what happened, Lisette, because he told me. Your mother was his mistress but after you were born. He first discovered you when he visited her and you were there. When your mother was dying she sent for her sister Berthe and asked her to take care of you. The Comte then brought Tante Berthe here as housekeeper and allowed you to stay here and be educated with us because of his affection for your mother.’

‘Lies!’ she cried. ‘That was his story. He did not want to acknowledge me because my mother was only a seamstress.’

I shook my head.

‘Yes,’ she went on, ‘he told you those lies because he wanted to excuse himself. I was never treated quite as one of you, was I? I was always the housekeeper’s niece. I wanted to be acknowledged. Who wouldn’t? And then … Charles came along.

‘You mean Charles, my husband?’

‘Charles. He was fun wasn’t he? But what a fool to go to America. He was going to marry Sophie until that disaster in the Place Louis XV. I thought when my father knew that I was going to have a child he would have arranged the marriage with Charles.’

‘The child … ’

‘Don’t be so innocent, Lottie. Charles saw us both at the fortune-tellers, didn’t he? He always used to say he liked us both and he didn’t know which one he preferred. He used to take me to those rooms which Madame Rougemont let to gentlemen and their friends. I was glad when I knew I was going to have a child. I was silly enough to think that it would make all the difference, that my father would acknowledge me and Charles would marry me. But what did they do to me? They made Tante Berthe take me away and they found a crude farmer husband for me. I shall never forget or forgive. After that I hated the Comte and all he stood for.’

I was so shocked I could only mutter. ‘Yet you wanted more than anything to be part of it!’

‘I hated it, I tell you. I met Léon when he was talking in the town near us. We became friends. My husband died when the mob led by Léon set fire to his granaries … ’

‘So that was done … by Léon!’

She lifted her shoulders and gave me that smile which I was beginning to dread and fear.

‘You are very innocent, Lottie. You would have done so much better to marry your Dickon when you had a chance. He made things uncomfortable for us. He was too clever, wasn’t he? But he is far away now.’

I said slowly: ‘Blanchard was the man you said was a groom lent by your neighbours.’ I was remembering the incident in the stable when I thought I had seen him before. I had been right in that.

‘Of course. Léon thought I could do good work at the château. Besides, it was a home for me and your husband’s son. I wonder you never saw the likeness. I could see it. Every day he reminded me of Charles. But it did not occur to you, did it, dear innocent sister.’

‘Remember, you are not my sister. Lisette, how could you lie to us … all those years? How could you pretend?’

She wrinkled her brows as though trying to think. Then she said: ‘I don’t know. I was so fond of you sometimes. Then I would think of all you had and that we were sisters and how unfair it was. Then I hated you. Then I forgot it and was fond of you again. It doesn’t matter now.’

‘And you knew that Armand was in the Bastille?’

‘Léon did not tell me everything … only what it was necessary for me to know. But I guessed and I wasn’t sorry. Armand deserved what he got. He always looked down on me—he was always the high and mighty Vicomte. It is amusing to think of him in prison.’

‘How can you talk like that!’

‘Easily,’ said Lisette. ‘If you had been humiliated as I have been you would be the same.’

‘And Léon Blanchard told you he was going to be in the town today?’

She nodded. ‘I wanted you to see and hear him. I wanted you to know how things were. I have been longing to tell you for so long. I wanted you to know that I was your sister.’

Tante Berthe had come into the room. She said: ‘There is nothing much left in the kitchens. I have made a little soup. What is the matter?’

I said: ‘We have been into town. Léon Blanchard was there preaching revolution. They will be coming to the château.’

Tante Berthe turned pale. ‘Mon Dieu,’ she murmured.

Lisette said: ‘Lottie has been telling me a tale. She says I am not the Comte’s daughter. As if I did not always know I was. She says the Comte did not know me until I was three or four years old. It isn’t true, is it? It isn’t true?’

Tante Berthe looked steadily at Lisette. She said: ‘The Comte took you in because he was a good and kind gentleman. You and I owe him much. But he was not your father. Your father was the son of a tradesman and he worked in his father’s shop. Your mother told me this before you were born when I came to Paris to try to persuade her to return home. She couldn’t, of course, as she was to have a child. I helped her through her confinement. She insisted on keeping you and this she tried to do through her needlework. She couldn’t make ends meet and started having gentlemen friends who helped her to pay the rent and feed her child.’

‘You mean she was a … prostitute!’

‘No, no,’ cried Tante Berthe fiercely. ‘She only had friends whom she liked … and they helped her because they wanted to. The Comte was one of them. When she knew herself to be dying she asked me to come to her. She wanted me to take care of you. The Comte called when I was there. He was concerned about your mother’s health and he talked to me about the future. He told me that when he had visited her he had discovered that she had a little girl hidden away. He was touched by this. He thought your mother a brave woman. When she died he offered me the post of housekeeper to the château and allowed me to bring you with me.’

‘Lies!’ cried Lisette. ‘All lies!’

‘It’s the truth,’ said Tante Berthe. ‘I swear it in the name of the Virgin.’

Lisette looked as though she were going to burst into tears. I knew that the dream of a lifetime was crumbling about her.

She went on shouting: ‘It is lies … All lies.’

The door opened and Sophie came in.

‘What’s the matter?’ she said. ‘I could hear the shouting in Armand’s room.’

‘Sophie,’ I said, ‘we are in acute danger. The mob will come to the château at dusk. Léon Blanchard is bringing them.’

‘Léon … !’

I said gently: ‘What Dickon suspected was true. Léon Blanchard was not a real tutor. He was here to spy for the Orléanists. The Duc de Soissonson was one of them, too. We have just heard him inciting the mob to march on the château. When he comes with them you will see for yourself.’

‘Léon?’ she repeated in a dazed way.

‘Oh Sophie,’ I said. ‘There has been such deceit. Terrible things are happening everywhere in France. How can we know who is with us and who against us?’

‘I don’t believe that Léon … ’ she began and Lisette began to laugh hysterically.

‘Then I’ll tell you,’ she said. ‘Léon brought me to Lottie. He was my lover before that and when we were here … and still is. You see, even though your father acknowledged you as his daughter, you did not have all your own way. Léon, whom you wanted, was my lover. Charles, who was Lottie’s husband, was my lover. He wasn’t so particular in the bedroom whether my father called me daughter or not. But I am the Comte’s daughter. They are going to try to prove that I was not, but I am, I tell you. I am. I am of noble birth … as noble as either of you. We all have the same father … no matter what anyone says.’

Sophie was looking at me helplessly. I went to her and put my arm about her.

‘It’s true isn’t it,’ she said, ‘that Léon cared about me? He did care a little.’

‘He was here on a mission,’ I said.

‘But he was in love with Lisette all the time. He was only pretending … ’

‘People do pretend sometimes, Sophie. We were all deceived.’

‘And I blamed you. I blamed you for making up tales about him … tales which were not true. I said your lover murdered Armand that you might have my father’s wealth. I said all this of you, Lottie, and I tried to believe it, but I think something inside me rejected it. I didn’t really believe it. Perhaps I always knew that Léon could not have cared for me. It was the same with Charles. When I found that flower in his apartment I started to hate you.’

‘I was never there, Sophie. I lost the flower he bought for me. It was not my flower you found.’

‘What is all this about a flower?’ asked Lisette.

I turned to her. ‘What does it matter now? It was all long ago. Charles bought a flower for me in the street and Sophie found one like it in his bedroom.’

‘A red peony,’ said Lisette. Then she started to laugh. There was an element of hysteria in that laugh. ‘It was I who left the flower behind, Sophie. I dropped it in Charles’s apartment. I borrowed it from Lottie’s room because it matched my dress, I remember. I forgot about it. It was only an artificial flower anyway. It is proof to you, Sophie, that he was my lover. I had his child, you know. Yes, Louis-Charles is his son.’

‘Stop it, Lisette,’ I cried. ‘Stop it.’

‘Why should I? This is the moment of truth. Let us stop deceiving ourselves. Let us all show what we really are.’

The tears were running down Sophie’s cheeks making her hood wet. I put my arms round her and she clung to me.

‘Forgive, Lottie,’ she said. ‘Forgive … ’

I said: ‘When people know they understand. There is nothing to forgive, Sophie.’ I kissed her scarred cheek. ‘Dear Sophie,’ I said, ‘I am glad we are sisters again.’

Lisette and Tante Berthe watched us. Tante Berthe’s practical mind was trying to work out what we should do. Lisette still seemed bemused.

‘You should really get out,’ said Tante Berthe. ‘Perhaps we all should. You certainly, Madame Lottie.’

‘And what of the men?’ I asked.

‘We can’t move them.’

‘I shall stay here,’ I said.

Tante Berthe shook her head and Lisette said: ‘You and I have nothing to fear, Tante Berthe. You are a servant and although I am aristocrat Léon Blanchard is my friend. He will see that I am safe.’

‘Be silent’, cried Tante Berthe. She shook her head and turned away muttering: ‘What is best? What can be done?’

‘There is nothing,’ I replied, ‘but to wait.’

We waited through the long afternoon. The heat was intense. It seemed to me that I was seeing everything with especial clarity. Perhaps that was how it was when one looked Death in the face. I had seen the mob at Léon Blanchard’s meeting and could picture those people marching on the château with the bloodlust in their eyes. I thought of my mother’s stepping out of the shop and finding herself in the midst of such a crowd. I pictured the carriage as I had so often before. I saw the frightened horses. What had she felt in those horrific moments? I had heard of the people’s violence when they had smashed up the town and I knew that human life meant little to them. And as the daughter of the Comte d’Aubigné I was one of the enemy. I had heard that they had hanged one of the merchants from a lamp-post because they said he had put up the price of bread.

I had never before come face to face with death; but I knew that I was facing it now. I was aware of a light-headedness. I felt strangely remote. Fear was there, yes, but not fear of death but of what must happen before it. I knew now how people felt in their condemned cells awaiting the summons.

I looked at the others. Did they feel the same? Armand was too ill to care. He had suffered so much already. His companion was in the same condition. Sophie? I did not think she cared very much. Life was not very precious to her, though she had changed since Armand’s return.

Lisette? I could not understand Lisette. All those years when I had believed her to be my friend she had harboured a hatred of me. I would never forget the triumphant look in her eyes when she considered how I should be made to suffer. I could not believe that she had really hated me all those years because I was recognized as the Comte’s daughter and she thought she should be.

What did I know of Lisette? What did I know of anyone, even myself? People were made up of contradictions and when one nurtures a great grievance through life that must have a lasting effect. Least of all I understood Lisette. Why did she care so much for birth? She was on the side of the revolutionaries. She hated the aristocrats and yet she insisted she was one of them.

The sound of a bee buzzing at the window caught my attention. I thought how wonderful it was to see living creatures, to look at the blue sky, to hear the gentle lap of the water of the moat against the green earth. All that I had taken for granted until I was confronted by the thought that I should never see or hear them again.

Tante Berthe said she thought we should all be together. She would bring the men to my bedroom if we would help her. They could both lie on my bed while we waited.

I nodded and with the help of Sophie and Jeanne we brought the men in.

They looked very ill.

I told Armand what was happening. He nodded and said: ‘You should get away. You shouldn’t stay here. Leave us.’

‘There is nowhere we can go, Armand,’ I told him. ‘And in any case we wouldn’t leave you.’

‘No,’ said Sophie firmly, ‘we should not leave you.’

Armand became animated then. ‘You must,’ he cried. ‘I have seen the mob. That day in Paris. You have no idea what they are like. They cease to be men and women. They are wild animals … ’

I said: ‘Armand, we are not going to leave you.’

‘You … ’ he insisted. ‘You should go. The servants could stay. They might be safe.’

‘Lie back,’ I commanded. ‘Rest while you can. The servants have already gone and we are staying.’

It was a long afternoon.

Sophie sat at my feet on a footstool. Jeanne was close to her. I knew that Jeanne would never leave her as long as they both lived.

I said: ‘Sophie, you have a wonderful friend in Jeanne. Have you ever thought how lucky you are to have her?’

She nodded.

‘She loves you,’ I went on.

‘Yes, she loves me. The others … ’

‘It is over. They would never have been faithful. Charles wasn’t to me, and Léon Blanchard is only faithful to a cause.’

‘They will take us, Lottie … you, Armand and me because of our father.’

Lisette was listening and she said: ‘And they will take me, but I shall be safe because Léon will not let them hurt me.’

Sophie flinched and Jeanne whispered: ‘I should never let you be hurt, Mademoiselle Sophie.’

There was a long silence. We were all listening intently. We must all have been thinking that they might not wait until evening.

‘I wish I could go back,’ said Sophie. ‘I’d be different. I would say, I lost so much—’ she touched her face beneath her hood ‘—but it showed me how truly fortunate I was in Jeanne.’

Jeanne said: ‘Don’t, my precious one. Don’t upset yourself. It’s bad for your face when you cry.’

We were silent again and I thought: If I could have foreseen … if I could go back … how differently I should act. I could see Sabrina’s face. ‘Don’t go,’ she had said. ‘Wait till Dickon comes back.’ I should have waited for Dickon. He had not really been out of my thoughts although I had tried to prevent his intruding on them. Of what use was it to think of him now? It only meant bitter recriminations against myself for my folly.

I should have married him. Heaven knew, I had wanted to. I should have taken what I could get. I should have forgotten my doubts … my determination to accept nothing but perfection.

If I could only turn to him now … if I could shut out my thoughts of the perfidy of Lisette, the unfaithfulness of Charles, of death, if I could forget the wasted years, I would be content. But it was now too late.

‘Too late,’ Sophie whispered it. I laid my hand on her shoulder and she leaned against my knee.

I said: ‘But we know now. I am glad we came to an understanding while there was still time.’

It would be dark soon. The danger hour was near.

Lisette left and did not return until the darkness deepened. I gasped when I saw her. She was wearing one of my gowns—one which I had had made some time ago for a ball. It was one of the most elaborate gowns I had ever possessed. The skirt was of plum-coloured velvet and chiffon of a lighter shade; the tightly fitted bodice was studded with pearls. About her neck was the diamond necklace which the Comte had given my mother on their wedding-day and which was now mine.

‘Lisette!’ I cried as she entered.

‘Are you mad?’ said Tante Berthe.

Lisette laughed at us. ‘I should have had these things,’ she said. ‘I have as much right to them as Lottie has—more, because I am older. My father treated me badly but now he is dead.’

‘Lisette,’ I said, ‘when the mob see you like that what do you think they will do?’

‘I will tell them, “Yes, I am an aristocrat but I have always been for the people I have worked with Léon Blanchard. Ask him. He will tell you I speak the truth.” I shall come to no harm then.’

‘You foolish girl!’ cried Tante Berthe.

Lisette shook her head and laughed. She came and stood close to me, her hands on her hips, taunting, and I thought: Her obsession has driven her mad.

‘I always wanted this dress,’ she said, ‘and the necklace goes with it so well. It belongs to me now. Everything here belongs to me. It is my right and Léon will see that it is given to me.’

I turned away from her. I could not bear the look in her eyes. I thought: Truly she is mad.

They were coming. I could hear the shouts in the distance. I went to the window. There was a strange light out there. It came from the torches they were carrying.

I heard their chanting voices. ‘Au château! À bas les aristocrats! À la lanterne!’

I thought of the lifeless body of the merchant hanging from the lamp-post and I felt sick with fear.

They were coming nearer and nearer.

Tante Berthe said: ‘The drawbridge will stop them.’

‘Not for long,’ I answered.

We looked at each other fearfully and Lisette glided from the room.

‘Where has she gone?’ asked Sophie.

‘To take off that finery if she has any sense,’ retorted Tante Berthe.

I said: ‘I am going to find her. I am going to talk to her.’

I found her mounting the spiral staircase to the tower. I saw her standing on the battlements. The light from the torches had thrown a fierce glow over the scene for the mob was very close … right at the castle gates.

She stood there on the battlements. She looked magnificent with the diamonds sparkling at her throat.

The mob shouted when they saw her.

‘Lisette,’ I called. ‘Come down. Come down.’

She held up her hand and there was silence. She called out to the mob: ‘I am the daughter of the Comte d’Aubigné … an aristocrat by birth.’

The mob started to shout. ‘À bas les aristocrats. À la lanterne!’

She shouted above the noise and eventually they were quiet, listening.

‘But I have worked for your cause. My friend is Léon Blanchard and he will confirm this. I have worked for you, my friends, against the overlords, against those who caused the price of bread to be so high, against those whose extravagances have impoverished France. I will prove to you that I am your friend. I will let down the drawbridge so that you may enter the castle.’

There was a roar of applause.

She dashed past me. I thought of trying to stop her. She would let them in but did it matter? They would not allow the drawbridge to stop them for very long.

She would save herself at the cost of Sophie’s life and mine. It was the final act of hatred.

I went back to the room. They were all waiting expectantly. It would not be long now. The mob would soon be storming the castle.

Jeanne did a strange thing. She untied Sophie’s hood and took it off so that the hideous disfigurement was displayed. ‘Trust me,’ she whispered to Sophie, who had gasped with dismay. ‘I know these people. I think it best. Trust me.’

I could hear sounds of ribald laughter, the noise of falling furniture. The mob was in the château.

Lisette had joined us. Her eyes were shining with triumph. ‘They have come,’ she said.

The door burst open. It was a horrific moment—the one for which we had all been waiting. They were here.

In those terrifying moments I was surprised to recognize among the people who burst into the room three shopkeepers whom I knew slightly—respectable men—not the kind I should have expected to be involved in such an outrage; but mob madness could spring up everywhere.

Lisette faced them. ‘I am the daughter of the Comte,’ she repeated. ‘I am of aristocratic birth, but I have always worked for you and the revolution.’

A man was staring at the diamonds at her throat. I thought he was going to snatch them. Then one of the shopkeepers pushed him roughly aside.

‘Be careful,’ he growled. There was about him a hint of leadership and I felt a faint touch of relief. I sensed that this man was uneasy … wary, and it occurred to me that he could command a certain respect and perhaps hold the more bloodthirsty of the raiders in check.

His words certainly had an effect, for the men who had entered the room ignored us for a few seconds and went round the room examining everything. They looked at the men lying on the bed. Both Armand and his companion regarded them with indifference.

‘Who are they?’ asked one of the men.

‘They are half dead,’ said another.

Jeanne and Tante Berthe faced them squarely. ‘We are servants here. We are not aristocrats,’ said Tante Berthe. ‘You don’t want us.’

Jeanne had her arm about Sophie and I saw the men staring at her scarred face.

One of them took Lisette by the shoulders.

‘Take your hands from me,’ said Lisette haughtily.

‘Ah, be careful of Madame la Comtesse,’ said one of the men ironically.

‘I am the Comte’s daughter,’ said Lisette, ‘but I am with you. I worked with Monsieur Léon Blanchard.’

‘They are on our side now it is good to be so,’ said another of the men. ‘It used to be a different story.’

They started to hustle Lisette out of the room. She turned and pointed to me: ‘That is the acknowledged daughter of the Comte,’ she cried.

‘Yes,’ said one of the men. ‘I know her. I’ve seen her with the Comte. Don’t take any notice of her dress. That is put on to deceive us.’

I realized then that I was still wearing the servant’s dress which I had put on that morning and what a contrast I must make to Lisette in her finery.

The men were looking at the others in the room. They shrugged their shoulders. Then, dragging Lisette and me with them, they went out of the room.

What happened afterwards still bewilders me.

I can remember being dragged through the crowds; I remember the abuse, most of it directed towards Lisette. How foolish she had been to dress up as she had!

The flare of the torches, the sight of dark menacing eyes, the dirty clenched fists which were brandished close to my face, the painful grip on my arms, the moment when someone spat in my face … they are scenes from a nightmare which would spring up suddenly and carry me back all through my life to that fearful night.

We were forced into a wagonette which was drawn by a mangy-looking horse.

And thus we drove through the mob into the town.

There followed the strangest night I have ever spent. We were driven to the mairie and there hustled out of the cart and taken to a small room on the first floor which looked down on the street.

We were fortunate in as much as these people were unaware of their power at this time. The revolution which had been rumbling for so long had only just broken out and among those men who carried us to the mairie were some who, a short time before, had been known as respectable citizens of the town … shopkeepers and the like. They were unsure of what reprisals might be taken. They knew that there were risings all over Paris but they must have wondered what would happen to them if the risings were suppressed and the aristocrats were in power again.

The mob would have taken us to the lamp-post and hanged us right away, but there were several who advised a certain restraint. The Mayor himself was uncertain. For centuries the Aubigné family had been the power in the neighbourhood. It was early days and they could not be sure that that power was broken; they were not yet accustomed to the new order. And the more sober men of the town were very much afraid of retaliation.

The mob had surrounded the mairie and were demanding that we be brought out. They wanted to see our bodies swinging on the lanternes.

I wondered what was happening back at the château.

Were they safe there? Armand and his friend were not recognizable; poor Sophie’s face had probably saved her. This was a revolt against those who had what the mob wanted. Nobody wanted what those sickly men or poor scarred Sophie had. There was nothing to envy in them. It was different with Lisette and me. They did not believe Lisette. She had miscalculated badly, and if she had not been so anxious to prove herself an aristocrat she would have realized what a very dangerous position she was placing herself in.

There were no chairs in the room, so we lay on the floor.

‘I wish that scum would stop shouting,’ said Lisette.

‘You have been so stupid,’ I told her. ‘There was no need for it. You could be back at the château now.’

‘I am who I am and will bear the consequences for that.’

‘Poor Lisette, why do you care so much?’

‘Of course I cared. I was one of you. The fact that I wasn’t recognized doesn’t change that. Léon will save me, you see, and there will be those who will have to answer for the way they have treated me.’

I did not reply. There was nothing to say. Lisette cared more for her birth than she did for her life since she was ready to risk it to convince herself that she was of noble birth.

I saw clearly then how it had obsessed her, how she had believed it—perhaps forced herself to believe it—all those years. She had let the resentment build up to such an extent that it was beyond everything else. She could not face the fact now that she must know it was not to be true. She had to go on believing … even if it cost her her life.

The noise outside seemed to have abated a little. I stood up and looked out. I turned away quickly. They were still there, waiting for us to be brought out.

‘Lisette,’ I said, ‘tell them the truth. They may believe you. It is madness to go on proclaiming that you are an aristocrat and are proud of it. You are saying you are their enemy. They hate us. Don’t you see? They hate us because we have what they have always wanted. Don’t you understand that?’

‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I see it, but it doesn’t alter anything.’

‘I shall never forget the way they looked at Sophie and Armand. True aristocrats … legitimately born aristocrats … not like us, Lisette … the bastards. But they took both of us. Why? Because we are young and healthy, because they envy us. The foundation of this revolution is built on envy. Is its purpose, do you think, to make France a better, happier country? No. It is not that at all. I saw it clearly tonight. It is an attempt by people who have not, to take from those who have those luxuries which they want for themselves. When they have them they will be as selfish and careless of others as the rich have been in the past. It is not a better country that these people are destroying for. It is to turn it round so that those who did not have, now have, and those who had, now have not.’

Lisette was silent and I went on: ‘Is that not so with you, Lisette? You are a true daughter of the revolution. You were envious. Admit it. You have let envy colour your whole life. You have built up a picture that was based on falsehood from the beginning. I can see how it came about. It was a natural inference. Then you were Charles’s mistress and that was gratifying because he was going to marry Sophie. Did you deliberately leave the flower in his apartment so that she could suspect me? You always liked to create a drama, didn’t you? You must have been very pleased to have been his mistress while he was engaged to Sophie. But when there was a child … ’

Lisette burst out: ‘He should have married me. I thought he would. I thought he would make the Comte admit that I was his daughter. Why shouldn’t he have done so? You married Charles.’

‘I was the Comte’s daughter, Lisette.’

‘I was too. I was … I was … ’

I sighed. It was no use talking to her. She would not let go of her obsession, although she knew in her heart that what I and Tante Berthe had told her was true. She must go on believing; and I could see that belief had been her lifeline. She clung to it. She was not going to let it go. Even in the face of the bloodthirsty mob she stood up and said: ‘I am an aristocrat.’

Oh, what a foolish woman she was!

But was I any wiser? I had prevaricated. I had been afraid. I had yearned for Dickon—how far away dear Eversleigh seemed now!—and I had refused to go to him. I had allowed my fears and my suspicions to grow. I had always known that there was none of the saint about Dickon. Far from it. But it was the Dickon he was whom I had wanted; and something perverse within me had refused to let me go to him, to take him for what he was … which is what one must always do with others. One cannot mould them; one loves for what a person is … faults and all, and that was how I had loved Dickon.

I tried to think of him now. Would he have returned to Eversleigh? What would he have said when he found that I had gone?

I thanked God that my father had died before this happened. I thanked God, too, that the children were in England, saved from this holocaust.

The noise had stopped. I went to the window and looked out. I saw him clearly riding through the crowd. Léon Blanchard! I wondered if he was coming to the mairie. Perhaps he would say what was to be done and order them to release Lisette.

‘Lisette,’ I cried. ‘Look! It is Léon Blanchard.’

She was beside me. ‘He has come for me,’ she cried. ‘Léon! Léon!’ she shouted; but he could not hear, nor did he look towards the windows of the mairie.

‘I must get down to him,’ she said. ‘I must.’

She ran to the door. It was locked. She came back to the window. She battered at it with her hands. I saw the blood on the plum-coloured velvet. She had broken through and stood on the balcony. I heard her agonized cry: ‘Léon! Léon! I am here, Léon. Save me from this rabble.’

I couldn’t see Léon Blanchard now. The crowd was staring up at the balcony. I saw Lisette leap and she was gone.

There was a hushed silence in the crowd. The mob seemed to stampede forward. There was deafening noise and screaming. The torches threw a grisly light on the scene. I saw a bloody hand come up and in its grasp was a diamond necklace.

I waited at the window.

I was there when they carried away a broken body.

It was quieter down below. Sickened by what I had seen, I wanted to lie down on that hard floor and drift into oblivion. I wanted to shut out the horror of it all. I felt that if ever I should escape from this peril I should be haunted all my life by the memory of Lisette with the fanatical gleam in her eyes. Life had become a nightmare and I believed that the end of it was very near.

I was cramped lying on the floor. I felt desperately alone. A great urge came over me to weep for Lisette. All those years of resentment … and she had been Charles’s mistress … Had she continued to be when I was in England and she was there with him alone? Was it going on them? It didn’t matter now. Why wonder about it? Soon they would come for me.

I went to the window and looked out. My eyes went to the lamp-post with its faint light which showed me the dark liquid running over the cobbles. I saw that it came from the wine shop into which the mob had broken. Some men were squatting on the cobbles scooping up the puddles with their hands and holding their hands to their lips. I heard a woman start to sing in a high-pitched, quavering voice and a man brusquely and crudely telling her to shut up.

Many of them were drunk. Some were propped up against walls. But they were keeping their vigil at the mairie. They had had one spectacle tonight and they were waiting in anticipation for another. The signal would come and they would storm the mairie.

I could not bear to look at them. I sat down and leaned against the wall with my eyes closed. If only I could sleep away the time until they came for me …

I wondered how long it took for death to come.

‘Quickly, please God,’ I prayed.

The door opened quietly. A man came in. I started to my feet, a sick feeling of horror enveloping me. The moment had come.

It was the Mayor who faced me.

He said: ‘You are to leave here.’

‘Leave here … ’

He put his fingers to his lips. ‘Don’t speak. Obey orders. The mob is quieter now but still in an ugly mood. I don’t want to have to tell them that you are being taken to a prison outside the town. They would not allow you to go. They are determined to hang you. Here … follow me.’

‘But where … where am I going?’

‘I told you to be silent. If the mob get wind that you are leaving they will tear you to pieces. They are bent on seeing the end of Aubigné.’

I followed him down the stairs. We were in a courtyard at the back of the mairie where a coach was waiting. It was shabby and enclosed. A bearded driver, wearing a coat and muffled up about the neck in spite of the weather, was seated in the driving seat. He was holding a whip in his right hand and did not turn as I came out of the mairie.

‘Get in,’ said the Mayor.

‘I want to know where you are taking me.’

I was given a rough push. ‘Be silent,’ hissed the Mayor. ‘Do you want to bring the mob down on you?’

I was pushed inside the coach and the door shut on me. The Mayor lifted his hand and the coach jolted forward.

We had to come round to the front of the mairie and as the coach rattled into the square a cry went up.

‘A carriage? Who rides in a carriage?’

The driver whipped up the horses. I heard the shouts of rage and guessed that the mob was trying to stop the coach.

I lurched from side to side. The driver drove like a madman.

Someone called out: ‘Who is this rogue? Who is in the carriage?’

For a few terrifying moments I thought we were going to be brought to a halt. I could imagine the fury of the people if they discovered who was inside and that an attempt was being made to cheat them of their spectacle.

The driver was silent. He just drove on. We were through the square. The coach gathered speed. Some of the people were running after us and, glancing through the window, I caught a glimpse of angry faces very close.

The coach lurched and trundled on; and the shouts of the people grew fainter. We had left the town behind. Still the driver went on driving with a furious speed so that I was thrown from side to side of the padded vehicle.

Suddenly we stopped. We were close to a wood from which a man emerged leading two horses.

The driver leaped down from his seat and pulled open the door of the coach. He signed for me to get out, which I did. I could scarcely see his face, so heavily bearded was he and he wore a scarf high round his neck.

He looked back the way we had come. The country road seemed very quiet and the first streak of dawn was in the sky.

Then he took off his scarf and pulled at the hair about his face. It came off in his hand and he grinned at me.

‘Dickon!’ I said.

‘I thought you might be rather pleased to see me. Now, no time to lose. Get on that horse,’ he said to me; and to the man: ‘Thank you. We’ll get off now for the coast as fast as we can.’

A wild exhilaration had taken possession of me. I felt faint with emotion; the transformation from terrible despair to wild joy was too sudden. Dickon was here. I was safe and Dickon had saved me.

We rode all through the morning. He would say little except: ‘I want to be out of this accursed country by tomorrow. With luck we’ll catch the paquet. It means riding through the night but we can make it.’

So we rode. My body was in a state of exhaustion but my spirits were uplifted. There came the time when we had to rest the horses and ourselves. Dickon decided when and where. We were not going through any of the towns, he told me. He had a little food with him and we must make do with that. In the late afternoon of the first day we came to a lonely spot by a river. There was a wood nearby where he said we could sleep for an hour. We had to. We needed the rest, and there was a long way to go. First he took the horses to the river and they drank and then he tethered them in the wood. We lay down under a tree and he held me in his arms.

He told me a little then of what had happened. When he had returned to Eversleigh and discovered I had left for France he had followed me at once.

‘I knew that the revolution would begin soon,’ he said. ‘I was determined to bring you away. Abduct you if necessary. I went to the château. They had made a mess of it. But Armand was there with the others. Sophie was looking after him with her servant and that older one. They told me that you and Lisette had been taken. I had to act quickly. You see, Lottie, what it means to have friends in the right places. You have despised me for my interest in worldly goods and money chiefly, but see what useful purposes it can be put to. I have been coming over here now and then. I had business over here, as you know. There were many French who did not like the way things were going … friends of England, you might say. The Mayor, by great good fortune, was one of them. I took the precaution of bringing money with me … plenty of it. I knew I was going to need it. So I came. I was there in the mob. I saw what happened to that girl Lisette. I was waiting for them to get the carriage for me. I would have fought them with my bare fists if they had touched you. But this was the best method. You can’t fight against the mob. It would have been the end of us both. Never mind. I have got you so far. The rest is child’s play in comparison. Now rest … sleep … though that is difficult for me lying here holding you in my arms.’

‘Dickon,’ I said, ‘thank you. I shall never forget what I owe you.’

‘I have made up my mind that I shall never let you.’

I smiled. He had not changed. He never would and I was glad.

We were so tired that we slept and when we awoke evening had come. We mounted the horses and rode on all through the night, stopping only for brief respites.

We came into Calais on the afternoon of the second day. We left the horses at an inn. Only once were we challenged as escaping aristocrats.

Dickon answered that he was an Englishman who had been travelling in France with his wife and had no interest in French politics and quarrels.

His haughty and somewhat bellicose manner intimidated our accusors and it was clearly obvious that he was indeed an Englishman. So trouble was avoided.

We boarded the paquet. Soon we should be home.

We stayed on deck, so eager were we for a sight of land.

‘At last,’ said Dickon, ‘you are coming home to stay. Do you realize that had you come earlier, had you not dashed back to France, you could have saved us a good deal of trouble?’

‘I did not know that I should find my father dead.’

‘We have wasted a lot of time, Lottie.’

I nodded.

‘Now,’ he went on, ‘you’ll take me for what I am. Ambitious, ruthless, eager for possessions … and power, wasn’t it?’

‘There is something you have forgotten,’ I reminded him. ‘If you married me you would be marrying a woman who has absolutely nothing. I am penniless. The vast fortune which my father left in trust to me will all be lost. It will be taken by the revolutionaries. I don’t think you have thought of that.’

‘Do you imagine I should not have thought of such an important detail?’

‘So, Dickon … what are you thinking of?’

‘You, and how I shall make up for the lost years. And you, Lottie, what are you thinking? This man on whom I have foolishly turned my back for many years is ready to marry me—penniless as I am. And he was foolish enough to be ready to give up all he had acquired through a long life of ruthless scheming … and all for me.’

‘How was that?’

‘Lottie, when we drove through that square we were within an inch of being stopped, of being dragged from our coach and hanged on the lamp-post … both of us. If that had happened I should have lost all my possessions, for it is a sobering thought that when you die you cannot take them with you.’

‘Oh, Dickon,’ I said, ‘I know what you did for me. I shall never forget … ’

‘And you’ll take me in spite of what I am?’

‘Because of it,’ I said.

He kissed my cheek gently.

‘Look,’ he said. ‘Land. The sight of those white cliffs always uplifts me … because they are home. But never in all my life did I feel such joy in them as I do at this moment.’

I took his hand and put it to my lips and I held it there as I watched the white cliffs come nearer.

Turn the page to continue reading from the Daughters of England series

A Birthday Party

ON MY SEVENTEENTH BIRTHDAY MY mother gave a dinner party to celebrate the occasion. At that time I had been living at Eversleigh for three years. Little had I thought when I had left my grandfather’s château that I should never see him again. Of course I had known that there was great anxiety throughout France. Even a girl as young and ignorant of the world as I had been, could not be unaware of that, especially as my own grandmother had met a violent death at the hands of the mob. That had had a devastating effect on everyone around me.

Afterwards my mother, my brother Charlot and I had left our home at Tourville and had gone to live in my grandfather’s château of Aubigné in order to comfort him, and Lisette, my mother’s friend, and her son, Louis Charles, had come with us.

I had loved Aubigné and my grandfather had seemed a splendid gentleman, though a very sad one, unlike the man I had known before the death of my grandmother. Yes, no one could help being aware of a brooding menace; it had been everywhere—in the streets, in the country lanes, in the château itself.

Then my mother had brought us to England—myself, Charlot and Louis Charles—to visit her relatives, and there everything was different. I was fourteen at the time and adapted myself quickly. I felt it was my home. I knew my mother felt like that too; but that was understandable because she had lived there in her childhood. There was a certain peace—indefinable—for it was by no means a quiet household. No household could be with Dickon Frenshaw in it. Dickon in a way reminded me of my grandfather. He was one of those dominating men of whom everyone is in awe. Such men don’t have to ask for respect; it is freely given them, perhaps because they take it for granted that it must be there. He was tall, quite handsome, but what one was most aware of was that sense of power which emanated from him. I think we were all aware of it—some resented it, like my brother Charlot, and I fancied on some occasions that Dickon’s own son Jonathan resented him as well.

So through those June days we rode, we walked, we talked, and my mother spent a lot of time with Dickon, while I was delighted with the company of his children, David and Jonathan, who both showed an interest in me and teased me because of my imperfect English; and Sabrina, Dickon’s mother, looked on benignly because Dickon liked to have my mother there, and Dickon’s slightest wish was law to Sabrina.

She was turned seventy then, but she did not look her age. She had a great purpose in living, and that was anticipating and granting the wishes of her son.

It was clear to us all even then that Dickon would have liked my mother to stay. If ever two people were attracted by each other, those two were. They seemed very old to me and it was a source of wonder that two such mature people could behave like young lovers—and one’s own mother, at that, made it more surprising than ever.

I remember the time when my father had been alive. She had not been the same with him; and I think she did not mind very much when he had gone to fight with the American colonists. That was the last we saw of him for he had died in the fighting, and it was soon after that when we left Tourville and went to my grandfather at Aubigné.

Then came this holiday. My mother had refused to leave my grandfather and he had promised to come with us but he had been too ill right at the last moment when it was too late to cancel our arrangements—and I have never seen the château since.

I remembered well that day when my mother received the message that he was very ill and prepared to return to France. There had been hurried consultations and at length she had decided to leave us children—as she called us—with Sabrina, and had travelled back with one of the grooms who had brought the message from Aubigné.

Dickon had been in London at the time and Sabrina had tried to persuade my mother not to go because she knew how upset Dickon would be by her departure when he returned to find her gone. But my mother was adamant.

When Dickon returned and discovered that she had left for France, he was frantic and lost no time in setting out after her. I did not fully understand why he should have been so disturbed until I heard Charlot talking with Louis Charles and Jonathan.

“There’s trouble over there,” said Charlot, “big trouble. That is what Dickon is afraid of.”

“She should never have gone,” said Louis Charles.

“She was right to go,” retorted Charlot. “My grandfather would want to see her more than anyone when he is ill. But she should have taken me with her.”

I joined in then. “You would, of course, fight all the mobs in France.”

“What do you know about it?” asked Charlot witheringly.

“If I knew what you knew, that wouldn’t amount to much,” I replied.

Jonathan grinned at me. I always felt that he was amused by me. He provoked me, but in a special sort of way—not in the least like Charlot, who was contemptuous.

“You’re an ignoramus,” said Charlot.

“You’re a swaggering braggart.”

“That’s right, Claudine,” said Jonathan. “Stand up for yourself. But there’s no need to tell you to do that. She’s a bit of a firebrand, our little Claudine, eh?”

“A firebrand?” I asked. “What is this firebrand?”

“I’d forgotten mademoiselle’s imperfect knowledge of the language. It is one who is always ready for trouble, Claudine… and very energetic in pursuing it.”

“And you think that describes me?”

“I know it. And I’ll tell you something else, mademoiselle. I like it. I like it very much indeed.”

“I wonder how long they’ll stay in France,” went on Charlot, ignoring Jonathan’s banter.

“Until our grandfather is better, of course,” I said. “And I expect we shall be going back soon.”

“That was the idea,” said Charlot. “Oh I do wonder what is happening there. It was so exciting… in a way… but awful that people are hurt. One wants to be there when something important is happening in one’s country.” Charlot spoke earnestly and it occurred to me then that he did not feel as I did about Eversleigh. This was an alien place to him. He was homesick for the château, for a way of life which was different from that of Eversleigh. He was French. Our father had been French and he took after him. As for myself, I was like my mother, and although she had had a French father, her mother had been English, and it had not been until she was well past her youth that she had married my grandfather and became the Comtesse d’Aubigné, presiding over a château, living the life of a lady of the French nobility.

Ours was a complicated household, and I suppose that accounted for many things.

I shall never forget the day they came home—my mother and Dickon. News was filtering into England from France, and we were realizing that the long-awaited revolution had broken out at last. The Bastille had been stormed and the whole of France was in turmoil. Sabrina was beside herself with anxiety to contemplate that her beloved Dickon was caught up in the holocaust.

I never doubted for one moment that he would not emerge triumphant. And he did, bringing my mother with him.

When they reached the house one of the grooms saw them and shouted: “He’s here. Master’s here.” Sabrina, who had been watching and waiting during those days of anxiety, ran out and I saw her in the courtyard, laughing and crying at the same time.

I went out too and was caught in my mother’s arms. Then Charlot and all the others came. I thought Charlot was just a little disappointed. He had been planning to go and get them out of France. Now he no longer had an excuse to return there.

And what a tale they had had to tell—how they had escaped death by inches, how my mother had actually been taken to the mairie and the mob were round the place screaming for her blood. She was after all the acknowledged daughter of one of the leading French aristocrats.

My mother was in a strange mood of shock and exultation which I supposed was to be expected from one who had narrowly escaped death. Dickon seemed more powerful than ever; and for some time I think we all shared Sabrina’s view of him. He was magnificent; he was unique; he was a man who could ride into the midst of the mob and come through unscathed and triumphant.

There was a shock for poor Louis Charles, as his mother had been yet another victim of the revolution. She had never been much of a mother to him and I think he cared more for my mother than he ever had for his own, but it was a blow nevertheless.

My mother had such tales to tell—tales which would have seemed incredible had not wild and fearful happenings taken place across the water. We heard about Armand, the Comte’s son, who had been imprisoned in the Bastille, and whom we all thought had been murdered when he disappeared. But he had come back to Aubigné when the Bastille had been stormed; and he was still at the château with his poor sister Sophie, who had been so badly disfigured during the disaster at the fireworks display which had shocked the whole of France at the time of the King’s wedding.

When my mother had arrived in France she had found my grandfather dead, and she had come to think of that as a blessing, for he could never have borne to see the mob ravaging his beloved château and destroying that way of life which he and his family had known for centuries. No wonder my mother was torn between a bewildered grief and that exultant exhilaration which Dickon always inspired in her. She had always had such spirit; she was so beautiful—one of the most beautiful people I have ever known. I was not surprised that Dickon wanted her. He always wanted the best of everything. Sabrina would say he deserved it. As for her, she was supremely happy. I believed that what was happening in France meant little to her. She wanted my mother to stay in England and marry Dickon, and she had wanted that as soon as she had heard that my father had died in the colonies. She wanted it fiercely because it was what Dickon wanted, and in her eyes his wishes must always be gratified. And if these terrible things had happened to bring to Dickon what he wanted, she accepted that calmly enough.

So my mother and Dickon were married.

“This is our home now,” said my mother to me tentatively. I was always closer to her than Charlot had been, and I remember how anxiously she had looked at me. I knew what she was thinking.

I said: “I should not want to go back, Maman. What is it like… at the château?”

She shivered and lifted her shoulders.

“Aunt Sophie…” I began.

“I don’t know what is happening to her. They came for us and they took Lisette and me. They took us away and left the others. Armand was in a sad state. I don’t think he can live long. And Jeanne Fougère was looking after Sophie. Jeanne seemed to understand the mob. She showed them Sophie’s poor scarred face. It stopped their desire to harm her, I think. They left her alone. Then Lisette jumped from the balcony of the mairie… and the mob were at her.”

“Don’t talk of it,” I said. “Dickon brought you safely home.”

“Yes… Dickon,” she said, and the look which illuminated her face left little doubt of her feeling for him.

I clung to her. “I’m so happy you’re back,” I told her. “If you hadn’t come back, I should never have been happy again.”

We were silent for a few moments, then she said: “Shall you miss France, Claudine?”

“I’d hate to go back,” I told her truthfully. “Grandfather is not there. It must be quite different. Grandfather was France.”

She nodded. “No. I don’t want to go back either. It’s a new life for us, Claudine.”

“You’ll be happy with Dickon,” I said. “It is what you have always wanted… even when—”

I was going to say “even when my father was alive,” before I stopped. But she knew what I meant and that it was true. I knew it had always been Dickon for her. Well, now she had him.

When they were married she seemed to throw off her melancholy. She seemed young… only a few years older than I… and Dickon went about breathing contented triumph.

I thought: Now it is to be “happy ever after.”

But when is life ever like that?

I adapted very quickly and soon I was feeling that I had always belonged to Eversleigh. I loved the house. To me it was more homely than either my father’s or my grandfather’s château.

Every time I approached it I had a feeling of excitement. It was partly hidden by the high wall which surrounded it, and I found great pleasure in glimpsing, from some little distance, the gables just visible beyond the wall. There was that sense of coming home when I rode or drove in through the wide-open gates. Like so many big houses which had been constructed during that period in England, it was built in the Elizabethan style—E-shaped, in honour of the Queen, which meant that there was a huge main hall with a wing on either side of it. I loved the rough stone walls adorned by armoury which had actually been used by my ancestors; and I spent hours studying the family tree which had been painted over the great fireplace and added to over the decades.

I enjoyed galloping through the green fields; I liked to walk my horse through the country lanes; sometimes we rode to the sea—which was not very far from Eversleigh—but then I could not resist looking across that expanse of water and thinking of my grandfather—who had died just in time—and wondering what was happening to unfortunate Uncle Armand and sad Aunt Sophie of the scarred face and constant melancholy. So I did not go to the sea often. But I believe Charlot did.

I was with him once and saw the look of frustration in his eyes as he gazed across to France…

There were undercurrents of emotion in the household. I did not pay much attention to them because I was so absorbed in my own affairs. A governess had been engaged and I had lessons with her; but I mainly studied English. I think it was Dickon’s idea that I should, as he said, “speak properly,” which meant that he wanted me to be rid of my French accent. Dickon seemed to hate everything French, which I was sure was due to the fact that my mother had married Charles de Tourville. Not that he dominated my mother completely. She was not of a nature to be dominated. They sparred together in a way which is really lovers’ talk; and they could scarcely bear to be out of each other’s sight.

Charlot did not like that. There was a great deal that Charlot did not like.

I was really more concerned with David and Jonathan, for both of them had a very special interest in me. David, the quiet and scholarly one, liked to talk to me and told me a great deal about the history of England; he would smilingly correct me when I mispronounced a word and used an incorrect construction of a sentence. Jonathan’s attentions were no less obvious but quite different. There was the jocular banter for one thing; and he was constantly putting his hands on me in a protective proprietorial way. He liked to take me riding; we would gallop along the beach or across meadows, and I always tried to outride him—something he was determined I should not do. But he enjoyed my attempts. He was constantly trying to prove his strength. It occurred to me that when his father had been his age he must have been more than a little like Jonathan.

It was an interesting situation. The brothers made me feel important and that was very pleasant for me, particularly as Charlot kept up the big-brother contemptuous attitude, and Louis Charles, although he was a little older than Charlot, looked up to him and took his cues as to how to behave from my brother.

When I was fifteen—that was about a year after we had settled in Eversleigh—my mother had a serious talk with me.

It was clear that she was anxious about me. “You are growing up now, Claudine,” she began.

I did not mind that in the least. Like most young people I was eager to escape the bonds of childhood and to live freely and independently.

Perhaps living in such a household was a kind of forcing ground. I was aware of the dynamic attraction between my mother and her husband; one could not live in such an atmosphere without being constantly reminded of the powerful effect one person can have on another. That my stepfather was a man of immense physical powers, I was sure, and that he had awakened my mother to an understanding of such a relationship I was subconsciously aware even then, although I did not see this clearly until later. My father—whom I remembered vaguely—had been a typical French nobleman of his age. He must have had numerous love affairs before his marriage, and I was to have proof of that later. But this bond between my mother and Dickon was different.

My mother was watchful of me, and no doubt because she was growing more and more aware of the power of physical attraction, she saw what was brewing round me.

She had suggested we walk in the gardens and we sat in an arbour while she talked.

“Yes, Claudine,” she said, “you’re fifteen. How the time flies. As I said… you’re growing up… fast.”

She had not brought me here to tell me such an obvious fact, so I waited somewhat impatiently.

“You look older than your years… and you are in a household of men… and brought up with them. I wish I could have had another daughter.”

She looked a little wistful. I think she was sad because this great passion which she shared with Dickon had so far been unfruitful. It seemed strange to me too. I thought they might have started a brood of sons… lusty sons, like Dickon himself… or Jonathan.

“As you grow older… they will realize that you are becoming an attractive woman. That could be dangerous.”

I began to feel uneasy. Had she noticed Jonathan’s way of trying to be alone with me? Had she seen the way in which he watched me with that look in his eyes which made them glow like two intensely blue flames?

Then she surprised me. “I must talk to you about Louis Charles.”

“Louis Charles!” I was amazed. I had not thought very much about Louis Charles.

She proceeded slowly, and rather painfully I imagined, for she hated talking about her first husband. “Your father was a man who… liked women.”

I smiled at her. “That does not seem so very unusual.”

She returned my smile and went on: “And in France they have a slightly different code of morals. What I am trying to tell you is that your father was also the father of Louis Charles. Lisette and he were lovers at one time and Louis Charles is the result of that liaison.”

I stared at her. “So that is why he was brought up with us!”

“Not exactly. Lisette was married off to a farmer and when he was killed… that fearful revolution again—she came to us, bringing her son with her. I am telling you this because Louis Charles is your half brother.”

Understanding dawned. She was anticipating a love affair between Louis Charles and myself. She stumbled on: “So you see you and Louis Charles could never—”

“Dear Maman,” I cried. “There is no danger in any case. I would never want to marry a husband who looked down on me. Charlot has taught him to do that and he follows Charlot in every way.”

“It is just a brotherly feeling,” she said quickly. “Charlot is really very fond of you.”

I was relieved. I had thought she was going to talk about Jonathan—but my relief did not last long, for she continued immediately: “Then there are Jonathan and David. With a household of young men… and one young woman among them… there are bound to be complications. I think both David and Jonathan are very fond of you, and although their father is my husband, there is not a close blood relationship between you.”

I flushed and my confusion seemed to answer her question.

“Jonathan is so like his father. I knew Dickon when he was Jonathan’s age. I was even younger than you are… and I was in love with him even then. I would have married him, but my mother stopped it. She had her reasons… and perhaps she was right at that time. Who shall say? But it was long ago. It is the future which concerns us.” She wrinkled her brows. “You see, there are two brothers—twins. They say twins are very close. Would you say that Jonathan and David are very close?”

“I would say they are poles apart.”

“I agree. David is so thoughtful, so serious. He is very clever, I know. Jonathan is clever too… but in a different way. Oh, he is so like his father, Claudine. I… I think they are both getting fond of you… and that could present a problem. You are growing up so quickly. Dear child, always remember that I am here to talk to… to confide in…”

“But I know you are.”

I felt that there was so much she wanted to say and that she was not quite sure of my ability to understand. Like most parents she saw me as a child, and it was hard to change that image.

What she was really doing was warning me.

There was a great deal of activity at Eversleigh. The running of the estate was not all that occupied Dickon and his sons. Dickon was one of the most important men in the South East; and he had many interests in London.

David loved the house and the estate, so Dickon had wisely made that his province. He spent hours in the library, to which he had added considerably; he had friends who would ride out from London and perhaps stay with us for a few days. They were all very erudite and as soon as meals were over, David would conduct them to the library, where they would sit for hours sipping port and talking of matters which were of no interest to Jonathan and his father.

I liked to listen to their conversation at dinner and when I joined in—or tried to—David would be delighted and encourage me to air my views; he often showed me rare books and maps and drawings—not only of Eversleigh but various parts of the country. He was interested in archaeology and taught me a little about it, showing me what had been found at various sites and how a picture of ancient days could be built up through artefacts. He was passionately interested in history and I could listen to him for hours. He gave me books to read and we would discuss them, sometimes walking in the gardens, sometimes riding together. We would stop now and then for refreshment, perhaps at some old inn, and I would notice how much people liked him. They showed him a certain deference, and I was quick to realize that it was a different kind of respect than that which was given to Dickon or Jonathan. They demanded it—not in so many words, of course, but by their attitude of superiority. David was different; he was gentle, and respect was given him because people responded to his gentleness and wanted him to know it.

I enjoyed being with David. He stimulated my interest in so many subjects, and matters which might have been dull became exciting when he explained them to me. I could see that he was advancing my education far more rapidly than my governess was doing, and I was beginning to cast off that French accent, and it was only occasionally that it showed itself. I was growing very fond of David.

I sometimes wished that Jonathan had not been there to complicate matters.

The two brothers were diametrically opposed in almost everything. They looked different—which was rather odd, for feature by feature they were alike; but their entirely different characteristics had set their stamp on their faces and nullified their resemblance.

Jonathan was not the man to settle down to look after a country estate. He was concerned with interests in London. I knew that banking was one of these; there were others. My stepfather was a man of very wide interests—rich and influential; he was often at Court, and my mother accompanied him there, for he never went away without taking her with him. It was as though, having come to happiness late in their lives, they were determined not to miss one hour of each other’s company. That was how my grandfather and grandmother had been. Perhaps such are the ideal marriages, I thought—those to which people come when they are mature in judgement and knowledgeable in the ways of men and women. The fires of youth blazed forth and could burn out; but the steady fire of middle age, stoked with experience and understanding, can burn brightly for life. My mind was stimulated and enriched by my sessions with David; with Jonathan I experienced different feelings.

His attitude was changing and I sensed a certain impatience. Sometimes he kissed me and held me against him, and there was something very meaningful in his manner towards me. I knew, in a way, what that meant. He wanted to make love with me.

I might have had a romantic feeling towards him. I could not pretend to myself that he did not arouse new emotions in me such as I wanted to explore; but I did know that he had dallied with some of the serving girls. I had seen them look at him and I had watched his answering response. I had heard it whispered that he had a mistress in London and that he visited her when he was there—which was frequently.

All this I would have expected of Dickon’s son, and if I had felt indifferent towards him it would not have bothered me; but I thought about it a good deal. Sometimes when he helped me down from my horse, which he did whenever he could, although I was quite capable of dismounting on my own, he would hold me closely and laugh up at me, and although I quickly wriggled free I was rather alarmed to discover that I did not really want to. I had an inclination to smile at him invitingly and let him proceed with what he was planning to do—because I knew how much I wanted to experience it.

At Eversleigh there were portraits of our family—men and women—and I often studied them. The men were of two kinds—I mean of course in one respect only, for their characters were quite diverse and they could not be neatly divided; what I mean is that there were those who were physically demanding and others who were not. I could pick them out by a certain expression in their faces—the sensuous and the austere. There was one ancestress—her name was Carlotta—who embodied all the former; I believe she had had a colourful life with a leader of the Jacobite faction; and there was her half sister Damaris, mother of Sabrina, who was in the second category. My mother was a woman who understood passion and needed it in her life. Jonathan made me feel that I was the same.

So there were many times when I felt weak and ready to respond to his invitation. It was only because of who I was that he did not hustle me into a physical relationship. He could not treat his new stepmother’s daughter as he would some friend in London or any of the servants in our or other households. Even he would not dare to do that. My mother would have been furious and she would have made sure that Dickon was too; and Jonathan, bold as he was, would not wish to incur his father’s wrath.

Right up to the time of my seventeenth birthday we played our tantalising game. I used to dream about Jonathan—that he came to my room and into my bed. I even locked my door when the dream became too vivid. I always took great care never to meet his eyes when he practised little familiarities, the meaning of which I was fully aware. When he went to London I used to imagine his visits to his mistress, and I would feel angry and frustrated and jealous, until David soothed me with his interesting discoveries of the past. Then I could forget Jonathan in just the same way as I forgot David when I was with his intriguing brother.

It is all very well to play these games when one is growing up to sixteen, but when one has reached the mature age of seventeen—which is a time when many girls are considered to be ready for marriage—it is a different matter.

I became aware that my mother—and I suppose Dickon, too—would like me to marry either David or Jonathan. I was sure that my mother would prefer David because he was quiet and serious and his fidelity could be relied on. Dickon regarded David as a “dull dog,” and I imagine he thought that a lively girl such as I was, would have a more exciting time with Jonathan. However, he would certainly give his blessing to either match—and so would my mother.

It would keep me with them, and my mother—to whom the only fly in her marriage ointment was that fertility was lacking—would have grandchildren under her roof.

“In a few weeks you will be seventeen,” said my mother, eyeing me with a sort of wonder, as though for a girl to reach that age was a feat of extreme cleverness. “I can’t believe it. Seventeen years ago…” Her eyes clouded as they always did when she thought of those years in France. She did often, I knew. It was impossible not to. We were always hearing of the terrible things which were happening over there, how the King and Queen were now the prisoners of the new regime, and of the terrible humiliations to which they were submitted. Then there was the bloodshed—the guillotine with its horrible basket into which the severed heads of aristocrats dropped with appalling regularity.

She, too, often thought of poor Aunt Sophie and Armand, and wondered what had become of them. The subject would now and then be raised at the table, and Dickon would wax fierce about it, and there were often arguments between him and Charlot in which Louis Charles joined. Charlot was a problem. He was becoming a man and had to decide what he was to do with his life. Dickon was for sending him to the other estate at Clavering—and Louis Charles with him. That, Dickon thought, would get them both out of the way. But Charlot declared that he did not intend to manage an English country estate. He had been brought up in the belief that he was to have charge of Aubigné.

“The principle of management is the same,” Dickon reminded him.

“Mon cher Monsieur.” Charlot often introduced French phrases into his conversation, particularly when he was talking to Dickon. “There is much difference between a great French castle and a little English country estate.”

“Indeed yes,” said Dickon. “One is a ruin… overrun by rabble; the other is in perfect working order.”

My mother, as she always did, interposed between her husband and her son. It was only because he knew that these altercations distressed her that Dickon did not carry on the battle.

“Seventeen,” she went on now. “We must have a real celebration. Shall we have a dance and invite the neighbours, or would you like just a dinner party with a few selected friends? Then we might arrange for a trip to London. We could go to the theatre and do some shopping…”

I said certainly that appealed to me more than the dance and the neighbours.

Then she was serious. “Claudine, have you ever thought about… marriage?”

“I suppose most people give it a thought now and then.”

“I mean seriously.”

“How can one unless one is asked?”

She frowned. “There are two, I believe, who would be ready to ask you,” she went on. “In fact I think they are waiting for the all-important birthday. You know who I mean, and I know you are fond of both of them. Dickon and I have talked of it. It is something we should be very happy about. There is something unusual about twins. We had twins in the family some years ago—Bersaba and Angelet—and do you know, eventually they each married the same man… Angelet first, and after her death, Bersaba married him. That was before the family were at Eversleigh. It was Bersaba’s daughter Arabella who married into the Eversleigh family—that was at the time of the Civil War and the Restoration. So you see it goes back a long way. But why am I telling you this? Oh… twins. Although they are so different—as Bersaba and Angelet were by all accounts—they both fell in love with the same man. I think it is rather like David and Jonathan.”

“You mean they are both in love… with me?”

“I’m sure of it, and so is Dickon. You are attractive, you know, Claudine.”

“Oh, I am not beautiful like you, Maman.”

“You are very attractive, and it is obvious that you will soon be called on to make a choice. Claudine, tell me, which is it to be?”

“Isn’t it rather unseemly to choose between two men when one has not had a proposal from either?”

“It is only for my ears, Claudine.”

“Dear Maman, I hadn’t thought…”

“But you have thought of them.”

“Well—in a way…”

“David loves you steadily… wholeheartedly. He would be a very good husband, Claudine.”

“You mean that if I were asked by both of them you would prefer me to take David?”

“I would accept your choice. It is your decision, dearest child. They are so different. It is a situation fraught with difficulties, for whichever one you choose, the other will still be there. It worries me quite a lot, Claudine. Dickon laughs at me. He has his own ideas of these matters and I don’t always agree with him.” She smiled reminiscently. “In fact,” she went on, “I hardly ever agree with him.” She made disagreement sound like the ideal state. “I am concerned though. I wish it could have been different. But, Claudine… I am so selfish. I don’t want you to go away.”

I put my arms round her and held her close to me.

“There was always something rather special between us, wasn’t there?” she said. “You came when I was a little disillusioned with marriage. Oh, I loved your father and we had some wonderful times together, but he was never faithful to me. To him that was the natural way of life. I suppose I had been brought up differently. My mother was so English. You were such a comfort to me, my little Claudine. I want you to make the right choice. You are so young. Talk to me. Tell me. Let me share your thoughts.”

I was bewildered. Certainly I hadn’t thought of having to make a choice. But I could see what she meant: the growing seriousness of David and his obvious delight in my company against the impatient gestures of Jonathan. Yes, I could see that the time of indecision was coming to an end.

I was glad my mother had prepared me for this.

I said to her: “I don’t want to choose. I want everything to go on as it is. I like it this way. I love being with David. It is exciting to listen to him. I have never heard anyone talk as he does. Oh, I know he is rather silent in company, but when we are alone…”

She smiled at me lovingly and said: “He is a good young man. He is the best of young men…”

And that seemed significant. But I could not bring myself to talk to her of the emotions which Jonathan aroused in me.

I was to have a new dress for the party, and Molly Blackett, the sewing woman, who lived in one of the cottages on the estate, came to make it for me.

She cooed over the yards of white satin and blue silk which were to make up the dress. I was to have paniers of blue which would part to show a white satin petticoat; and the bodice was to be decorated with tiny white and blue flowers embroidered in silks; the sleeves stopped short at the elbow, from which flowed cascades of fine white lace. It was a style which had been introduced by Marie Antoinette, and when I saw it I could not help thinking of her in her prison waiting—and no doubt longing—for death; and this dampened my pleasure in the dress.

Molly Blackett made me stand for what seemed a very long period while she knelt at my feet with a black pincushion beside her into which she would jab the pins with a ferocious joy when she discarded them.

She chattered all the while about how beautiful I was going to look in my dress. “The white is so suitable for a young girl and the blue will match your eyes.”

“They aren’t that shade at all. They’re dark blue.”

“Ah, that’s the point, Miss Claudine. The colours will make your eyes look a darker blue… in contrast, you see. Oh, these colours are just right for you. My word, time passes. I remember when you first came. It seems like yesterday.”

“It is three years ago.”

“Three years! And your dear mother now with us. My mother remembers her well. She sewed for her mother. That was before she went away to France… and after that she sewed for the first Mrs. Frenshaw. Things have changed now.”

I was standing there only half listening. She had taken off the bodice, having rearranged the set of the sleeves, which had not pleased her, so I was left with the skirt about my waist and nothing but the shift at the top.

She laid the bodice on the table and was saying: “I’ll have this right in a jiffy. Sleeves is so important, Miss Claudine. I’ve known a badly set sleeve ruin a dress, however handsome the rest of it…” when the door opened. I gave a little gasp because Jonathan was standing there.

He did not look at me but said: “Oh, Molly, the mistress wants to see you at once. It’s urgent. She’s in the library.”

“Oh, Mr. Jonathan,” she turned flustered to me; she looked back at the table. “I’ll just—er—see to Miss Claudine…”

“The mistress said immediately, Molly. I think it is important.”

She nodded nervously and with a little giggle ran from the room. Jonathan turned to me and the blue flames were in his eyes as they swept over me.

“Charming,” he said. “Very charming. All glory below and sweet simplicity above.”

“You’ve delivered your message,” I said. “Now you’d better go.”

“What?” he cried indignantly. “You’d ask me to go now?”

He put his hands on my shoulders and bending his head swiftly kissed my neck.

“No,” I said firmly.

He just laughed and pulling my shift down over my shoulder put his lips against my skin. I gasped and he lifted his head to look at me mockingly.

“You see,” he said, “the top does not suit the skirt, does it?”

I felt exposed, unprotected; my heart was beating so fiercely that in my state of undress he must be aware of it.

“Go away,” I cried. “How dare you… come in here… when… when…”

“Claudine,” he said. “Little Claudine… I was passing. I peeped in and saw dear old Molly with her pins, and you there in a certain degree of nudity… and I had to come and tell you how charming you looked.”

I tried to pull my shift back into place but he would not release it, and I could not escape from his hands or his lips.

It was wildly exciting. It was like one of those fantasies during which I had pictured his coming into my bedroom. It was over very quickly, for I heard Molly Blackett coming back. She burst into the room just as Jonathan had slipped my shift back onto my shoulders.

Her face was flushed. “The mistress was not in the library,” she said.

“Was she not?” Jonathan turned to her, smiling easily. “I expect she had to go away. I’ll find her, and if she still wants you, I’ll let you know.”

With that he bowed to us both ironically and went out.

“Well, I never,” said Molly Blackett. “The impudence. He had no right to come in here. I don’t believe the mistress wanted me urgently.”

“No,” I said. “He had no right.”

Her head shook and her lips twitched. “Mr. Jonathan and his tricks…” she murmured.

But I noticed later that she glanced at me speculatively and I wondered whether she thought I had encouraged him.

That scene in the sewing room affected me deeply. I could not get it out of my mind. I avoided him for all the rest of that day, and an hour or so before dinner I went into the library to talk to David. He was excited about some Roman remains which had been uncovered along the coast and he wanted to go down to see them at the end of the week.

“Would you like to come with me?” he asked. “I know you’d be interested.”

I said enthusiastically that I would.

“They could be important. You know we are not far from the spot where Julius Caesar landed and the Romans seem to have left quite a lot of evidence of their residence. They used this area for fuelling their ships. The remains of a villa have been unearthed and there are some very well-preserved tiles. I must say I am greatly looking forward to seeing it.”

He had blue eyes and when they sparkled they looked remarkably like Jonathan’s.

I questioned him about the discovery and he brought down books to show me what had been found in the past.

“It must be a most satisfying profession,” he said a little wistfully. “Imagine the satisfaction when great discoveries are made.”

“Imagine the frustration when after months and perhaps years of work, they find nothing and learn that they have been searching for something which is not there!”

He laughed. “You’re a realist, Claudine. I always knew that. Is it the French in you?”

“Perhaps. But I seem to be getting more and more English every day.”

“I’d agree with that… and when you marry you will be English.”

“If I marry an Englishman. But my origins will be unaffected. I have never understood why a woman should take her husband’s nationality. Why shouldn’t a husband take his wife’s?”

He pondered that seriously. That was one of David’s characteristics which I found so comforting; he always gave consideration to my ideas. I suppose that living in a household dominated by men, I had become aware of a certain patronage—certainly from my brother, Charlot, and Louis Charles followed him in all things. While Jonathan, although showing a great interest in me, made me feel that I was entirely female and therefore to be subdued by the male.

That was why being with David was so refreshing.

He went on: “I suppose there has to be some ruling about this. For instance, there would be some confusion if a wife did not take her husband’s name. What name should the children be given if she did not? When you look at it that way there is some reason in it.”

“And to preserve the myth that women are the weaker sex.”

He smiled at me. “I never thought that.”

“Well, David, you are different. You don’t accept every argument that is put before you. It has to be logical. That is why it is so reassuring to be with you in this community of men.”

“I’m so glad you feel like that, Claudine,” he said earnestly. “It’s been so interesting since you came. I remember your arriving with your mother and I have to say that I did not realize in the beginning what a difference it would make—but I soon did. I began to see that you were different… different from all the other girls whom I had ever met.”

He hesitated and seemed as though he were making up his mind. After a while he continued: “I am afraid it is very wrong of me, but sometimes I am glad of everything that has happened simply because… it has made Eversleigh your home.”

“You mean the revolution—?”

He nodded. “Sometimes I think of it at night when I’m alone. The terrible things that are happening over there to people you have lived amongst… and the thought is always there… Yes, but it brought Claudine here.”

“I daresay I should have come at some time. My mother would certainly have married Dickon sooner or later. I think she only hesitated while my grandfather lived, and when she married Dickon I would naturally have come here with her.”

“Who knows? But here you are and sometimes I think that is all that matters.”

“You flatter me, David.”

“I never flatter… at least not consciously. I mean it, Claudine.” He was silent for a few seconds; then he went on: “Your birthday will soon be here. You’ll be seventeen.”

“It seems a sort of milestone.”

“Isn’t every birthday?”

“But seventeen! Stepping from childhood into maturity. A very special milestone, that one.”

“I always thought you were wiser than your years.”

“What a nice thing to say! Sometimes I feel quite foolish.”

“Everybody does.”

“Everybody? Dickon? Jonathan? I don’t think they ever felt foolish in all their lives. It must be gratifying to know that you are always right.”

“Not unless it is universally agreed that you are.”

“What do they care for universal opinions? It is only their own that count with them. Always to be right in one’s own eyes does give one a tremendous panache, don’t you think?”

“I’d rather face the truth, wouldn’t you?”

I considered. “Yes… on the whole, I think I would.”

“We always seem to think alike. I want to say something to you, Claudine. I’m seven years older than you.”

“Then you must be twenty-four if my arithmetic does not betray me,” I said lightly.

“Jonathan is the same.”

“I have heard that he put in an appearance slightly ahead of you.”

“Jonathan would always be first even at such a time. We had one tutor who was always urging me to assert myself. ‘Go in,’ he used to say. ‘Don’t stand on the edge looking in. Don’t wait for your brother always. Go in ahead of him.’ It was sound advice.”

“Which you did not always take.”

“Hardly ever.”

“It must be a little disconcerting sometimes to have a twin.”

“Yes, there are the inevitable comparisons.”

“But there is supposed to be a special bond.”

“Jonathan and I have long ago released ourselves from that if it ever existed. He is indifferent towards me. Sometimes I think he despises my way of life. And I am not exactly overcome with admiration for his.”

“You are quite different,” I said. “The fairies at the christening dealt out the human qualities—this one for Jonathan, that one for David… so that what each possesses, the other doesn’t…”

“The qualities,” he said, “and the frailties. There is something I am leading up to.”

“I gathered that.”

“I should like to marry you, Claudine.”

“What!” I cried.

“Are you surprised?”

“Not really… only that you bring it up at this time. I thought—after my birthday.”

He smiled. “You seem to think there is some magic about the actual day.”

“That’s foolish, isn’t it?”

“Both your mother and my father would be pleased. It would be ideal. We have so much to interest us both. I wouldn’t have asked you if I hadn’t thought you liked me. I believe you enjoy our talks and everything…”

“Yes,” I said, “I do. And I’m very fond of you, David, but—”

“Have you never thought of marrying?”

“Oh yes, of course.”

“And… with someone?”

“One can’t very well think about marriage without including a bridegroom.”

“And did you ever consider me?”

“Yes… I did. My mother talked to me about it. Parents always want to see their offspring married, don’t they? But my mother wants it to be right for me… she wouldn’t wish it otherwise.”

He came to me then and took my hands in his. I was reminded how different he was from Jonathan, but I knew that he would be kind always, and understanding and interesting; oh yes, it would be a wonderful life with him.

There was something missing though, and after my encounters with Jonathan, I knew what. I did not feel that overwhelming excitement when David took my hands, and I kept thinking of Jonathan in the sewing room slipping my shift from my shoulders; and I knew in that moment that I wanted them both. I wanted the gentleness, the reliability, the sense of security, the absorbing subjects I could share… all that came from David; and on the other hand, I wanted the excitement of that sensual allure which Jonathan brought me.

I wanted them both. What a quandary, for how could one have two husbands?

I looked at David. How pleasant he was. There was an earnestness about him—an innocence in a way. I believed I could enjoy a life spent, at Eversleigh, discussing with him the affairs of the estate, looking after tenants on the Eversleigh land, delving into matters which absorbed us both.

If I said Yes, my mother would be pleased. Dickon would be too, although he would be indifferent as to whether I chose David or Jonathan. But Jonathan had not asked me. Yet I knew that he wanted me… He lusted after me, as they put it in the Bible. And because of who I was he would have to marry me to get me into his bed.

I came very near to saying Yes to David, but something held me back. It was the memory of Jonathan, and the stirring of hitherto unknown emotions which he had aroused in me.

“I’m so fond of you, David,” I said. “You have always been my very good friend. But just now, I feel I want to wait.”

He understood at once.

“Of course, you want to wait. But think about it. Remember everything we could do. There is so much in the world to absorb us.” He waved his arms, indicating the shelves of books. “We have so much to share, and I love you very dearly, Claudine. I have from the moment you came here.”

I kissed his cheek and he held me against him. I felt pleasantly secure and happy; but I could not shut out the memory of Jonathan; and when I looked in David’s clear blue eyes I thought of the startling blue flame in those of Jonathan.

I couldn’t sleep that night. Perhaps that was understandable. I had had a proposal of marriage which I had almost accepted; I had also had the experience in the sewing room and I did not know which had affected me more deeply.

One thing I had done before getting into bed was to lock my door. Coming to the sewing room as he had, Jonathan had shown me clearly that he was capable of rash actions, and my response had taught me that I had to beware of my own feelings.

I spent the morning as I always did with my governess, and in the early afternoon I went for a ride. I had not gone very far when I was overtaken by Jonathan.

“Hello,” he said. “What a surprise!”

Of course I knew that he had watched me leave and had then come after me.

“I should have thought you would have been ashamed to show your face,” I said.

“I was under the impression that you rather liked it; and if it pleases you, that is all I ask.”

“What do you imagine Molly Blackett thought of your behaviour in the sewing room?”

“I must first ask a question of you. Does Molly Blackett think? I believe her mind is completely taken up with pins and needles and ladies’—er—is there such a thing as a placket? It would be most appropriate if there is, because that rhymes with her name.”

“She was shocked. You know very well that my mother did not wish to see her.”

“But I wished to see you more closely in that delicious state of undress.”

“It was very foolish and decidedly ungentlemanly.”

“The best things in life often are,” he said ruefully.

“I dislike this flippant talk.”

“Oh come! You know you find it irresistible… as you do me.”

“I knew you always had a high opinion of yourself.”

“Naturally, for if I don’t, who else will? They take their cue from me, you know.”

“I don’t want to hear any more glorification of your character.”

“I understand. It does not need glorification. You are wise enough, chère Mademoiselle, to see it as it really is, and that pleases you. I believe it pleases you mightily.”

“You are absurd.”

“But adorable with it.”

My answer to that was to whip up my horse. I turned into a field and galloped across it. He was beside me. I had to pull up, as I had come to a hedge.

“Let me make a suggestion,” he said. “We could tether our horses and sit under yonder tree. Then we could talk of many things.”

“It is hardly the weather for sitting out-of-doors. I believe it could snow in a moment.”

“I would keep you warm.”

I turned away again but he laid a hand on my bridle.

“Claudine, I do want to talk to you seriously,” he said.

“Well?”

“I want to be near you. I want to touch you. I want to hold you as I did yesterday. That was wonderful. The only trouble was that dear old Molly Blackett would come blundering in.”

“What do you want to talk seriously about?” I asked. “You are never serious.”

“Rarely. But this is one moment when I am. Marriage is a serious business. My father would be quite pleased if you and I married, Claudine, and what is more important—so would I.”

“Married to you!” I heard a pitch of excitement in my voice. I went on scathingly: “Something tells me that you would not be a very faithful husband.”

“My chère Mademoiselle would keep me so.”

“I think I should find the task too onerous.”

He laughed aloud. “Sometimes you talk like my brother.”

“I find that rather a compliment.”

“So now we are to hear of the virtues of St. David. I know you are rather fond of him—in a special sort of way.”

“Of course I’m fond of him. He is interesting, courteous, reliable, gentle…”

“Are you, by any chance, making comparisons? I believe Shakespeare once commented on the inadvisability of that. You will know. If not, consult Erudite David.”

“You should not sneer at your brother. He is more…”

“Worthy?”

“That is the word.”

“And how it fits. I have an idea that you are more favourably inclined towards him than I like.”

“Are you by any chance jealous of your brother?”

“I could be… in certain circumstances. As no doubt he could be of me.”

“I don’t think he has ever aspired to be like you.”

“Do you think I have ever aspired to be like him?”

“No. You are two decidedly different natures. Sometimes I think you are as different as two people could be.”

“Enough of him. What of you, sweet Claudine? I know you respond to me. You like me, don’t you? You liked me very much when I came into the room and routed old Blackett and I kissed you. True, you put on your mask of properly-brought-up-young-lady. ‘Unhand me, sir!’ which really meant I want more of this… and more…”

I was scarlet with mortification.

“You presume too much.”

“I reveal too much which you would prefer to hide. Do you think you can hide the truth from me? I know women.”

“I had gathered that.”

“My dearest little girl, you don’t want an inexperienced lover. You want a connoisseur to direct you through the gates of paradise. We would have a wonderful time together, Claudine. Come, say yes. We’ll announce it at the dinner party. It’s what they want. And in a few weeks we’ll be married. Where shall we go for our honeymoon? What say you to Venice? Romantic nights on canals… the gondoliers singing love songs as we drift along. Does that appeal to you?”

“The setting would be ideal I am sure. The only thing I should object to is that I should have to share it with you.”

“Unkind.”

“You asked for it.”

“And the answer is?”

“No.”

“We’ll make it Yes.”

“How?”

He looked at me intently; his expression changed and the set of his lips alarmed me faintly.

“I have ways… and means,” he said.

“And an inflated opinion of yourself.”

I turned sharply away. He fascinated me and I had to overcome a desire to dismount and face him. I knew that would be dangerous. Beneath the light banter there was a ruthless determination. I was very much aware of it and it reminded me strongly of his father. It was said that men wanted sons because they liked to see themselves reproduced. Well, Dickon had reproduced himself in Jonathan.

I started to gallop across the field. Ahead of me was the sea. It was a muddy grey on that day with a tinge of brown where the frills of waves touched the sand. The tang of seaweed was strong in the air. It had been a stormy night. I felt a tremendous sense of excitement as I galloped forward and let my horse fly along by the edge of the water.

Jonathan pounded along beside me. He was laughing—as exhilarated as I was.

We must have gone a mile when I drew up. He was beside me. The spray made his eyebrows glisten; his eyes were alight with those blue flames which I was always looking for; and I thought suddenly of Venice and gondolas and Italian love songs. In that moment I would have said: “Yes, Jonathan. It is you. I know it will not be easy; there will be little peace… but you are the one.”

After all, when one is seventeen one does not look for a comfortable way of life. It is excitement, exhilaration, and uncertainty which seem appealing.

I turned my horse and said: “Home. I’ll race you.”

And there we were once more pounding along the beach. He kept beside me but I knew he was choosing the moment to go ahead. He had to show me that he must always win.

In the distance I saw riders and almost at once recognized Charlot and Louis Charles.

“Look who’s there,” I cried.

“We don’t need them. Let’s go back and do that gallop again.”

But I called: “Charlot.”

My brother waved to us. We cantered up to them and I saw at once that Charlot was deeply disturbed.

“Have you heard the news?” he said.

“News?” Jonathan and I spoke simultaneously.

“It’s clear that you haven’t. The murdering dogs… Mon Dieu, if I were there. I wish I were. I wish…”

“What is it?” demanded Jonathan. “Who has murdered whom?”

“The King of France,” said Charlot. “France no longer has a King.”

I closed my eyes. I was remembering the tales my grandfather used to tell of the Court, of the King who was blamed for so much for which he was not responsible. Most of all I thought of the mob looking on while he mounted the steps of the guillotine and placed his head beneath the axe.

Even Jonathan was sobered. He said: “It was expected…”

“I never believed they would go so far,” said Charlot. “And now they have done it. That vile mob… They have changed the history of France.”

Charlot was deeply affected. He reminded me of my grandfather at that moment, of my father too. Patriots, both of them. Charlot’s heart was in France with the royalists. He had always wanted to be there to fight the losing battle for the monarchy. Now that the King was dead—murdered like a common felon on that cruel guillotine—he wanted it more than ever.

Louis Charles looked at Jonathan almost apologetically. “You see,” he said, as if he needed to explain, “France is our country… he was our King.”

We all rode back together quietly, subdued, in mourning for a lost régime and the death of a man who had paid the price for the excesses of those who had gone before him.

The news had reached Eversleigh. As we sat at the table, the execution of the King of France was the only topic of conversation.

Dickon said he would have to leave for London and Jonathan must go with him. He guessed the Court would be in mourning.

“It is alarming to all rulers when one of their number is treated like a common criminal,” commented David.

“Yet this death comes as no great surprise,” said Jonathan.

“I always believed that it could never happen,” added Charlot vehemently. “No matter how powerful the revolutionaries became.”

Dickon said: “It was inevitable. When the King failed to escape and join the émigrés, he was doomed. If he had been able to join them, the revolution might have come to an end. And he could so easily have escaped! What an example of idiotic ineptitude! Travelling in style… the grand carriage… the Queen posing as a governess! As if Marie Antoinette could ever be anything but Marie Antoinette! One could laugh if it were not so tragic. Imagine that cumbersome and very, very grand carriage riding into the little town of Varennes, and the inevitable questions. Who are these visitors? Who is this lady calling herself a governess? No marks for guessing! What a charade!”

“It was a brave attempt,” said Charlot.

“Bravery counts for little when folly is its companion,” said Dickon grimly.

Charlot was sunk in gloom. Never had I realized how deeply his feelings were involved.

Dickon was very well informed. We were never quite sure why he spent so much time in London about the Court; he was a friend of Prime Minister Pitt, and at the same time on excellent terms with Charles James Fox and the Prince of Wales. It was rare that he talked openly of what we thought of as his secret life, though I daresay he confided to some extent in my mother. She went with him everywhere, so she must have had some notion of what his business was. But if she had, she never betrayed it.

On this occasion he did talk a little. He said that Pitt was an excellent Prime Minister, but he wondered how he would shape up to war.

“War?” cried my mother. “What war? Did not Mr. Pitt say that England was assured of peace for some years to come?”

“That, my dear Lottie, was last year. A great deal can happen in politics in a very short time. I am sure William Pitt regarded all that turmoil on the other side of the Channel as a local matter… no concern of ours. But we are all realizing now that it is of concern to us… of the greatest concern.”

Charlot said: “And it is right that it should be so. How can the nations of the world stand aside and let an outrage like this pass unavenged?”

“Quite easily,” retorted Dickon dismissively. He always showed a faint contempt for Charlot, which I think would have been more than faint but for the fact that it upset my mother. “It is only when events affect us tangibly that we act. The revolutionaries, having ruined France, now seek to see others in a similar plight. The success of the French debacle was assured by its agitators. They are the real provokers, those who pointed out to the people how wrongly they had indeed been treated, who stressed the differences between the aristocrats and the peasants, and who, where there were no grievances, created them. Now we shall have them here. The dog who has lost his tail cannot bear to see those who have retained theirs. The agitators will be here. That is one thing. I can tell you this: societies are being formed in London and as far as Scotland. They are seeking to bring about in this country that to which they have so successfully contributed in France.”

“God forbid!” said my mother.

“Amen, my dear Lottie,” replied Dickon. “We will not allow it here. Those of us who know what is going on will do everything possible to prevent it.”

“Do you think you will be able to?” asked Charlot.

“Yes, I do. We are aware of what is happening, for one thing.”

“There were some who were aware of it in France,” said my mother.

Dickon snorted. “And they involved themselves with the American colonists instead of cleaning out their own stables. Perhaps now they see the folly of their ways, for those young fools who were screaming for liberty, and for the elevation of the oppressed, are now seeing what the oppressed are offering them—the guillotine!”

“At least Armand tried to do something,” insisted my mother. “He formed a group of real patriots who wanted to see justice. Oh I know you thought he was incompetent…”

“He thinks everything is incompetent which is not done in England,” said Charlot.

Dickon laughed. “How I wish I did! I should like to see this country act wisely, which I admit to you, my young Monsieur de Tourville, it does not always do. But perhaps we are a little more cautious, eh? That little bit more likely not to act rashly… not to excite ourselves unduly over matters which are not to our advantage. Shall we leave it at that?”

“I think,” said David, “that it would be wise.”

Dickon laughed at his son. “I see troubles ahead,” he went on, “and not only for France. Austria can hardly stand aside while its Archduchess follows her husband to the guillotine.”

“Do you think they will kill Marie Antoinette too?” I asked.

“Undoubtedly, my dear Claudine. There will be more to gloat over her death than those who have done so over that of poor Louis. They have always blamed her, poor child… which was all she was when she came to France, a pretty little butterfly who wanted to dance in the sun—and did so most charmingly. But she grew up. The butterfly became a woman of character. The French liked the butterfly better. And she is Austrian.” He grinned at Charlot. “You know how the French hate foreigners.”

“The Queen has been much maligned,” said Charlot.

“Indeed it is so. Who is not maligned in these ferocious days? France will be at war with Prussia and Austria. Holland too, most likely, and it will not be long before we are drawn in.”

“Horrible!” said my mother. “I hate war. It does no good to anybody.”

“She is right, you know,” said Dickon. “But there are times when even peacelovers like Mr. Pitt see the necessity for it.” He looked at my mother and said, “We must leave tomorrow for London. The Court will be in mourning for the King of France.”

My mother looked at me and said: “We must be back in time for Claudine’s birthday.”

Dickon smiled benignly at me. “Nothing—wars, rumours of wars, revolutions proved and planned—nothing must stand in the way of Claudine’s coming to maturity.”

My parents, with Jonathan, were away for the greater part of a week. Charlot went about in a mood of bleak depression; he and Louis Charles were often deep in earnest conversation. The entire atmosphere had changed; the death of the French King seemed to have opened up fresh wounds which brought us nearer to that state of unease which existed beyond the Channel.

David and I visited the Roman remains and I caught his enthusiasm for them. He told me about Herculaneum, which had been discovered early this century, followed by the discovery of Pompeii—both of which ancient towns had been destroyed by a volcanic eruption from Vesuvius.

“I should very much like to see those places,” he said. “I believe they are most revealing of how life was lived all those hundreds of years ago. Perhaps we could go there together one day.”

I knew what he meant. When we were married. A honeymoon perhaps. It sounded most exciting. Then I thought of Venice and a gondolier with a tenor voice singing love songs in the darkness.

We talked a great deal, naturally, about the revolution in France. It was never far from our minds. David was quite knowledgeable—far more so than he appeared to be during the mealtime conversations which Dickon naturally dominated and where Jonathan also gave a good account of himself.

I went round the estate with David. That was another side to him. He was a businessman, and eager to do everything he could to improve the lot of the tenant farmers and others who lived on the estate. He was very efficient in a quiet way and I saw again how greatly he was respected, which made me feel gratified.

I was beginning to think that I could have a very happy life with him—but that was because Jonathan was absent.

They came back two days before my birthday. I knew that my mother would not allow anything to interfere with that.

So the great day arrived. Molly Blackett wanted to be present when I put on my dress.

“Just in case I’m not satisfied, Miss Claudine. Perhaps a little stitch here, a touch there. You never know.”

I said: “You’re an artist, Molly.” And she was pink with pleasure.

Guests began to arrive in the late afternoon, for a few had to come from a long distance. The Pettigrews, whose country estate was some thirty miles from Eversleigh, were staying the night. They visited us now and then, as Lord Pettigrew was a banking associate of Dickon’s. Lady Pettigrew was one of those domineering women who keep a very sharp eye on what is going on; and I believed she was looking for the best possible match for her daughter Millicent.

Millicent was a considerable heiress, and like most parents of such well-endowed offspring, Lady Pettigrew was eager that she should be matched by a partner of equal financial worth. I visualized the rather plump Millicent seated in a balance with a possible husband on the other side to be weighed with her while an eagle-eyed Lady Pettigrew made sure that the scales tipped in Millicent’s favour.

Our neighbours from Grasslands—one of the two big houses in the vicinity—had had to be invited; we were not very friendly with them in spite of their being our nearest neighbours.

They were Mrs. Trent and her two grand-daughters Evalina and Dorothy Mather. Mrs. Trent had married twice and both husbands had died. The first had been Andrew Mather, from whom she had inherited Grasslands; and on his death she had married the estate manager, Jack Trent. She had been unfortunate for, besides losing both husbands, she had also suffered the death of her son Richard Mather and his wife. Her consolation was her grand-daughters—Evie and Dolly, as she called them. Evie was about seventeen years of age, I supposed; Dolly was a year or so younger. Evie was quite a beauty but Dolly was a sad little thing. She had sustained some injury when she was born and her left eyelid was drawn down somewhat so that she had some difficulty in opening that eye. It was only a slight malformation but it gave a certain grotesque look to her face and I had the impression that she was very much aware of this.

The other nearby house, Enderby, was vacant. It seemed to be unoccupied most of the time, for it was one of those houses which over the years had collected an unsavoury reputation. Certain unpleasant events had taken place there. Sabrina had lived there for a time—in fact, I think she had been born there—but her mother had been that Damaris whose virtuous looks I had noticed in the picture gallery and her influence somehow suppressed the evil which returned after she had died. However, Enderby was vacant, so no one came from there.

Our hall was beautifully decorated with plants from the greenhouse, as we should dance there later. The dining room table had been opened to its full size and seemed to fill the room, which looked charming in the light from the fire and the countless candles. There was one large candelabrum in the centre and smaller ones on either side.

I was seated at the head of the table—the hostess for the occasion—and on my right hand sat my mother, and on my left, my stepfather Dickon.

I felt grown-up at last and very happy—yet at the same time I had a strange feeling that I wanted to catch at these moments and make them last forever. I must have understood even then that happiness is just a transient emotion. Perfection may be reached, but it is elusive and there are forces all about which will surely snatch it away.

Everyone was laughing and talking. Very soon Dickon would rise and propose a toast to me, and I must stand up before them all and thank them for their good wishes and tell them how happy I was to see them here before asking the members of my family to drink the health of our guests.

Sabrina sat at the end of the table. She looked very young for her years and supremely happy. She watched Dickon most of the time, and I was sure she believed that all her dreams had come true. Lottie, my mother, was Dickon’s wife, where she had always belonged; if only Clarissa, my great-grandmother, and Zipporah, my grandmother, were here, Sabrina would have asked nothing more.

Jonathan was next to Millicent, and Lady Pettigrew watched him with a certain dazed expression which I believed I construed correctly. Dickon was a very rich man, so Jonathan, presumably, would match up to Lady Pettigrew’s requirements for a son-in-law. Of course it was a way parents had, especially with the female members of their households. As soon as a girl became nubile, they started to plan for her. Wasn’t my own mother the same? Hadn’t she planned for me? David or Jonathan? she was asking herself. I must not be too hard on Lady Pettigrew. It was only natural that she should want the best for her daughter.

The musicians were already in the gallery and as soon as the meal was over they would play for dancing. Dickon whispered to me that he was going to make the toast now.

He stood up and there was silence.

“My friends,” he said, “you all know what occasion this is, and I want you to drink a toast to our daughter, Claudine, who this day has left her childhood behind her and become that most delectable of beings… a young lady.”

“To Claudine.”

As they raised their glasses I noticed that my mother’s attention had strayed and I realized that something was going on in the hall. Then I distinctly heard the sound of rather shrill raised voices. Was it guests who had arrived late?

One of the servants came in and going to my mother whispered something to her.

She half rose.

Dickon said: “What is it, Lottie?”

There was silence round the table. This was the moment when I should get to my feet and thank them all for their good wishes and propose the toast to our guests which my family would drink. But it was my mother who stood up. “You must excuse me,” she said. “Friends have arrived… from France.”

Dickon went out with her and everyone was looking at each other in amazement. Then Charlot said: “You will excuse me, please.” And he, followed by Louis Charles, left the dining room.

“Friends from France!” said Jonathan. “They must be émigrés.”

“How exciting!” That was from Millicent Pettigrew.

“Those dreadful people,” said someone else. “What will they do next? They say they will kill the Queen.”

They were all talking now. It was an excited buzz. I looked along the table to Sabrina. Her face had changed and she looked like an old woman now. She hated any sort of trouble and no doubt she was thinking of those terrible days when Dickon had been in France and she had suffered agonies of fear for her son. But that was over and Dickon had come back triumphant—as if Dickon could ever do anything else!—and he had brought Lottie home with him. We had reached the happy-ever-after stage, and Sabrina did not want to be reminded of what was happening on the other side of the Channel. We were in our cosy corner, apart from strife; she wanted to wrap her family in a cosy cocoon and keep it safe. Any whisper or suggestion of horror should be shut right away. It was no concern of ours.

Dickon came back into the dining room. He was smiling and I noticed that Sabrina’s anxieties faded away as she looked at him fondly.

He said: “We have visitors. Friends of Lottie’s… from France. They have arrived here on their way to friends in London. They have escaped from France and are in a state of exhaustion. Lottie is arranging beds for them. Come along, Claudine, say your piece.”

I stood up and thanked them all for their good wishes and proposed the toast to our guests. When it was drunk we sat down and the conversation was all about the revolution and how terrible it must be for those aristocrats who went in fear of the mob and had to flee their country.

“So many are getting out,” said Jonathan. “There are émigrés all over Europe.”

“We shall insist that they put the King back on his throne,” said Lady Pettigrew, as though it were as simple a matter as finding the right husband for Millicent.

“That might be rather difficult, considering he has lost his head,” Jonathan pointed out.

“I mean the new one. Isn’t there a little Dauphin… King now, of course.”

“Young, very young,” said Jonathan.

“Young men grow up,” retorted Lady Pettigrew.

“A statement of such undeniable truth that I cannot challenge it,” went on Jonathan.

I felt laughter bubbling up within me in spite of the subject. Jonathan always amused me, and I imagined his being married to Millicent and having a lifetime of verbal fencing with his mother-in-law. Almost immediately I was appalled by the thought of his marrying Millicent. I could not imagine her in a gondola listening to Italian love songs. Nor did I want to think of her in such a situation.

Charlot and Louis Charles did not immediately return. I guessed they were with the new arrivals. It was much later when we were dancing in the hall that they joined the company.

I danced with Jonathan, which was exciting, and I danced with David, which was pleasant, though neither of them danced well. My brother Charlot danced far better. They paid more attention to such matters in France.

I sought out Charlot and asked about the visitors.

He said: “They are in such a sad state. They could not face all those people. So your mother took them into the solarium while fires were lighted in their bedrooms and the warming pans put in the beds. There they were given food and as soon as the rooms were ready they went to bed.”

“Who are they?”

“Monsieur and Madame Lebrun; their son and his wife and the son’s daughter.”

“Quite a party.”

“They have had some hair-raising adventures. They almost did not get away. Do you remember them?”

“Vaguely.”

“They had that big estate not far from Amiens. They had left their château some time ago and had been living quietly in the heart of the country with an old servant. But they were discovered and flight became necessary. They have been helped by some. There are a few worthy people left.”

Poor Charlot! He was deeply moved.

The party was over and the guests had left, except those who were staying the night. I lay in my bed, too tired to sleep. It had been an exhilarating evening and everything had worked out as smoothly as my mother had planned—except for the untimely arrival of the Lebruns. And even that had been handled with the utmost discretion.

I had come to a turning point in my life. There would be pressure on me now to make up my mind. David… or Jonathan? What an extraordinary choice for a girl to have to make. I began to wonder how much they loved me. Was it because of who I was, or because it had been expected and was what the family hoped would happen? I had a notion that they had been cleverly manoeuvred towards this situation.

Jonathan undoubtedly wanted to make love to me. But he might have had the same feelings for a milkmaid or any of the servants. It was because of who I was that he wanted marriage.

And David? No, David’s affection was solid. It was for me only, and when he offered marriage it was for the sake of true love.

David… Jonathan! If I were wise it would be David; and yet I had a feeling that I should always hanker for Jonathan. I should have to decide… but not tonight. I was too tired.

I slept late next morning, for my mother had given instructions that I was not to be awakened. When I went downstairs most of the overnight guests had left, and those who had not were on the point of doing so.

I said my farewells and when we stood waving to the departing guests I asked about the French people.

“They are sleeping,” said my mother. “They are quite exhausted. Madeleine and Gaston Lebrun are too old for this sort of thing. How sad at their age to be driven out of their country.”

“Worse still to be driven off the earth.”

She shivered. I knew all this had brought back to her mind that terrifying experience when she herself had come close to death at the hands of the mob. She understood as none of us could—except perhaps Dickon, and he would always be certain that he was going to get the better of whoever attacked him—the horror of what they called the Terror in France.

“We must do all we can to help,” she said. “They have family connections over here north of London and when they are sufficiently rested they will go to them. Dickon is sending a message to them today to tell them that the Lebruns have safely arrived in England and are staying with us for a few days. He will help them make the journey. Perhaps he and I will accompany them to their friends. Poor things, they must feel lost in a strange country. They haven’t much English either. Oh Claudine, I am so sorry for them.”

“So are we all,” I said.

“I know. Charlot is incensed.” She sighed. “He feels so deeply. I don’t think he will ever adjust himself to living here. He is not like you, Claudine.”

“I feel this is… my home.”

She kissed me. “And so do I. I have never been so happy. It is such a pity all this has to happen…”

I slipped my arm through hers and we went into the house.

We were at supper the following night and with us were the younger Monsieur and Madame Lebrun with their daughter Françoise, who was about my age,

They were very grateful for the hospitality they were receiving, and when Dickon said that he and my mother would accompany them to their destination and that they would spend a night in London on the way, they were overwhelmed with relief.

Conversation, rather naturally, was all about their escape and the state of affairs in France; and it was conducted in French, which shut out Sabrina, Jonathan and David somewhat. David could read French quite well but he did get lost in conversation. As for Jonathan I doubted whether he had ever bothered to learn much of the language. Dickon’s French was a good deal better than he allowed it to be thought and he always spoke it with an exaggerated English accent which suggested that he was determined no one should mistake him for a Frenchman. The rest of us, of course, were fluent.

We learned a little of what it was like to exist under the Terror. People such as the Lebruns lived in perpetual fear of it. They could never be sure of their safety from one moment to another. They had lived with a faithful servant who had married a man who had a small farm; and they had pretended to be relations of hers. But they could so easily betray themselves and it was when Monsieur Lebrun had tried to sell a jewelled ornament he had managed to salvage from his possessions that he was suspected and flight became imperative.

They had disguised themselves as labourers, but they were well aware that one gesture, one lapse from the patois they had adopted, could betray them.

My mother had found some clothes for them, which, if they did not fit very well, were better than the stained and tattered garments in which they had arrived.

Madame Lebrun said: “There are so many people who are kind to us. To see the mob… to hear those who have been one’s servants and whom one has treated well… turn against one… is so depressing. But it is such a comfort to learn that the whole world is not like that. There are many in France who help people like us. We shall never forget what we owe to them, for we could never have escaped but for them.”

Charlot leaned forward and said: “You mean… our own people.”

“Most of our kind would help if it were possible,” replied Madame Lebrun. “But we all have to help ourselves. We are all in danger. Yet there are those who have given themselves up to the task of helping such as we are out of the country and remaining there themselves for this purpose when they could escape. There are houses of refuge. You can imagine how dangerous it is. There has to be perpetual watch for the enemy.”

“Their unselfishness is very heartening,” said Charlot vehemently.

“I knew there would be such people,” echoed Louis Charles.

“I wonder what is happening in Aubigné,” said my mother.

“I saw Jeanne Fougère in Evreaux when we passed through.”

We were all alert now. Jeanne Fougère had been Aunt Sophie’s faithful maid and companion—an important person in the household because she had been the only one who could manage Aunt Sophie.

“When was that?” asked my mother eagerly.

“Oh… several months back. We were a long time there. We stayed at one of the houses I spoke of managed by people who help others to escape.”

“Months ago!” echoed my mother. “What did Jeanne say? Did you ask about Sophie—and Armand?”

Madame Lebrun looked at my mother sadly. “She said that Armand had died in the château. At least the mob had left him alone. I think she said that the young man who was with him recovered and went off somewhere.”

“And what of Sophie?”

“She was still at the château with Jeanne.”

“At the château! They didn’t destroy it then?”

“No, apparently not. They took the valuables and furniture and such. Jeanne said it was a shambles. But she had some chickens and there was a cow and they managed to live in a corner of the place. That was how it was then. People did not seem to bother them. Mademoiselle Sophie was an aristocrat, daughter of the Comte d’Aubigné, but she was almost a recluse… badly scarred. In any case they were living at the château unmolested. Jeanne was uneasy though. She kept lifting her eyes to the skies and murmuring: ‘How long!’ Perhaps even now the mood has changed. Now the King is dead, it will become worse, they say.”

“Poor Sophie,” said my mother.

The following day the Lebruns departed and, true to his word, Dickon went with them as their guide; naturally my mother went too.

After they had gone the whole mood of the house seemed to have changed. The Lebruns had brought into it a threat of what could happen to disrupt people’s comfortable lives. We had known, of course, what was going on over there, but this brought it home to us forcibly.

I soon discovered what was in Charlot’s mind.

It was naturally at the dinner table that we all gathered together and there the talk as usual turned to France and the plight of those refugees who were left behind.

The guillotine was claiming more and more of them every day. The Queen was in prison. Her turn would soon come.

“And our aunt is there,” said Charlot. “Poor Aunt Sophie! She was always so pathetic. Do you remember her, Claudine, in that hood she used to wear to cover one side of her face?”

I nodded.

“And Jeanne Fougère. She was a bit of a dragon. But what a treasure! What a good woman! She would not let us in very often to see Aunt Sophie.”

“She always liked you to go and see her though, Charlot,” said Louis Charles.

“Well, I do think she had a special fondness for me.”

It was true. Charlot had been a favourite of hers, if she could have been said to have favourites. It was a fact though that she had actually asked Charlot to visit her on one or two occasions.

“Those people who are helping aristocrats escape the guillotine are doing a wonderful job,” went on Charlot.

He looked at Louis Charles, who smiled at him in such a way that I knew they had discussed this together.

Jonathan was attentive too. He said: “Yes, it is a great adventure. My father went over there and brought Claudine’s mother out. It was a marvellous thing to do.”

Charlot agreed, though he had no great love for Dickon. “But,” he went on, “he just brought out my mother. Just one person because she was the only one he was interested in.”

I defended him hotly. “He risked his life.”

It was a good thing that Sabrina was not present; she would have grown hot in her defence of Dickon; she often did not come down to the evening meal when Dickon was away, but had something in her room. Yet if he was there she usually made the effort to join us.

“Oh yes, he did that,” said Charlot lightly. “But I think he enjoyed doing it.”

“We usually do well what we enjoy doing,” said David, “but that does not detract from the virtue of the act.”

The others ignored him.

Jonathan’s eyes were shining. They blazed with that intense blue light which I had thought I aroused in him. Obviously other matters than the pursuit of women could make it shine forth.

“It must be exciting,” he said, “rescuing people, snatching them from prison at the last moment, depriving that hideous guillotine of another victim.”

Charlot leaned across the table nodding and they started to talk about the escapes which the Lebruns had mentioned. They talked with great animation; they seemed to have created a bond between them from which David and I were excluded.

“What I would have done in those circumstances,” Jonathan was saying; and he went on to outline some adventurous stratagem. They looked boyish in their enthusiasm.

Jonathan explained in detail how my mother had been taken by the mob to the mairie, where she was kept while the people screamed outside for her to be brought out that they might hang her on the lanterne.

“And my father, disguised as a coachman, was in a carriage at the back of the mairie. He bribed the mayor to let her out and he drove the carriage right through the mob in the square. At any moment something could have gone wrong.”

“He never believed anything could go wrong,” I said.

There was silence at the table. They were all lost in admiration for Dickon. Even Charlot seemed to think he was rather splendid in that moment.

Then he said: “But he might have brought others out at the same time.”

“How could he?” I demanded. “It was difficult and dangerous enough to get my mother out.”

“People are being brought out. There are brave men and women who are giving their lives to this. Mon Dieu, how I wish I were there!”

“I too,” echoed Louis Charles.

And so they talked.

I continued to be concerned with my own problem. Jonathan or David? This time next year, I thought, I shall be eighteen. I shall have decided by then.

If only I did not like them both so much. Perhaps it was after all because they were twins—in a way like utterly opposite sides of one person.

I thought frivolously that when one was attracted by twins one should be allowed to marry them both.

When I was with David I thought a good deal about Jonathan. But when I was with Jonathan I must remember David.

The day after that conversation I went riding and I expected that Jonathan would come after me as he usually did. He knew what time I left.

I rode rather slowly to give him time to catch up, but he did not appear. I made my way to the top of a small incline where I could get a good view. There was no sign of him.

I finished my ride and went back considerably piqued. As I entered the house I heard voices in one of the small rooms which led from the hall and I peeped in.

Jonathan was there with Charlot and Louis Charles. They were deep in conversation.

I said: “Hello. I’ve been riding.”

They hardly seemed aware of me… even Jonathan.

I came away distinctly annoyed and went to my room.

That night at dinner the conversation took the usual trend: the events in France.

“There are other places in the world,” David reminded them.

“There are ancient Rome and ancient Greece,” said Jonathan rather contemptuously. “You’re so steeped in past history, brother, that you are losing sight of the history which is being made all around you.”

“I assure you,” retorted David, “that I am fully aware of the significance of what is happening in France at this time.”

“Well, isn’t that more important than Julius Caesar or Marco Polo?”

“You cannot see history clearly while it is happening,” said David slowly. “It is like looking at an oil painting. You have to stand back… some years. That particular painting isn’t finished yet.”

“You and your metaphors and similes! You’re only half alive. Let’s tell him, shall we, eh, Charlot, Louis Charles? Shall we tell him what we propose to do?”

Charlot nodded gravely.

“We are going to France,” said Jonathan. “We are going to bring out Aunt Sophie… among others…”

“You can’t!” I cried. “For one thing, Dickon would never allow it.”

“Do you know, little Claudine, I am no longer a child to be told do this… do that.” He was looking at me with a teasing indulgence. “I am a man… and I will do what I will.”

“That’s true,” agreed Charlot. “We are men… and we are going to do what we think fit, no matter who tries to stop us.”

“Our father will soon put a stop to those plans,” said David. “You know very well he would never give his consent to your going, Jonathan.”

“I don’t need his consent.”

Charlot smiled complacently at Louis Charles. “He has no jurisdiction over us.”

“He will prevent it, you’ll see,” said David.

“Don’t be too sure of that.”

“Well,” I said practically, “how are you to set about this great adventure?”

“Never trouble your head,” replied Charlot. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“Oh no,” I cried, “I am quite stupid… but not so stupid as some who indulge in wild fantasies. Remember the stories of Uncle Armand? How he made some plan to descend on the agitators? What happened to him? He was sent to the Bastille… and there a strong and healthy man was turned into a pitiable invalid. And… according to the Lebruns he is dead now. He never recovered from his incarceration in the Bastille.”

“He must have been careless. He made mistakes. We should not do that. This is a noble thing to do. I refuse to stand aside any longer while these things are happening to my people… my country.”

David said: “It is indeed a noble idea, but a great deal of careful planning is needed.”

“Of course it needs planning,” retorted Charlot. “But how can we plan until we get there… until we know what we shall find?”

I said: “I believe you are serious.”

“Never more so,” answered Charlot.

I looked at Louis Charles. He nodded. Of course he would go where Charlot went.

I forced myself to look at Jonathan, and I saw the blazing blue of his eyes, and I felt hurt and angry because that flame was there for a project which did not concern me… and he could so impulsively risk not only his own life but those of Charlot and Louis Charles.

“You would surely never go with them,” I said.

He smiled and nodded.

“But you are not French. It is not your problem.”

“It is the problem of all right-thinking people,” said Charlot a little sententiously.

He was motivated by love of his country; but it was different with Jonathan, and he had wounded me deeply. He had shown me clearly that I was only of secondary importance to him.

He wanted this adventure more than he wanted me.

All the next day Jonathan was absent and Charlot and Louis Charles with him. They returned in the evening and did not say where they had been; but there was a certain smug satisfaction about them. The next day they went out riding again and did not return until late.

I talked to David about them and he expressed some anxiety as to what they were planning.

“It must be all talk,” I said. “They could not possibly go to France.”

“Why couldn’t they? Charlot is a zealot and Louis Charles would always go along with him. Jonathan…” He shrugged his shoulders. “Jonathan has often made wild plans and I can assure you that many of them never materialized. He likes to imagine himself on a magnificent charger riding into danger and riding out again victorious. He has always been like that.”

“He is very like his father.”

“My father would never have quixotic ideas about rescuing strangers. He always said the French brought the revolution on themselves by their own folly—and now must pay the price for it.”

“But he went over there magnificently and came out victorious.”

“He would always have a purpose. He went solely to bring out your mother. He would plan coolly and efficiently. These three appear to be allowing their emotions to get the better of their common sense.”

“That is something you never do, David.”

“Not willingly,” he agreed.

“What are we going to do about them? I feel they are reckless enough to attempt anything.”

“My father will soon be home. He will deal with it.”

“I wish they would return.”

David took my hand and pressed it. “Don’t worry,” he said. “There is so much going on. We are almost at war with the French. They wouldn’t find it very easy to get over there in the first place. They would find the obstacles… insurmountable.”

“I hope you are right,” I said.

I was greatly relieved when the next day Dickon and my mother returned home.

“All is well,” said my mother. “We have delivered the Lebruns to their friends. It was a happy reunion. They will find the refuge they need, but it is going to take them some time to recover from their terrible experiences.”

The storm broke at dinner.

We were all seated round the table when Charlot said almost nonchalantly: “We have decided to go to France.”

“You couldn’t possibly do that,” said my mother.

“Couldn’t? That’s a word I don’t accept.”

“Your acceptance of the English language is immaterial,” put in Dickon. “I know you have an imperfect understanding of it, but when Lottie says that you could not possibly go to France, she means that you could not be so foolish as to attempt to do so.”

“Others have done it,” Charlot pointed out.

He looked defiantly at Dickon, who retorted: “She means it is impossible for you.”

“Do you imply that you are some superhuman being who can do what others can’t?”

“You may have a point there,” said Dickon aggravatingly. “I’ll have a little more of that roast beef. They do it well in the kitchen.”

“Nevertheless,” said Charlot, “I am going to France.”

“And I,” put in Jonathan, “am going with him.”

For a moment father and son stared steadily at each other. I was not sure of the look which passed between them. There was a certain glitter in Dickon’s eyes, something which made me think, fleetingly, that he was not altogether surprised. But perhaps I thought of that after.

Then Dickon spoke. He said: “You’re mad.”

“No,” said Jonathan. “Determined.”

Dickon went on: “I see. So it is a plan. Who is going to join this company of fools? What about you, David?”

“Certainly not,” said David. “I have told them what I think of the idea.”

Dickon nodded. “It is a pleasant surprise to find that a little sanity remains in the family.”

“Sanity!” retorted Jonathan. “If sanity is devoting oneself exclusively to books and mathematics, then the world would not have progressed very far.”

“On the contrary,” contradicted David, “ideas… thought and education have done more to advance it than rash adventurers.”

“I would contest that.”

“That’s enough,” said Dickon. “I suppose you have all been moved to this by the arrival of those refugees. You should have heard some of the stories they have been telling us. France has become a land of savages.”

“There are fine people there still,” said Charlot, “and they are doing all they can to save the country.”

“They’ll have a hard task. I warned them years ago that they were heading for disaster.”

“It’s true,” said my mother. “You did, Dickon.”

“Then they were preaching against us… joining the American colonists. What fools! Who can be surprised at the state they are now in?”

“I can,” said Charlot. “But it is no use trying to make you understand.”

“I understand well enough. You are not very profound, you know. You’re just a little band of idiots. Now that’s an end of the matter. I want to enjoy my roast beef.”

Silence fell on the table. Sabrina, who had come down for the joy of having Dickon at the table and seeing him enjoy his roast beef, looked a little strained. She hated conflict.

My mother was anxious too. It was such a pity. After being away, even for such a short time, she wanted to enjoy her homecoming.

Dickon said he wanted to see Jonathan in his study after the meal. When I went upstairs I heard them talking quietly there.

My mother came to my bedroom. She sat on my bed and looked at me sorrowfully.

“How did all this come about?” she asked.

I told her how they had talked and become so absorbed in their plotting that the rest of us did not seem to exist for them.

“It was Charlot who started it, I think,” I said.

“Charlot was always a patriot. He is his father’s son. It is a pity he and Dickon cannot get on.”

“I don’t think they ever would. They have a natural antipathy.”

She sighed and I smiled at her.

“Dearest Maman,” I said, “you cannot have everything in life, can you? And you have so much.”

“Yes,” she agreed. “I have, and Claudine, remember this when you grow older: one of the best things in life is to have your happiness when you are mature enough to enjoy it.”

“Well, that is the way you have had it.”

She nodded. “Don’t worry about these foolish young men. They’ll realize their folly. Dickon will make them see it.”

But he did not.

They went off secretly the next day and nobody thought anything about them until evening when they did not return.

We spent an uneasy night and the next morning a letter arrived for Dickon from Jonathan.

They had arranged their passage in a boat calling at the Belgian coast and by the time Dickon received the note, they should be about to land.

A Wedding At Eversleigh

OUR HOUSEHOLD WAS DISRUPTED. Dickon raged and my mother was plunged into melancholy. Although she had never been so close to Charlot as to me, and they had grown farther apart since her marriage to Dickon, he was her son, and I realized during the weeks which followed how his flight saddened her. She knew Charlot had never really wanted to stay in England, and she felt a certain guilt because she understood how frustrated he must have felt. He had come for a holiday—as we all had—and to have been forced to stay in England had angered him.

I had often heard him say that he wished he had gone back that time with my mother. He would never have come away if he had. He would have stayed behind to fight. David said: “You would not have been there long to fight. You would have been just another in the long march to the guillotine.”

One remembered these conversations now; one remembered so much. Rides had lost their savour. There was no fear, no hope, of Jonathan’s springing out on me. He had gone. What if he never came back?

My mother mourned secretly; she did not want to upset Dickon more than he already was. After a while he ceased to show a great deal of distress even though Jonathan, his son, had gone away and into danger so acute that it was hard for any who had not experienced it to imagine. I supposed that Dickon was not very emotionally involved with either of his sons; but they were his heirs, and like most men he had wanted sons. I wondered whether he considered the possibility of Jonathan’s not coming back. Perhaps he consoled himself that he still had David.

During the first weeks we looked out for them. I would find myself at the top of the house, watching the road; and sometimes my mother would creep up to watch with me. Then she would grip my hand and I knew that she was seeing herself once more in the mairie with the mob below her. Such experiences are never forgotten; and at times such as this, naturally they became more vivid.

Once she broke down and cried: “This terrible revolution. What good can it possibly bring compared with the evil it has wrought! My father lost his only son. Just think of it! He went out one day and he only came back all that time after when my father was dead. You wouldn’t have known him, Claudine.”

I pressed her hand; then I kissed it.

“Thank God I have you,” she said.

“I will always be near you.”

“Bless you, dearest child. I believe you will.”

I would have done anything at that moment to bring her comfort.

I think what Dickon felt most was anger. He had never liked Charlot, and I am sure would not have minded his going in the least. He was angry because it had upset my mother.

I doubted he had ever been so flouted in his life.

Sabrina became ill. I was sure it was with anxiety, and in a way this turned our thoughts from what was happening to them in France.

I would sit and read to her, which was what she liked, and she talked a great deal about the past. She remarked what a fortunate girl I was. I had been loved all my life; and she threw a little light on her own childhood, which made me see her differently.

She told me how when she was a little girl she had been forbidden to skate on a frozen pond because a thaw was setting in. She had disobeyed and fallen into the water, to be rescued by her mother, who caught a chill which shortened her life. Her father never forgave her. It was a shadow which had hung over her life. Only my great-grandmother, Clarissa, who was her cousin, had understood her. And then she had married the man whom Clarissa had loved.

I looked at her frail body, her white hair, and her thin but still-beautiful features, and I saw that her life had been overshadowed by guilt. She had shared Dickon with Clarissa and they had found their consolation in the son of the man whom they had both loved.

What happens in our young days must surely shape our natures. Dickon was arrogant, aggressive, seeing himself inheriting the earth as his right. Well, those two admiring women had helped to make him what he was. And Charlot… he had been brought up in France. It was his country and he would never tear himself away from it.

I prayed that he would never be caught by those who were making revolution. It would be a martyr’s death for him if he were. Louis Charles had always been something of a disciple. And Jonathan? No, I could not imagine anyone’s getting the better of Jonathan. He had that quality which was Dickon’s and somehow I felt he would always survive. I fostered that belief because it cheered me.

I was spending a great deal of time with David. I could discuss this alarming situation with him much more easily than I could with my mother.

I said: “I’m afraid for them. How I wish they would come home.”

“Jonathan will come, you’ll see. I don’t know about Charlot and Louis Charles. Charlot has been serious about this for a long time, and he carries Louis Charles with him. It is a new adventure for Jonathan. I fancy he will tire of it though. He does lose his enthusiasms rather quickly.”

The trip to London which was promised for my birthday was postponed. No one really felt in the mood for such frivolities.

“Perhaps,” said my mother pathetically, “when they come back we can all go together.”

Dickon, however, did go to London and my mother accompanied him. I wondered whether Jonathan had walked out on certain business commitments as well as his home.

The days passed quickly when the first shock was over. These consisted mainly of daily lessons for me. I spoke English fluently enough to satisfy even Dickon; and it was only rarely that a faint French accent could be detected.

David would often read passages to me from books which interested me, and I was learning something of the subjects which fascinated him. He liked me to ride round the estate with him and I was getting to know the tenants in the outlying districts. I took a great interest in the state of the cottages and when the young people were having babies. David was delighted and often commented on how popular I was with these people. He said that on those occasions when I was not with him they asked after me.

“The other day one of them said, ‘She’s one of us—Mistress Claudine is. No one would ever think she was aught else.’”

“It looks as though they have forgiven me for having a French father.”

“A great concession, I do assure you,” said David.

“Why are people so insular?”

“Because their horizons are as narrow as their minds.”

“Charlot was the same.”

I wished I had not said that. We were always trying to avoid any mention of what had happened.

“Charlot is so much a Frenchman that he cannot accept anything that is not French. My father is the same about England.”

“It seems to be a masculine failing.”

“Well, perhaps. Your mother, it seems, could be French or English… whatever is demanded. So can you, Claudine.”

“Home is where those whom you love are. It is not a house or a piece of land surely.”

“So this is your home, Claudine.”

“My mother is here. I suppose home would always be where she is.”

Then he said: “And others… perhaps.”

I looked at him steadily and replied: “Yes… and others.”

“Myself, for instance?”

“You, of course, David.”

“You will marry me, won’t you, Claudine?”

And I said: “Yes, David, I will.”

Afterwards I wondered why I had answered so promptly, for although since Jonathan left I had been more and more drawn to David, in my heart I was still unsure.

Looking back, I think I wanted to escape from this slough of despond into which we all seemed to have drifted. I wanted something to happen, anything which would lift us out of it. Since Jonathan had gone so lightly, so eagerly abandoning me for the sake of a new adventure, I had been telling myself that it was really David whom I loved, because I was sure that with David, I came first. And having promised, I tried to convince myself that I had done the right thing—that which in my heart I had always known.

David was jubilant, and almost at once the atmosphere in the house lightened. The gloom lifted and for a while I too felt quite joyous. The change in my mother was amazing and Dickon was so delighted that it appeared that what he wanted more than anything at this time was our marriage.

My mother threw herself into preparations with an almost feverish energy. When should the wedding be? There should not be too long a wait. Summer was the time for a wedding. Of course the summer would soon be over. This was August. There must be some time for preparation. What about the end of September? Or the beginning of October? It was finally decided that it must be October to give us the time we needed for preparation.

It had been late February when the young men had left for France. Somehow it seemed like years.

As the days began to pass I was telling myself twenty times a day that I had done the right thing. I was very happy. David and I had everything in common and we would be happy all our lives in the heart of the family.

“It is true,” I would say to myself. But why should I have to tell myself so insistently?

I was happy, however, to see my mother so absorbed. She was almost her old self wondering whether Molly Blackett was capable of making the wedding dress or whether she should risk hurting her by engaging a court dressmaker. While she concerned herself with such a matter at least she was not brooding about what might have happened to Charlot.

At length she decided that fashion must be sacrificed to human kindness and Molly set to work with yards and yards of pure white chiffon and delicate lace. And there was I standing, while she knelt at my feet, with the pincushion beside her, and my thoughts went back to another occasion when Jonathan had burst in on us and lured Molly away on a false pretext while he held me in his arms.

The dress turned out to be quite a triumph, and the joy of Molly Blackett’s life. It hung in my bedroom cupboard for a whole week before the wedding, and every night, before I got into bed, I would look at it, and very often I thought it was like a ghost standing there—not a ghost from the past, but the ghost of what was to come. Once I dreamed that I was wearing it and Jonathan came and slipped the bodice from my shoulders and kissed me.

I supposed that every girl felt a little apprehensive before her wedding. I often pondered on those marriages which were arranged in highborn families. How did the bride feel going to an unknown bridegroom? At least I knew David for a kindly, interesting person, someone who really loved me, and, I said almost defiantly to the ghost in the cupboard, “whom I love.”

During the days I was less fearful. Riding with David about the estate I felt contented. This was what our life would be. I should grow into it graciously. I should help him when he had little worries about something on the estate; we should take trips to London. Indeed we had planned to do so on our honeymoon. I often thought of the one we had planned in Italy, visiting Herculaneum or Pompeii—but that would not be easy now that we were at war with France. I often wondered what would happen to an Englishman found in France at this time. Dickon said that the country was in such a turmoil that they would pay little attention to foreigners; they were too intent on killing each other. But I feared for Charlot and Louis Charles as well as Jonathan.

We decided we would go to London… just for a week, say. We would sail up the river as far as Hampton; we would go to the theatre; and we would stay in the family house, which would be like home in a way.

I could not help thinking of Venice and Italian love songs as the gondoliers swept their way over darkened waters.

One day we came home past Grasslands, which belonged to Mrs. Trent, and as we were passing she came out and called to us.

I had never really liked her. There was a certain slyness about her. When I had visited Eversleigh the very first time—and I was quite young then—I had thought she was a witch and had been rather afraid of her.

Why I should have felt so I was not quite sure, for she must have been rather pretty when she was young; but there was a certain wariness about her which put me on my guard.

She called a greeting and said: “So it is our young bride and groom. Come and drink a glass of sloe gin… or if you would prefer it, the elderberry wine was very good this year.”

I wanted to refuse, but David was already thanking her and accepting the invitation. I guessed he did not want to go any more than I did, but he was too kindhearted to refuse.

Grasslands was a very small estate compared with Eversleigh. There were only two farms, but I had heard it said that Mrs. Trent had a very good manager.

We went into a hall—a lofty place with some magnificent oak beams—but small compared with ours at Eversleigh, and she led us into a parlour and called out for the serving girl to bring the elderberry wine and sloe gin.

Mrs. Trent was beaming her satisfaction. I knew that she did not have many visitors. I gathered that for some reason she had never been accepted in the neighbourhood. There was some scandal about her. Her mother had been housekeeper to my distant relative Carl Eversleigh—in fact she had been his mistress and the story was that she had robbed him right and left. There was some scandal, which was discovered by my grandmother Zipporah, and the lady had disappeared, but not before her daughter had gone to work for Andrew Mather at Grasslands, and so insinuated herself into his life that he had married her, and when he died shortly afterwards leaving her with a baby son, she had become the owner of Grasslands.

Rumour had branded her an adventuress, and soon after the death of her first husband she married Jack Trent, her manager—who was said to have been her lover—and had lived in outward respectability ever since, but such a past was not easily forgotten.

“Everyone is most excited about the wedding,” she said. “I reckon your mama is really pleased—and your step-papa too. It’s always nice when things turn out the way people want, don’t you think?”

David said we were also delighted about the coming marriage.

“Well, if you weren’t that would be a nice kettle of fish, wouldn’t it? I expect Mr. Jonathan’s nose will be put out of joint when he comes home and finds his brother has stolen a march on him.”

I felt myself flushing. Yes, that was what I remembered about Mrs. Trent. She seemed to be aware of one’s weaknesses and to find a pleasure in letting one know it—and to set one wondering how much she really knew. It was that witchlike quality.

The wine had arrived and she poured it out.

“Good ones this year—both sloe and elder,” she commented. “There now. Let’s drink to the wedding.”

We did. Then she went on: “And to the safe return of Mr. Jonathan.”

Her eyes glittered as she looked straight at me. I could almost feel her probing my mind.

She said: “I like things to happen. That’s one thing about the country… it can be a bit quiet. I started my life in London, you know. What a difference! Then my mother came to Eversleigh and it was the country life for me and has been ever since. There’s some that say I’ve been lucky, and in spite of everything I’d say I’ve much to be thankful for.”

Her bright eyes seemed to be looking back into the past and she was smirking at memories.

“I saw your step-papa out riding the other day. What a fine gentleman!” There was a special glitter in her eyes now, as though she knew something about Dickon which she would dearly love to tell.

I wondered whether I was imagining that certain slyness, this harbouring of secret knowledge, because in my childhood I had thought of her as the witch.

When she spoke of Jonathan and Dickon there was a note in her voice which seemed to suggest that she knew them very well indeed and was greatly amused by them.

I had a great desire to get away; she was depressing me. I wondered if she had the same effect on David. I caught his eye and tried to indicate that we should finish the wine and get out. There was something claustrophobic about Grasslands.

Mrs. Trent cocked her head as though listening. Then she called out: “I can see you… peeping in. Come and meet the happy pair.”

The two girls came in. They were dressed in riding habits. Evie looked very pretty, which made the contrast with her sister very noticeable.

“You know my Evie and Dolly,” said Mrs. Trent. She looked at Evie with pride, and I immediately felt sorry for Dolly, who hung back a little, for I guessed she was very much aware of her deformity.

The girls dropped a curtsy, and Mrs. Trent went on: “They think it’s lovely… you, Miss Claudine, and Mr. David, don’t you, girls?”

They nodded.

“Where’s your tongues?” demanded Mrs. Trent. “Haven’t you got something to say?”

“Congratulations, Miss de Tourville and Mr. Frenshaw,” said Evie.

“Thanks,” we replied simultaneously and David went on: “I saw you riding the other day. I must say you manage your horses well.”

“Oh yes,” said Mrs. Trent, “I’ve had them brought up in the right way, both of them. I was determined my girls should be as good as anyone else.”

“I’m sure you succeeded, Mrs. Trent,” I said. “I do agree about the wine being especially good this year. Thanks for letting us try it, and now I think we really ought to be going, don’t you, David?”

“I’m afraid so,” he said. “There is so much to do round the estate.”

“Don’t I know it,” said Mrs. Trent. “In my own little way, of course. Grasslands is no Eversleigh, but my goodness there’s enough to keep us busy. It was very gracious of you to call. We do appreciate that, don’t we, girls?”

Evie said: “Oh yes, we do.”

“And I’ll come and dance at your wedding. You girls will have to wait a bit for yours. But I’ve a feeling Evie won’t have so long. Well, we’ll see.”

We rose and thanked her for the wine, and she came out with us to our horses. Evie and Dolly came with her and stood looking at us while we mounted.

Mrs. Trent slapped the flanks of my horse affectionately.

“I’ll be at the wedding,” she said. “I have a special interest in your family.”

I don’t know why it was—perhaps because of the mood she aroused in me—but I thought the words sounded ominous.

As we rode away, David said: “She is rather ill-bred, but I don’t think she means any harm.”

So he must have felt the same as I did. I agreed that she was ill-bred, but I was not so sure of the harm; but my apprehension did seem rather foolish so I pressed my horse into a gallop. I felt I wanted to put a distance between myself and Grasslands.

We slowed down as we came to the road. “They must have been at Grasslands for a long time,” I said.

“Well, Mrs. Trent went there as housekeeper, and married old Andrew Mather.”

“Yes, I heard that. The girls’ father was her son.”

“Yes, by her first husband. He managed the estate very well until his death. Now she has quite a good manager.”

“Grasslands is very different from that other house… Enderby.”

“Very. Always was. It’s odd about Enderby.”

“Do you believe that houses have an effect on people? They do say that Enderby is unlucky.”

David laughed. “How can a house be? It’s only bricks or stone. They can’t change luck, can they?”

“Let’s go and look at the old place. Just a glimpse. It’s up this way, isn’t it?”

I turned off the road and David followed me. As we rounded a bend, there was the old house. I have to admit that even in broad daylight it sent a shiver through me. It looked dark and menacing, as neglected houses will sometimes. The shrubs about it were thick and untended.

“It looks very dejected,” said David.

“And at the same time defiant,” I replied.

He laughed. “Can a house look so?”

“Enderby does. Come on. I want a close look. Do you think anyone will ever buy it?”

“Not in the state it’s in. It’s been empty for years. Because of its reputation probably.”

“David, I want to look closer.”

“Hasn’t Grasslands been enough for one morning?”

“Perhaps because of Grasslands.”

He looked at me puzzled. Then he smiled and said: “All right. Let’s go.”

We tethered our horses to the post which was set there conveniently for the use of visitors and went to the front door. It was silent, eerie. There was a rusty bell which I pulled, and we stood listening to the jangling which echoed through the house.

“No use ringing the bell,” said David. “Whom do you expect to answer it?”

“Ghosts,” I said. “People who have lived in the house and can’t rest because of their sins. Wasn’t there a murder here once?”

“If there was it’s ancient history.”

“It’s ancient history that makes ghosts.”

“Claudine, I believe there’s a side to your nature which I have not discovered. You believe in evil spirits. Do you, Claudine?”

“I don’t know, but I should if I were made aware of them. In fact, David, I would believe anything in the world if I had evidence of it.”

“Well, that is the crux of the matter. Are you going to believe without proof?”

“Standing here… in the shadow of this house… I could.”

“We can’t get in because there is no one to let us in.”

“Is there a key somewhere… just in case of a prospective buyer?”

“I believe it is with Mrs. Trent. She’s the nearest neighbour. You’re not going to propose that we go back and ask for it, are you?”

I shook my head emphatically. “Still, I should like to explore a bit.”

David, ever willing to please, followed me round the house. We fought our way through overgrown weeds in the long grass. When I found the window with the broken latch, I pushed it open and looked into the hall.

“David,” I said excitedly. “We could climb through here. Do let’s.”

He did, and standing in the hall turned to help me in, and soon we were there, looking up at the vaulted ceiling and the minstrels’ gallery and the wide staircase at one end of the hall.

“That,” said David, “is said to be the haunted spot. It all started when someone in financial difficulties, I think, tried to hang himself with a rope suspended from the gallery. The rope was too long and he landed on his feet suffering terrible agonies. Ever since then the house has been cursed.”

“Sabrina lived here in her childhood.”

“Yes. But even when she was well she avoided coming here. The house was quite normal then because her mother, who was a very good woman, made it so. And after she died her husband was heartbroken and it reverted to its gloomy aspect. That shows, does it not, that it is people who make the house what it is—not stone and bricks?”

“You win,” I said.

And he laughed. He put an arm about me. “There you are, Madam. An undesirable property. But one which could be made desirable… by the right people.”

“Who in their right minds would want to live in such a place? Think of all the work which would have to be done.”

“Nothing that a few gardeners could not alter in a month. To my mind it’s the darkness. It’s all that growth outside.”

“Come and look at the haunted gallery then.”

We mounted the staircase. I parted the curtains. They were thick with dust. I went in and stood looking down on the hall. Yes, there was an eerie atmosphere. The house seemed silent, watchful.

I shivered, but said nothing to David. He would not notice. He was too practical.

We looked down to the other end of the hall, to the screens with the kitchens beyond. I could imagine the people who had danced in this hall; and I wondered what it would be like here when darkness fell. It really was ghostly, and one’s imagination might play tricks. No one would ever want to come and live here and the house would crumble and decay.

We went up the staircase, our footsteps echoing through the house. We looked into the bedrooms. There were many of them, and some of the furniture must have been there for years—such as the old court cupboard in one room and the four-poster bed in another.

I had a feeling that I wanted to be alone here—just for a few moments. David was too prosaic, too unimaginative to feel the atmosphere as I did. Of course, I was fanciful and was allowing myself to pretend I felt something which I had probably worked up within myself.

I slipped into one of the rooms. I could hear David’s footsteps in another and I guessed he was examining the old court cupboard.

Silence! Just a faint murmur in the trees which grew so thickly round the house. I heard a sound. It must have been the swaying lattice of the broken window downstairs, but it startled me.

Then suddenly I heard a sibilant whisper. It seemed to fill the room. It was: “Beware… beware, little bride.”

I felt myself go cold with horror. I looked quickly round. Someone had spoken. I had distinctly heard those words. I ran to the door and looked along the corridor to the staircase. There was no sign of anyone.

David emerged from the room in which he had been.

I said: “Did you hear someone?”

He looked surprised. “There’s no one here,” he said.

“I thought I heard…”

“You’re imagining things,” he said.

I nodded. I now had a great desire to get away. I had known there was something malevolent about the house.

We went quickly down the staircase to the hall. All the time I was looking about me to see if there was any sign of anyone’s being in the house.

There was nothing.

David helped me through the window. I tried to stop my hands trembling as he helped me into the saddle.

“Can you see anyone’s trying to make a home of that place?” said David.

“I can’t really. I think it is full of evil ghosts.”

“And cobwebs and spiders’ webs doubtless.”

“Horrible.”

“Never mind, my dearest. It makes you appreciate Eversleigh all the more.”

Eversleigh… My home forever… surrounded by love, the love of my mother and my husband. And if Jonathan ever came home…?

I tried not to think of that but I could not stop myself. I kept hearing those words: “Beware, little bride.”

The days which followed were very busy and I forgot our visit to Enderby. It was only occasionally—and in dreams—that those words kept coming back to my mind.

It was to be a moderately quiet wedding. The absence of Jonathan, Charlot and Louis Charles could not be lightly brushed aside. However much we tried to forget it, and while we were in doubt as to where they were and what was happening to them, ours must be an anxious household. It was seven months since they had left and that seemed a long time.

The hall was being decorated with plants from the greenhouses and there was an atmosphere of bustle everywhere; savoury smells emerged from the kitchen and the cook was making an enormous wedding cake over which she seemed to be puffing and groaning every time I went into the kitchen.

We should have a few people staying in the house—those who came from too far to be able to get home on the evening of the wedding day; those in the not-too-distant neighbourhood could attend the ceremony and the reception which was to follow and then start the journey home.

The marriage was to take place in the Eversleigh chapel, which was reached from the hall by a short spiral staircase. It was not small—as chapels in country houses go—but on the other hand it was not large and would therefore, I was sure, be overcrowded. My mother had said that the servants could sit on the staircase if there was not room for them inside the chapel.

The day after the wedding David and I would leave for London and would spend a week there before returning to Eversleigh.

“The honeymoon proper is temporarily postponed,” said David, “but only until life settles down more peacefully on the Continent. Then for us it will be the Grand Tour. We may go through France if that is possible and perhaps visit some of the people and places you once knew. And then… on to Italy. In the meantime we shall have to be satisfied. Will you accept that?”

“Needs must,” I said laughingly.

I began to thrust aside my doubts. My mother was so pleased. I knew she had always favoured David. Why was it that she, who had chosen Dickon, the wildest of adventurers, and one least likely to be a faithful husband, should have chosen serious David for me? Perhaps for the very reason that she herself had chosen Dickon. I believed my own father was a man whom she had shared with many women. So perhaps that was the very reason why she preferred the steady one for her daughter.

It was the night before my wedding. I opened the cupboard door and looked at my dress. Before the candles were lighted it looked like a woman standing there. Soft chiffon! The pride of Molly Blackett’s life. It was beautiful. I should be happy ever after.

I undressed and brushed my hair, braiding it neatly into two plaits. I went and sat by the window and I asked myself if everything would have been different if Jonathan had not gone away. Suppose I could go back to the days before my birthday. It was on my birthday, with the arrival of the refugees, that everything changed. It was they who had fired Jonathan and Charlot with the idea of going to France. Charlot had always wanted to go back.

Suppose those refugees had not escaped. Suppose they had never come to Eversleigh… Would this then be the eve of my wedding?

I looked out into the distance. How often had I stood there straining my eyes to the horizon looking for a rider who might be Jonathan returning from France.

But he had not come. Perhaps he never would come. Perhaps he would disappear as my Uncle Armand had—although he came back… when it was too late.

Would Jonathan?

I got into bed. It was difficult to sleep. I kept thinking about the future, sometimes fearfully. But what was there to fear? David loved me and he was the kindest of people.

And if Jonathan ever came back…? Well, what if he did? I should be married then. His coming and going would be no real concern of mine.

At last I slept and I awoke to find my mother standing by my bed.

“Wake up, little bride,” she said. “It’s your wedding day.”

I was coming out of my sleep and as I smiled at her I seemed to hear another voice, strange and ghostly: “Beware, little bride.”

So I was married to David in the chapel at Eversleigh. It was a simple ceremony performed by the priest who lived on the estate and officiated on all such occasions. I felt a sense of fatality standing on the red tiles where generations of Eversleigh brides had stood before me.

The chapel was so hot and the overpowering odour of so many flowers made me feel a little faint; but perhaps that was the excitement.

David was smiling as he put the ring on my finger and said the words required of him in a resolute voice. I hoped I sounded equally determined to do what was expected of me.

Then we were walking out of the chapel and I was aware of all the people there: Lord and Lady Pettigrew with their daughter Millicent; friends from the neighbourhood; and at the back of the chapel—suggesting to me a certain false modesty—were Mrs. Trent and her two grand-daughters.

I could feel their eyes on me. But this was natural, for was I not, as the bride, the focus of attention?

The servants who had been seated on the stairs hastily pressed themselves against the wall to make a passage for us, and so David and I, now husband and wife, came into the hall.

My mother was right behind us. She was flushed and looked very beautiful; with her dark blue eyes and luxuriant dark hair, she was still a strikingly handsome woman.

There were tears now in her lovely eyes. She whispered to me that it was so moving. “I kept thinking about the day you were born and all the funny little things you used to do.”

“I believe that is how mothers are on their daughters’ wedding days,” I said, “so, dearest Maman, you only acted true to form.”

“Come,” she said. “They are all returning now. We shall feed them right away.”

Soon they were assembled in the hall and there was a buzz of conversation. Dickon looked very pleased and I could hear his hearty laughter above the conversation. My mother was at his side and I thought: She is happier than she has been since the day Charlot left.

I cut the cake with David’s help and I smiled to note the cook’s anxious eyes on us while we performed this ceremony, for the servants had gathered in one corner of the room.

I nodded towards her to imply that it was perfect. She closed her eyes, and opening them, rolled them to the ceiling in ecstasy. David and I laughed together and went on cutting the cake.

Mrs. Evalina Trent was talking to Millicent Pettigrew, rather to Millicent’s consternation, for her mother would most certainly not approve of Mrs. Trent. I think Evalina Trent knew this and was rather maliciously keeping Millicent in conversation although it was clear that she wanted to escape.

“It’ll be your turn next, my dear,” I heard her say. “Oh yes it will. Take a piece of cake and put it under your pillow, my dear. Then tonight you will dream of your future husband.”

Millicent looked over Mrs. Trent’s head and Mrs. Trent went on, indicating her two grand-daughters, who were close by. “Now my girls will put that cake under their pillows, won’t you, girls? They’re determined to see their future husbands tonight.” She turned to Millicent: “You’ll be staying the night, I daresay.”

Millicent admitted that she would be.

“Too far to travel back by night,” went on Mrs. Trent. “Dangerous, too. I wouldn’t want to travel after daylight. Those gentlemen of the road are getting bolder. They’re not content with taking a lady’s purse… They want something else besides, so they tell me.”

Millicent murmured: “Excuse me!” and went over to join her mother.

People came up to congratulate us; toasts were drunk and there was a great deal of laughter. Dickon made a speech saying how happy he and my mother were, and he stressed what an unusual state of affairs this was when a man’s son could marry his wife’s daughter and it could be the most perfect union imaginable.

Everyone applauded, and the servants cleared away the food and dancing began. As was customary I opened the dance with Dickon, followed by David with my mother; and the others fell in behind us.

I was tired and a little apprehensive, half relieved and half fearful, when the guests began to depart, leaving only those who were staying in the house.

Mrs. Trent came to say goodbye to me before they left.

“I reckon you’re glad to see the back of us,” she said, her eyes sparkling as she almost leered at me. “Now,” she went on, “the real wedding can begin.”

I watched them leave and felt quite glad because they were no longer under our roof.

The carriages started to leave and we stood at the door waving to them as they clip-clopped off into the darkness.

Then David slipped his arm through mine, and together we went to the bridal chamber in which so many of my mother’s family had spent the first night of their married lives.

The Return

I WAS HAPPY. My doubts had disappeared. David was so kind, so tender and considerate, so eager to do everything which would please me. We slipped from a long and companionate friendship to a more intimate relationship, as though it was the most natural thing in the world. I had left my innocence behind me and I was glad.

When I awoke on the morning after my wedding day, David was sleeping. He had changed subtly as I supposed I had. He had ceased to be the quiet young man absorbed in serious matters. He was passionately in love with me, and I was very happy that he should be. We had always been the best of friends, but this new closeness was a comfort to me. I felt happy and secure. I believed that I was learning to know David as I had never known him before; and I daresay he felt the same about me. I had always been intrigued by that phrase in the Bible which I think says: “He came unto her and knew her.” I understood now what that meant. David came unto me and I knew David and he knew me, and we were miraculously united.

When David awoke and found me studying him, he returned my gaze with a kind of wonderment. We embraced. I knew that he felt the same as I did, and that we did not need words to express our thoughts. That was part of the new relationship which was springing up between us.

My mother studied me anxiously. I must have looked radiant for her fears vanished immediately. She held me very closely and said: “I am so glad, my dearest. Now you are going to be happy.”

She looked very like her old self as she stood waving us off.

What happy days they were! London had always excited me; the bustle, the carriages with the fine ladies and gentlemen riding in them; the shops full of exciting merchandise; the link boys when it was dark; the vitality of it all.

And now to be here with David, making plans as to how we should spend the day, seemed absolute bliss.

We stayed at the family house in Albemarle Street, so in a way it was like being at home; but it was the first time we had ever had the house to ourselves. I felt very grown-up and fancied the servants treated me with a very special deference because of my newly-entered-into marital state.

Then began one of the happiest weeks of my life—which is what a honeymoon should be, of course. I was determined to enjoy every moment, and during that time all my doubts had disappeared. I was sure I had made the perfect marriage.

There were so many interesting things to do. We liked to wander through the streets, to stroll through the market listening to the street traders; we went for trips along the river to Hampton and we rode into the interlying villages as far out as Kensington, coming back across the bridge over the Westbourne at Knightsbridge. As we passed Kingston House David told me of the recent scandal concerning the late Duke and his mistress Elizabeth Chudleigh, who claimed to be the Duchess. It had been a cause célèbre some years before.

He had many interesting stories to tell me, and I felt I was seeing London as I never had before. I loved our leisurely walks through the streets of the City when he would point out those historic spots which had been the scene of much of our country’s history. There was that spot in what had been Pudding Lane, where the great fire of London had broken out in a baker’s shop at one o’clock in the morning of a Monday and raged through the City until the following Thursday. David could talk vividly, and he made me see the raging furnace and the terrified people running from their houses, the craft on the river and finally the experiments with gunpowder which had demolished the houses straight ahead of the fire and so stopped its progress. We visited the new St. Paul’s, which had replaced the old one—a magnificent example of the work of Christopher Wren.

To be with David was like reliving history.

We strolled past Carlton House, and paused to admire the colonnade of single pillars—one of the houses of the Prince of Wales, and which had previously been the residence of Frederick Prince of Wales, who had died before he could reach the throne. Here was a link with Kingston House because the notorious Duchess had been maid of honour to the Princess of Wales—so she, too, had lived in this splendid Carlton House.

Dickon had many associates in London and some of them were eager to entertain members of his family while we were there; but because we were so newly married they guessed, quite rightly, that we would prefer to have a few days to ourselves—and they respected this. So for those first few days of that week we were alone, and I think they were the most enjoyable, which delighted me because they confirmed that I had been right in marrying David. The more we were together, the more at one we seemed to become. He was, of course, moulding my tastes to fit his; but it was gratifying that I had no difficulty in accepting his guidance. I was very happy, during those days. “The days of my innocence,” I called them later; that was when I would be overcome by a passionate desire to escape from what I had become and go back to them. Very few people must have wanted to turn the clock back more than I.

But to return to those idyllic days, I remember that evening at Ranelagh which seemed such magic. The pleasure gardens, the river at dusk, the magnificent temple with its painted ceiling, the Rotunda in which could be heard the finest music executed by the greatest musicians throughout the world. Mozart himself had appeared here. I remembered hearing my grandmother talk about that. We sat there entranced, listening to the orchestral music of Handel and Pleyel and the exquisite voice of Signor Torizziani.

There was a fireworks display of the utmost magnificence when we gazed in wonder at the scintillating rockets as they burst in the air, and were most impressed by the bombshell which exploded to release what looked like myriads of stars and comets.

“No one would think we were a country at war,” said David sombrely.

I pressed his hand and answered: “Forget war and everything unpleasant. I am so happy tonight.”

We took one of the vehicles which was run by the management of Ranelagh to pick up people in various parts of London and bring them with the minimum of discomfort to the pleasure gardens. These were imitation French diligences. I wondered why we imitated the French in so many ways, and they did the same with us, when we seemed to be such natural enemies and even now were at war with each other.

David always seriously considered my lightly made observations. So he pondered this one all the way from Ranelagh to Hyde Park Corner, where we alighted from the diligence.

Then he said: “There is an antipathy between our two countries. I think it is because we have so much respect for each other’s skills—both peaceful and warlike—and we are, at heart, afraid of each other. If we admired each other less, we should hate each other less. So we have this animosity and these occasional outbreaks of imitation when the desire to be like each other is irresistible. Remember imitation is the greatest form of flattery.”

I laughed at him and told him that he was so solemn that he made an issue out of everything.

“Really,” I said, “I do believe you should be in Parliament with Mr. Pitt, Mr. Burke, Mr. Fox and the rest.”

“A career for which I should prove most unsuitable.”

“Nonsense. You could do anything you set your mind to, and as the affairs of the country seem to be in a certain disorder, surely we need clever men to put them right.”

“You overrate my cleverness,” he said. “Politicians have to be single-minded. They have not only to think they are right, they must know it. For one thing, I doubt myself all the time.”

“That is because you are clever enough to know that there are two sides to every question.”

“Which would damn me as a politician.”

He laughed, and arms entwined, we walked the short distance to Albemarle Street.

Looking back, I am surprised by how much we did in those few days. We visited the piazza at Covent Garden and David told me how Dryden had been assaulted there because of some verses in his Hind and Panther, and how a soldier had been shot dead on the spot. He had stories to tell of so many people: Steele, Dryden, Pope, Colly Cibber, Dr. Johnson and famous names of the theatre such as Peg Woffington and David Garrick; and painters, Sir Peter Lely and Sir Godfrey Kneller—all of whom used to frequent the piazza in their day.

I marvelled at his knowledge. I said to him: “And to think I shall be able to draw on it for the rest of my life!”

We went to Covent Garden to hear the marvellous voice of Elizabeth Billington, which was thrilling—particularly as the glittering audience included the Prince of Wales with Mrs. Fitzherbert. I was drawn to them because they seemed—as David and I were—very much in love.

I often thought afterwards of the way in which life deals with us all. It seems that even when we are at the height of our bliss, evil lurks, waiting to strike. That was one of the last performances Elizabeth Billington gave, for the next year she left the country and retired to the Continent because of scandalous publications about herself. And the royal lovers had their vicissitudes to face in the years to come, as all know now.

As for myself—I was so young, and innocent enough to believe I was going to live happily ever after.

The next day friends began to call on us. I enjoyed meeting them, but it was not quite the same as those idyllic first days.

Of course we could not shut ourselves away from events for ever. We had to face reality. There was a great deal of talk at dinner parties about what was happening in France, and there was no doubt that the people in the centre of things were very uneasy. David was deeply interested to hear the views expressed. He listened with great attention. I supposed that was why he was so clever. He never missed any piece of information, any point of view.

When we returned to the house he would sit on the bed and talk while I lay back on my pillows watching him.

“What does this mean to us?” he said. “That is what we have to decide. How is the revolution in France going to affect us here in England?”

“It already has,” I answered. “It has killed my grandmother; it has taken my grandfather’s estates; it has ruined the family, for who knows where my Aunt Sophie is? And now it has taken my brother Charlot, Louis Charles and your brother Jonathan.”

“Yes,” he agreed. “But that is personal… our family tragedy. What effect is it having on our country? And that, Claudine, can have every bit as much effect on us in the future as purely personal trials. Have you noticed that no one seems to be certain… even the politicians. Who are our leading men just now? I’d say Pitt, Fox and Burke, wouldn’t you? Yet they seem to me from what they say and do in Parliament to be at variance with each other. Fox is too trusting; he believes in freedom and that a country should be ruled by its majority—which he takes to be the revolutionaries. I think Burke sees it differently. He knows that what the people of France want is equality… but they do not want liberty. Not for their enemies certainly. How many have gone to the guillotine completely innocent of anything but being born aristocrats? Burke is aware that revolution—and that means anarchy—could erupt all over Europe. And Pitt… he does not share Fox’s sympathy with the will of the people. He is a great upholder of peace, and I am sure he believes that in due course France will settle down. It is with great reluctance that he goes to war. With three diverging views, where does that lead us?”

“I don’t know,” I said yawning, “and I do believe you are not sure either. And even if you were… what could you do to help?”

I held out my arms to him and laughingly he came to me.

But if the subject was dismissed for that night, it reared its head again the very next day. An entertainment was given in our honour. I had always known that the family had vast interests in London. Whenever I came up with my mother and Dickon, there had been a great deal of social activity from which on account of my youth I had generally been excluded. Now I realized the extent of Dickon’s connections and the desire of certain people to show friendship for Dickon’s son and my mother’s daughter.

I enjoyed meeting these interesting people who seemed so poised and knowledgeable. I liked to listen to their conversation, but I did notice that it revolved round one subject at the moment.

As we sat at table on this occasion, the talk took the usual trend. Someone said something about Charlotte Corday. It was just over three months since she had been executed for stabbing Jean Paul Marat in his bath but it was still talked of as though it had happened yesterday.

“I don’t think,” said the man next to me, “that anyone has much sympathy for Marat.”

“No,” I agreed, “but many have for Charlotte Corday.”

“A brave woman. She knew she was signing her own death warrant. That takes courage.”

I agreed with that too.

Our host said: “I wonder who will be next. Danton perhaps.”

“Do you think it will come to that?” said the lady on his right.

“These people always turn against each other,” replied our host.

David said: “I feel sure that the leaders of the revolution like Danton and Robespierre will in due course be brought to the guillotine. They are all jostling for power; they are envious of each other. That is what it is all about. Better conditions for the people? Of course not! Power for Messieurs Marat, Danton and Robespierre… and the rest. And each one in his turn will be the downfall of the others.”

There was a murmur of agreement round the table.

Our hostess said: “I trust you will be able to forget these disagreeable men when you listen to Ludwig Blochermund, who is shortly going to entertain us on the piano.”

“Blochermund!” cried a fat fair lady. “My dear, how did you manage to get him? I hear he is in great demand.”

“Yes. He was performing at the Rotunda recently.”

“I did have the pleasure of hearing him there and I look forward greatly to hearing his performance tonight.”

“Wonderful,” murmured several of the guests.

After the meal we went into the drawing room in which was a grand piano and there Herr Blochermund performed to our delight.

I sat in blissful contemplation until the recital was over and just as the pianist had risen from his stool and was receiving the congratulations of his audience, the butler came in and announced that a gentleman had come to see our host, and it appeared that the matter was somewhat urgent.

Our host went out and it was ten minutes later when he returned, looking very disturbed.

He addressed us all in a tone of melancholy and said: “I know you will all be made aware of this sad news soon enough. I am sorry to spoil the evening with it, but you will not wish to be kept in the dark. The Queen of France has followed her husband to the guillotine.”

There was a hushed silence.

“So they have dared…” whispered someone.

“Both are dead now… the King and the Queen… murdered by a bloodthirsty mob,” said our host. “Where will all this end?”

The party broke up then. No one was in the mood for festivity. All of us must have been thinking of that frivolous girl who little more than twenty years before had come to France to make the brilliant marriage arranged for her, and we were all thinking: What now? To murder kings and queens makes a dangerous precedent.

As we left, our host looked earnestly at David.

He said: “Your father should be informed without delay.”

David nodded.

He said: “We shall leave for Eversleigh tomorrow.”

I was a little hurt that we should be leaving two days before we planned to go.

“It has happened. The Queen is dead,” I complained to David. “What good can we do by going home so soon?”

“My father must know at once,” he said.

I was exasperated. “But what can he do about it?”

“There is more to this than the execution of the Queen, Claudine.”

“What more?”

We were in the carriage then, leaving London behind and riding through the open country.

“While the Queen lived there was a monarchy in France, even though a captive one. Now the monarchy is at an end.”

“There is a Dauphin.”

“A boy, poor child… in the hands of sadist torturers intent on making him suffer for being the son of a king. I tremble for him.”

“It is France, David, and this is England.”

“Everything that happens affects us all, particularly when it is happening so close to us. There are great fears in the country. Revolution is like a fire. Once it gets out of control, it spreads.”

“You mean people are afraid we might have the same thing here?”

“Very few governments in Europe have enough support from their people to feel very safe. I think we in England may be more fortunate than most. Our King is no despot. He is a gentle creature. The people wouldn’t hate him. They might refer to him as Farmer George but there is an element of affection as well as contempt in the epithet. They could not hate such a mild man… a man of simple tastes who is determined to do his duty, even if he is not very clear how it should be done. We need reforms here, and rest assured we shall get them. But the last thing we need is revolution.”

“Surely that is the last thing any country needs.”

“I really believe that in their hearts our people do not want revolution. We have too close to us an example of what it can mean. The French are merely changing one set of masters for another, and I firmly believe that many sane people would prefer the first, however oppressive. The country may have been led by men who were selfish, effete, careless of the needs of the people, too eager to pander to their own—but even they were better than these bloodthirsty power-hungry murderers who are ruling them now.”

“Then if our people know this, why should we have to hurry home?”

He was silent for a few moments, then he said: “There are agitators—men who did so much to stir up revolution in France. They aim to do the same all over Europe. They want to bring down the Church, the State and the Monarchy.”

“Do you mean that these men, these agitators, are actually in our country?”

“I am sure of it. Their number will increase now and we have to be prepared.”

“And what can your father do about it?”

David shrugged his shoulders, and I wondered how much he knew about Dickon’s secret work.

There was nothing more to be said. The honeymoon was over.

David looked at me indulgently. “Don’t forget,” he said, “when things are better, we are going to take that trip to Italy.”

I nestled close to him. “It will be wonderful. I do believe, David, that one of these days I shall know as much as you do.”

“As long as you don’t know more and despise me for my ignorance, I shall be happy with that.”

I watched the passing countryside. Few of the leaves remained on the trees, but the colours of those which did were beautiful. In some of the orchards they were gathering the last of the fruit. Winter was almost upon us.

We had planned to arrive before darkness fell and at this time of year it grew dark early. But we made good progress and dusk was just beginning to fall when I saw the high wall of Eversleigh with the glimpse of the gates beyond, and my heart gave that little leap of pleasure as it always did when I saw it after being away.

As we passed through the gates and to the house the grooms came out of the stables—astonished to see us.

David helped me from the carriage and I turned to the house. I could scarcely wait to see my mother and tell her of the wonderful time we had had in London.

I went ahead of David running into the hall—the beloved hall with its high vaulted ceiling, its stone walls and the family tree over the fireplace.

The hall was deserted. Of course, they did not know we were coming that day.

I started up the stairs.

“Maman,” I called. “It’s Claudine… and David. We’re home.”

My voice seemed to echo back to me; and then suddenly at the top of the staircase, I saw a strange figure. It was grey and hooded. I thought it was a monk or a nun standing there and I felt myself grow cold with terror. In that moment I really believed I was face to face with the supernatural.

I stood very still and indeed if I had tried to move I believe I should not have been able to do so.

The figure moved slightly; a pair of burning dark eyes seemed to be boring through me.

Then a voice said: “It’s Claudine… Oh, Claudine, you don’t know me.”

I cried out: “Aunt… Aunt Sophie.”

Then I knew she was back. Jonathan, Charlot and Louis Charles had gone over to rescue her.

And Jonathan would always do what he set out to do.

What a homecoming that was!

Even as Sophie embraced me I heard my mother’s voice. She appeared on the stairs and Dickon was with her.

“Claudine! David! We didn’t expect you today.” My mother hugged me. “My dearest, you look so well. It is wonderful to see you.”

“There is important news,” said David. “They have sent the Queen of France to the guillotine.”

Dickon, who had come out, did not speak. He stood very still and I saw that he was frowning.

“We were at the Cranthornes’,” went on David, “and the news came through to John Cranthorne. They wanted you to know at once.”

Dickon nodded and my mother looked at him anxiously.

“We shall leave for London tomorrow,” he said.

There was a brief silence and my mother said: “You see what has happened.”

“Aunt Sophie…” I began.

“It is wonderful that she is here.”

“And Charlot?”

My mother looked sad. “Charlot has not come back. Nor has Louis Charles. They have joined the army… the French army.”

“Oh no!” I cried. “They’ll be fighting against us.”

“Fools,” said Dickon.

My mother laid a hand on his arm.

“Charlot was always fretting to get back,” she said. “At least he is alive and we have news of him at last.”

There was one question I wanted to ask and I felt too emotional to say his name. But my mother answered it for me. “Jonathan brought Aunt Sophie back with Jeanne Fougère. You remember Jeanne Fougère?”

“Yes, yes, of course. So… Jonathan is safely home.”

My mother looked at me intently. “Yes, Jonathan is back.”

When David and I went down to dinner he was there. My heart leaped with excitement; he looked different—older and even more attractive than he had before he went away.

I looked at him quickly and then averted my gaze. I hoped no one noticed how the colour in my cheeks had risen.

Jonathan said: “I’ve been hearing about the wedding. So I have to congratulate you both.”

“Thank you,” I said faintly.

He came towards me and, placing his hands on my shoulders, kissed me lightly on the cheek.

“So,” he said scoldingly, “you stole a march on me.”

He gave a little laugh and I tried to smile. “How long have I been away? Eight months? And I come back to find you a wedded wife!”

He raised his eyes to the ceiling. He had spoken as though it were a joke and I felt relieved in a way because he took it all so lightly.

“When did you return?” I asked.

“Two days ago.”

Two days, I thought. While I was riding in the Park, so contented, laughing, so happy, Jonathan had been coming home with Aunt Sophie. If I had known…

Sabrina, who had joined us, said: “Dickon is so relieved that Jonathan is home.”

“Of course,” I said.

“Poor darling, it has been an anxious time for him.”

Aunt Sophie appeared then. That is the way to describe her movements. She glided rather than walked, and she was so quiet that one was almost unaware that she was there; and then suddenly one would lift one’s head and see those burning intense eyes in the half-shrouded face.

I wondered what she looked like without her hood and how deeply scarred she was by those terrible burns she had received in the Place Louis XV at the time of the wedding of that Queen who was now a headless corpse.

She wore a gown of delicate mauve with a hood to match. I could see the dark hair at one side of her face—the hood hid the other side. There was about her an ambiance of tragedy, of which all must be aware.

“We are very very happy to have Sophie safe with us.” My mother seemed almost pathetically anxious to make Sophie feel at home. She had always been like that with Sophie. I remembered that there were times when she almost seemed to hold herself responsible for Sophie’s disfigurement, just because she had been present when the disaster had happened and my father, who had at that time been engaged to Sophie, had brought my mother safely out of danger while my Uncle Armand had rescued Sophie. It had happened long before I was born—about twenty-three years ago, so all that time Sophie had been living with her disfigurement. She must be nearly forty years old now.

“Jeanne Fougère has come too, I am happy to hear,” I said.

“I wouldn’t have left Jeanne behind,” said Sophie.

“Of course not,” put in my mother. “Jeanne has been a wonderful friend. I wanted her to join us at table but she would not. She is a stickler for formality. ‘Jeanne,’ I said to her, ‘you are a dear friend. That is how we regard you.’ ‘I am Mademoiselle Sophie’s maid, Madame,’ she said. ‘And that is what I wish to be.’ I could not persuade her.”

“If you have no objection I shall eat with her as I have always done,” said Sophie. “It is a special occasion tonight and I wanted to be here to greet Claudine.”

“Thank you, Aunt Sophie.”

Her eyes were on me and I saw in them a hint of the warmth she showed for Jeanne Fougère, and I felt rather pleased that this strange woman should have a certain feeling for me. She always had had—and for Charlot too—but I think particularly for me. I remembered long ago in the Chateau d’Aubigné before that day—so far in the distant past now—when we had left for a holiday in England and never came back. It was the last time, before this, when I had seen Aunt Sophie.

“Do come to the table,” said my mother. “They have brought in the soup and it will be getting cold.”

We sat down to dinner and Jonathan said: “I claim the honour of sitting on the right hand of the bride.” Whereupon he took the chair next to mine.

“No need to ask if the honeymoon was a success, is there, Dickon?” said my mother.

“Bliss and contentment shine from their eyes,” replied Dickon.

“And to think,” said Jonathan, “that while you were discovering the joys of matrimony, I was bartering for a boat in Ostend.”

“So you came that way,” said David.

“My dear brother, where else? How do you think an Englishman would fare in Calais or some more convenient port? An Englishman… bringing Frenchwomen across the Channel! Have you any idea what it is like out there?”

“A vague one,” replied David. “I did not expect for one moment that you could come through France.”

“Jonathan will tell you about it sometime,” said my mother. She was flashing a look at me and glancing at Sophie. I understood what she meant and so did David. The subject was too painful to be talked of in front of Sophie. We should hear all later when she was not one of the company.

“Well, here you are now and that is wonderful,” I said. “We have been so worried.”

My hand was lying on the table and Jonathan pressed it briefly. It was outwardly a brotherly gesture, but the touch of his hand on mine made me shiver.

“I have given Aunt Sophie the nursery rooms,” said my mother.

“Oh… they haven’t been used for years.”

“I liked them as soon as I saw them,” said Sophie.

“They arrived in the early hours of the morning. What a day that was!” My mother went on talking quickly. “I was so delighted… and then I looked for Charlot.”

Dickon said: “He is doing what he wanted to do. You can’t stop people doing that, you know, Lottie. He’s got to live his own life.”

“What will become of him?”

“Charlot will do well,” said Dickon. “He’s that sort. He’ll soon rise to be a general in that rabble, you’ll see.”

David said dryly: “It seems to be doing surprisingly well for a rabble army.”

“Yes indeed,” agreed Dickon. “A surprise for us all. They’ve got some fight in them, those rebels. The French have always been excellent soldiers. I will say that for them.”

He was looking at Lottie tenderly. He would never feel the same for his sons as she did for hers. Dickon was too self-centred; he was not the man to form sentimental attachments. That was why his obsession with my mother was so remarkable; and all the more intense, I supposed, because his affections were not divided.

“Oh yes,” he went on, “Charlot has found his niche in the world—and his shadow Louis Charles with him. When this stupid war is over, when these bloodthirsty citizens of the Republic settle down, when sanity returns to France, reality will come with it. Then, Lottie, my love, you and I will pay a visit to France. We shall be graciously received by Monsieur le Général, sporting all the medals he has won… and you’ll be very proud of him.”

“Dickon, you are absurd. But you’re right. He does know how to take care of himself.”

They had taken the soup away and we were now being served with the roast beef.

“The roast beef of old England!” said Jonathan. “Nothing like it. How I have longed for it.” He pressed a little closer to me. “…among other things.”

“Nothing like an absence from the old country to increase one’s appreciation of it,” commented Dickon.

Aunt Sophie spoke little English and the conversation at the table was half English, half French. Jonathan’s French was like his father’s—extremely anglicised.

I said: “I wonder how you ever got along over there.”

He put his fingers to his lips and my mother said laughingly: “Do you think Jonathan would be defeated by a mere language? He’d override such obstacles. He’s like his father.”

Jonathan and Dickon looked at each other and laughed. There was a rapport between them which was lacking between Dickon and David. I supposed this was because they were so much alike.

“I hope you’ll be comfortable in the nursery suite,” said David to Sophie. He understood French very well indeed and spoke it moderately well, but his accent and intonation did not make him readily understood. I imagined that now Aunt Sophie was with us he would want to put that right. I smiled indulgently. He would want to practise his French with me. That was typical of him. He always wanted to master any intellectual exercise. Jonathan was the same with those matters which interested him, so they were alike in some ways. Jonathan, however, would never concern himself with such matters as perfecting himself in a language.

Sophie said: “Yes, thank you. I am comfortable. Those rooms suit my needs.”

Her mood was one of aloofness. I saw what she meant. The nursery was apart from the rest of the house just as her quarters in the Chateau d’Aubigné had been and her great desire had been to set herself apart from the rest of the family. I think that was why she always made me feel that there was something not quite normal about her.

“It is perhaps temporary,” she went on.

“Temporary?” I cried, “Oh, Aunt Sophie, are you thinking of staying only a short time in England?”

“No. I must stay here. There is no place for me or for Jeanne in France. We accept that.” She looked at Jonathan. “Oh, I am grateful… very grateful. We could not have gone on living like that for ever. It was necessary that we leave, and we could never have done so but for the daring of Messieurs Jonathan, your brother and Louis Charles.”

Jonathan inclined his head.

“They were very clever… very resourceful. Jeanne and I are forever grateful. But we are not penniless. You looked surprised, Claudine. But we are far from penniless. Jeanne has been very clever. We have brought a fortune out of France.”

“A fortune!” I cried.

All eyes were on Sophie. There was a faint flush in her cheeks. She said: “Jeanne is farsighted. She saw this coming. For a long time before the revolution came she had been collecting the jewels together… hiding them. She was good with her needle; she sewed them into our clothes… rings, brooches… pendants… all the priceless gems which I had inherited from my mother… jewels which had been in the family for generations. They are very valuable. We have them here safely. Monsieur Dickon has examined them. Monsieur Jonathan also. They assure me that I have enough to live on in comfort… affluence enough… for the rest of my life.”

“That’s wonderful!” I cried. “Clever, clever Jeanne.”

“She is more than clever,” said my mother, with tears in her eyes. “She is a good woman.”

“Dear Step-mama,” said Jonathan lightly, “you speak as though a good woman is something of a phenomenon.”

“Anyone as good and selfless as Jeanne—man or woman—is a rare creature,” said my mother.

“David, isn’t that wonderful?” I said.

“It must have been very risky,” replied David, “not only getting out of France, but bringing a fortune with you.”

“I like risks,” said Jonathan. “You know that, brother.”

“But such a risk!”

Dickon was looking at his son with approval. He, too, loved risks; he too would have brought that fortune out of France.

“I shall find a house,” said Sophie.

“That should not be difficult,” I put in.

“Somewhere near perhaps. Neither Jeanne nor I speak the language well, and we should feel safer under the protection of Eversleigh.”

“That’s a wonderful idea!” I cried. “Then we can visit frequently. That’s if you invite us.”

She gave me a rather tender look. “I shall ask you to come to see me, Claudine,” she said.

“There, my dear,” said Jonathan again, touching my hand. “You are honoured.”

“We shall all visit you,” said my mother.

“Are there any houses near here?” said Sophie.

“The two nearest are Grasslands and Enderby. Grasslands is occupied, but Enderby is empty,” I said.

“Enderby!” cried my mother. “Claudine, you’re surely not suggesting Enderby!”

“I just said it was empty.”

“It’s a gruesome sort of house,” said my mother.

“Only because of the shrubs which grow round it,” pointed out David.

“It has an evil reputation,” said my mother.

Dickon and Jonathan laughed. “You are fanciful, Lottie,” said Dickon.

“No. I think this happens to houses.”

“Is it for sale?” asked Sophie.

“I am sure it is,” I said.

“Yes,” said Dickon, “the key is at Grasslands. That’s the nearest house.”

“David and I went in there a little while ago,” I said. “Didn’t we, David?”

“Oh? Did you get the keys?” asked Dickon.

“No. A latch was broken on one of the windows and we climbed through into the hall.”

“Such adventurous spirits!” said Dickon ironically.

“It’s a grim old place, Aunt Sophie,” I said.

“I tell you it is just a matter of cutting down the shrubs and letting in the light,” explained David. “I am sure that would make a world of difference.”

“I should like to look at it,” said Sophie.

“At least,” said my mother almost grudgingly, “it would be near us. And, as you said, you would not want to be too far away.”

“Perhaps tomorrow I shall look. I shall take Jeanne with me. She will know.”

“Oh dear,” said my mother lightly, “are you so eager to leave us?”

“I do not wish to encroach…” replied Sophie.

“My dear Sophie, we are overjoyed to have you.”

Sabrina, who had appeared to be dozing, suddenly said: “Enderby is a strange house. But when my mother was mistress of it, it was a very happy house. It was only after she died that it became morbid again.”

“Well, you know the old house better than any of us,” said my mother. She turned to Sophie. “Dickon’s mother was born there. She lived her childhood there. So she can tell you what you want to know about it.”

A glazed look came over Sabrina’s eyes. “It is so long ago,” she said. “Oh years and years and yet sometimes I remember those days more clearly than what happened yesterday.”

“I look forward to seeing this house,” said Sophie. “I will talk to Jeanne, and tomorrow, if that is possible, we will see it.”

“We could send over to Grasslands for the key,” said my mother.

“May I come with you?” I asked eagerly. “I should love to have a good look at the house.”

“Won’t it be rather tame going in through the front door after climbing through the window?” asked Jonathan.

“It is really something of an adventure setting foot in that house.”

So it was arranged.

Dinner was over and my mother said: “Sabrina is very tired. I shall take her to her room. And I daresay Sophie would like to retire also, wouldn’t you, my dear?”

Sophie said she would.

“Claudine will take you up.”

“I can find my own way,” said Sophie.

I went to her and laid my hand on her arm. “Please, I should love to see Jeanne again.”

Sophie gave me that rather special smile which I noticed she rarely gave to anyone else, and we went up the stairs together.

Jeanne was waiting for her in the nursery rooms. “Jeanne,” I said, “how good to see you!”

She grasped my hand and I studied her intently. There were grey strands in her dark hair. She had lived through much stress and strain.

“Mademoiselle Claudine,” she said, “I am happy to be here and have Mademoiselle Sophie safe.”

“Yes, your ordeal must have been terrible.”

Jeanne nodded to me meaningfully. “You are tired,” she said to Sophie.

“A little,” admitted Sophie.

“Then I shall say good night,” I said. “If there is anything you need…”

“Your mother has taken good care of us,” Jeanne told me.

“I have heard of a house,” said Sophie to Jeanne.

“I will leave you to talk about it,” I said. “Don’t get too hopeful. Enderby isn’t everyone’s home.”

Then I said good night and left them.

On the way down I met my mother on her way from Sabrina’s room. She put an arm round me and held me close to her.

“I am so glad you are back… and happy. Oh yes, I can see you are happy. It was wonderful in London, wasn’t it? You with David…”

“It was perfect,” I told her.

“What a pity you had to cut it short.”

“I couldn’t really see why.”

“Dickon is deeply involved with… affairs. I worry sometimes. He has secrets… even from me. I think the death of the Queen will have some important effect on things over here. In any case, you and David can go back to London later.”

“Of course.”

“What do you think of Sophie?”

“She was always a little… strange.”

“I thought she seemed more—friendly… more shall I say—normal. She must have suffered a great deal.”

“I suppose all that would change anyone. Wasn’t it wonderful about the jewels?”

“It was a terrible risk. However, you’ll hear about it. We don’t want to go through it all in front of Sophie. Jonathan will tell you all about it.”

The men were in the punch room, where a fire was burning in the fireplace. They rose as we entered.

“Come and sit down,” said Dickon. “Unless you are tired.”

“I’d like to talk a little,” I said. “There is so much to hear about.”

Jonathan had come swiftly to my side; he laid a hand on my arm. “Come and sit down,” he said; and I sat between him and David. My mother took the chair opposite Dickon.

“I didn’t want to talk too much in front of Sophie,” said my mother. “It must have been a nightmare she has been living through all this time. Just think of it. Day in, day out… never knowing when the mob would turn against them. Jonathan, do tell Claudine and David the story you have told us.”

“I had better start at the beginning,” he said. “We had already made arrangements for getting across when we left the house that day and made our way to the coast where the boat was ready waiting for us. It was a fishing boat and the owner was doing a very brisk business with émigrés. He was able to change our money into French currency, and there was a small rowing boat in which we were taken ashore at a very lonely spot on a dark moonless night.

“So we were there. Charlot was quite ingenious. He is a good actor. He transformed himself into a small trader with a cart—which we managed to acquire, with a horse, not very handsome in appearance but a strong creature of whom we all became very fond. Louis Charles and I were the servants. I was of a lower grade posing as dumb, as I was unable to speak the language proficiently. They were afraid for me to open my mouth, which they said would have given the whole show away.

“We made a slow journey to Aubigné, encountering difficulty after difficulty. I could not keep up the dumb act, so they thought my French might be mistaken for a patois. I was to be a native of the country in the south, right on the Spanish border, which was to be the reason why I spoke so badly. You’d be shocked if you could see the place, Step-mama. There are chickens running all over the lawns, the flowerbeds are overgrown and the pools full of stagnant water. I never saw it in its grandeur, but there was just enough of an outline left to show me how splendid it must have been.”

“It was splendid,” put in Dickon. “All that good land… gone to waste. The stupid vandals! They will ruin their country.”

“Well,” went on Jonathan, “our big disappointment came when we reached the château, for neither Sophie nor Jeanne was in residence. We dared not ask for them and we were in a quandary then. Charlot did not want to go too far away—and in any case we did not know where to go. But he was afraid he might be known and recognized if he went to an inn in the town, despite his disguise. Louis Charles also felt that. So I went to the wine shops there. I would sit about drinking and listening to the talk… not saying much and pretending to be a little foolish and not understanding what they were talking about. They were quite tolerant of me.”

“It is always a good thing to act the fool,” said David. “It makes others feel superior, and that is what they enjoy.”

“Well, I did quite well really. There was a girl who served the wine. What was her name? Marie… that’s it. She took pity on me and used to talk to me. I marked her down. I could discover a good deal from her, I believed. I could ask her what I dared not ask the others. I did rather well with Marie. I would creep out of the wine shop and join the others, who were sleeping in the cart. In time I got Marie to talk to me about the old days and the family at the château. What scandals I heard, dear Step-mama!”

“There are always scandals about people like my father.”

“It seems he was quite good at making it. I heard about his romantic marriage with your mother and how she died. That was shocking. I plied Marie with the grape and finally I discovered that Armand had died and they had buried him at the château. His companion had left, so there were only three women at the château then.

“They were suspicious of them. How did they live? Mademoiselle Sophie was a kind of invalid but she was an aristocrat… and Jeanne and the old housekeeper were a smart pair. They must have held something back… and what were they doing anyway living with an aristocrat!

“Someone must have warned Jeanne that feelings were rising against them and she decided to move on, and one day it was discovered that there was no one at the château. How long they had been gone, no one was sure. Where had they gone? I wondered. Marie was a well-informed girl. She could guess there were two places to which they might have gone. The old housekeeper who was known as Tante Berthe had a family somewhere in the country. And Jeanne Fougère came from the Dordogne district. She was a secretive person but Marie remembered that one day someone had come from Périgord, and had seen Jeanne when she was shopping and had asked her name. When this person had been told that she was Jeanne Fougère who looked after a sick woman at the château, he said he thought he had recognized her for he knew the Fougère family who lived in Périgord.

“That was the best clue we could get, so we left for the south at once, driving the poor old horse over those rough roads, for we had to keep well away from the towns. Few showed any interest in us, so I suppose we looked like good old compatriots. Charlot sung the ‘Marseillaise’ with fervour and I learned to sing it with ‘Ça Ira.’ These are the great songs of the revolution and a knowledge of them is considered by the peasants necessary to a good patriot.

“I won’t dwell on the details now, but I can tell you we had many a narrow escape. There were many occasions when we almost betrayed ourselves—and how near we came to disaster! It is very hard for an aristocrat—and Charlot is one if ever there was one—not to assume an air of superiority at times. I do believe I played my part with distinction—the half-witted loony from some vague spot in the south where they spoke a patois almost unrecognizable to good citizens of the République. It was easier for me than for Charlot.

“After many vicissitudes which I shall recall later—if any of you should be desirous of hearing them—we tracked down the good Jeanne’s family. There was only a brother and sister left in the little farmhouse. They had taken in the wandering jewel-laden pair and tried to make a good little peasant out of Sophie—not with any great success, and there they were.

“The housekeeper had made her way back to her own family and Jeanne and Sophie were on their own. Well, they joined us in the cart… Sophie as Charlot’s mother—a role which I think she rather enjoyed since she had to play a part—and Jeanne was the wife of Louis Charles. There was no one for me and I felt a little piqued at first—but of course it was due to necessity.”

“It must have been doubly alarming travelling as you were with Sophie and Jeanne carrying the jewels,” I said.

“Well, it was. But Jeanne is a clever woman. Sophie did as well as she could but Jeanne was wonderful. She went into the little towns to shop for us and of course she did not have to change her personality as we did ours.”

“Did she go into the town with the gems sewn into her petticoats?” I asked.

“She must have done so. She did not tell us about the jewels until we were on the boat crossing the Channel.”

“What would you have done had you known?”

Jonathan shrugged his shoulders. “What could we do? We shouldn’t have left them behind. But I think our anxieties would have been increased. Jeanne knew that, so she decided not to place that extra burden on our shoulders. One of these days I’ll tell you about some of the adventures we passed through, all the alarms and escapes. It will take weeks. And in any case I can’t remember them all. When we finally got to Ostend Charlot decided he would go back to France and the army; and of course Louis Charles went with him. So they entrusted to me the task of bringing Sophie and Jeanne to England. I remember how we slipped away and they stood on the shore watching us.” He turned to my mother. “Charlot hoped you would understand. He was very definite about that. He wanted you to know that he could not continue to live quietly in England while his country was in turmoil.”

“I do understand,” said my mother quietly.

She had been deeply moved when Jonathan was talking and Dickon watched her anxiously.

He rose and said: “Let us go up.”

He and my mother said good night and left us—myself sitting between David and Jonathan.

We were silent for a while. I stared into the fire and saw pictures there. Jonathan in the wine shop with Marie… and I wondered what that had entailed. How strange that of all the adventures I should think of that. I pictured his trundling across France, playing his part. I was sure that he had enjoyed the danger of it… just as his father had. David would have hated it. He would have seen only the squalor, the pity, and the futility of it all.

A log had collapsed, sending out a spray of little sparks. Jonathan rose and filled his glass with the port wine he had been drinking.

“David?” he said, the decanter poised.

David said: “No thanks.”

“Claudine?”

I too declined.

“Oh come, just a little toast to my safe return.”

He poured the wine into our glasses. I lifted mine. “Welcome home.”

His eyes met mine and I saw the blue flames which I remembered so well.

“You have been very lucky,” said David. “So… welcome home.”

“My dear brother, I am always lucky.” He looked at me and frowned; then he added in a low voice: “Well, not always but almost always, and when I am not I know how to make the best of the situation.”

“There must have been moments when you really thought the end had come,” said David.

“I never felt that. You know me. I would always find a way out, however impossible the situation seemed.”

“You certainly believe in yourself,” I said.

“With good cause, dear Claudine. With very good cause, I assure you.

“No wonder Lottie was a little upset by all those revelations,” said David. “That wine shop you were in with the girl… that must have been the one opposite the mairie where she was held on that awful night.”

“Yes,” I said. “I remember her telling how the mob ransacked the place and the wine ran out into the street all over the cobbles.”

“Our father brought her home far more dramatically than I brought Sophie and Jeanne,” said Jonathan.

“You brought them home. That was all that mattered,” I told him fervently.

“And came safely through myself. Surely that is a matter of some importance to you.”

“Of the utmost, of course.”

He leaned over me very closely and said: “Thank you, sister-in-law. That’s what you are now. You were step-sister before, weren’t you? Now you are sister-in-law and step-sister both. Mon Dieu, as they say in that benighted country which I am so thankful to have left, what a complicated family we are!”

We were silent, sipping our port and gazing into the fire. I was very much aware of Jonathan and it seemed symbolic in some way that I was sitting there between the two brothers.

I felt very disturbed. All the peace I had known in London was gone; and something told me that I should never know it again.

I had to get away.

“I’m tired,” I said. “I’m going to say good night.”

David said: “I’ll come up soon.”

I went to my room. I hastily got into bed. It was not true that I was tired. I was, in fact, wide awake. I was trying to look into the future and I did so with some apprehension. There was that in Jonathan’s attitude and one or two of his rather ambiguous remarks which had unsettled me.

I wished he had not come home. That was not true. I was wildly excited because he had come home. And I was looking into the future with trepidation because he would certainly be involved in it. I was fearful and yet awaiting what was to come with an intensity of feeling which I had never known before.

When David came up I pretended to be asleep.

He kissed me gently, tenderly, so as not—he thought—to wake me.

I resisted the impulse to put my arms about his neck and return his kiss. But I could not do that. I felt that if I did I might betray the inner excitement which possessed me and which he might guess had been engendered by Jonathan.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook onscreen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 1983 by Philippa Carr

cover design by Jason Gabbert

978-1-4804-0376-5

This edition published in 2013 by Open Road Integrated Media

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New York, NY 10014

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