Voices in a Haunted Room

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.