Zipporah's Daughter

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. Charlot 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 Charlot 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.

Charlot 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 Charlot, 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 Charlot, and began to sketch one on the paper before him.

And that was what Charles’s death meant to Charlot.

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.