Voices in a Haunted Room

Amaryllis And Jessica

A NEW YEAR HAD begun. I had not been alone with Jonathan since that visit to Enderby. I avoided him and I felt my determination growing stronger. My mother noticed that there was something wrong with me. She insisted that I retire early and I was only too glad to do so. I wanted to be alone to think of what I had done and whether I should ever escape from it.

Then the most appalling suspicion came to me that I might be going to have a child and this presented such a disastrous possibility that I refused at first to consider the idea. That was foolish, of course. If it were so, I must face it. I wanted a child. I always had. But if it should be happening now, how should I know who the father was?

I had thought that I could finish my relationship with Jonathan and grow away from it. But if what I feared was true, how could I ever do that? All through my life there would be a constant reminder of my guilt.

I had nightmares. I dreamed I was in that room and the voice was going on and on reminding me that I was a sinful woman, that I had offended against the laws of God and nature. I had acted with callous wantonness towards a husband who was the kindest man in the world.

I think my love for David had grown greater in those days which followed Christmas and it made me even more aware of the enormity of what I had done. I would have given anything to wipe out the last months, to go back to being the innocent young woman I once was, a woman of honour and integrity, a woman who appreciated that she was married to a good man.

How easy it is to repent when one sees the folly of one’s ways! How easy to make excuses—youth, inexperience, excessive emotion, undreamed-of sensuality… all these might apply, but there was no excuse.

The guests had departed and Christmas was over.

Aunt Sophie was planning to move into Enderby in February and my mother was trying to dissuade her. But Sophie was eager to go.

“A big house like that needs warming up,” my mother reminded her.

“We can manage. Jeanne and I will engage the servants, settle them in for a week and then we shall be ready.”

I thought that in a way my mother would be relieved when she had gone. She told me that Sophie always made her feel guilty, and I, who knew great guilt, understood how it gnawed at one’s peace of mind—although my mother had nothing to feel guilty about.

“I suppose,” she said, “that people who are maimed like that sometimes have a way of making you feel in the wrong, particularly when… Oh but you know she was betrothed to your father before I married him.”

“Yes, and she refused to marry him.”

“It’s true, and it was some time after when I married him.”

“It’s all so long ago. Do people ever forget?”

“They remember as long as they want to. They keep the memory alive. They get a certain satisfaction in keeping old wounds from healing.”

I shivered.

“Claudine, you are not feeling quite yourself, are you?”

I started. “I’m perfectly all right,” I said.

“I thought about getting Dr. Meadows to call in and have a look at you.”

“Oh no, Maman, no.” I spoke in panic.

She put her arm round me. “All right. Wait and see how you go.”

Jonathan went to London at the beginning of the new year.

“There’s a great deal of secret activity going on,” said David to me in the quietness of our bedroom. “It’s not only the war but the situation generally. What is happening in France has sent its reverberations all over Europe. There can’t be one monarch who feels very comfortable when considering what has happened to the King and Queen of France. They must wonder if that sort of thing could spread to other countries.”

“Do you think it could happen here?”

“It’s what people fear, but I have a feeling we shall escape. We are not of the same temperament as the French and not nearly so likely to go in for that sort of revolution.”

“We have had our riots. We even had a civil war last century.”

“Yes, and perhaps it is too close in living memory for people to want anything like that again.”

“And we did behead our King as they have Louis and Marie Antoinette.”

“And restored a new monarch little more than ten years later. Moreover we have not the same reason here. Do you think the merchants of London want riots in the streets? They are too comfortably off. But agitators can do plenty of harm and there are criminals and vagrants who have nothing to lose. They could cause trouble.”

“Do we still have these agitators here then?”

“I am sure of it. Jonathan and my father know a great deal, though they say little. Jonathan is taking over from my father, I think. They don’t talk to me about it—which is quite right. Only those who are involved know what is going on.”

“Your father does not tell even my mother of his secret work.”

“He can tell no one, of course… not even Lottie. But I think he now does less of this work because of her.”

I nodded and he put his arm about me and went on: “Are you sure nothing is wrong, Claudine?”

“Wrong?” I hoped my voice did not betray my fear.

“I thought you seemed preoccupied, as though… I don’t quite know. Are you sure you are feeling quite well?”

I leaned against him and he put his arm about me. I was terrified that in a few moments I should confess. I must not. Jonathan was right about one thing. David must never know. Perhaps if it had been someone else he might have forgiven me. I was sure he would for he was of a forgiving nature. But his own brother! And how was I going to cope with Jonathan’s actually living in the same house?

I forced myself to silence.

“Your mother thinks you should see the doctor,” he said.

I shook my head. “I’m perfectly all right.”

I assumed a gaiety I did not feel and I believed I managed to deceive him, as I had in that other matter.

Jonathan was in London for two weeks that January. I felt easier when he was out of the way, even though that which had occurred to me as a possibility had become a certainty.

I was pregnant after all.

I had told no one as yet. How could I tell David that I was to have a child which might not be his?

I kept my secret for two weeks. At times the prospect of a child overshadowed all else and for a brief spell my joy was boundless until I remembered that I did not know who the child’s father was.

Jonathan came back from London. He was a little preoccupied; something of importance had evidently transpired there. As soon as he returned he was closeted with Dickon, and when they emerged Dickon looked very serious.

At dinner that evening Jonathan wanted to know how Enderby was progressing.

“It’s full of workmen at the moment,” I said pointedly.

“We shan’t know the place,” he replied.

“Sophie insists on going in in early February,” said my mother. “I think she is unwise. She should wait till spring.”

“What of the servants?”

“Jeanne is engaging them. I thank Heaven for Jeanne. She is doing most of the work. Were you busy in London?”

“Very.” He smiled at her in a manner which said: No more questions please. He looked at his father and said: “You remember Jennings—Tom or was it Jack—he’s been transported for publishing seditious literature.”

“Transported! Surely not!” said Dickon.

“Yes, seven years to Botany Bay.”

“Wasn’t that rather harsh?”

“Not as things are. He was lauding Danton and stressing the wrongdoing of the monarchy in France and the rights of the people. Louis and the Queen were the bad ones and Danton and company the heroes.”

“So there is real concern.”

“You can call it that. It’s right, of course. They have to be scented out. It was people like that who started the trouble in France.”

“But transportation!” said Dickon. “That is a little harsh.”

“I hope,” said my mother, “that you are not thinking of making any more trips to London.”

“Not just yet,” Dickon assured her.

“And you, Jonathan?” asked my mother.

He lifted his shoulders, and his eyes rested on me. “I hope to spend a little time here among the joys of Eversleigh.”

“How nice that you appreciate your home,” said my mother lightly.

“Oh I do,” he replied. “I do indeed.”

When we were leaving the room I said to him: “I must talk to you.”

“When?” he asked eagerly.

“Tomorrow. I shall ride in the morning, at ten o’clock.”

The next morning I rode out alone and he was soon at my side.

“What of the house? Let’s go there.”

I replied quickly: “No. I don’t intend to go to Enderby with you again. Moreover it would be impossible now even if—”

“Where shall we go then?”

“I just want to talk to you, Jonathan.”

“I had to go away, you know. I hated leaving you. It was urgent business.”

“It’s nothing to do with that.”

We turned off the road and into a field, where we pulled up.

“Jonathan,” I said, “I’m going to have a child.”

He looked at me in amazement.

“It’s not so surprising, is it?” I went on.

“David’s…?”

“How could I be sure?”

He stared at me and I saw the corners of his mouth twitch.

“You find it amusing?” I asked angrily.

“Well, there is nothing to worry about, is there?”

“What do you mean? When I don’t know whether it is yours or David’s, you think that is nothing to worry about?”

“You’re married. Married women are entitled to have babies. I find it rather intriguing.”

I said: “You never took any of this seriously, did you? To you it was just a light affair. I daresay you have had many. This was a little different. Your own brother’s wife. You found that rather piquant, didn’t you?”

He was silent, still looking at me with that amused look on his face.

“What am I going to do?” I asked.

“Do? Do you mean shall you have it or not?”

“Are you suggesting…? This is my child. Whoever its father is, it is still mine.”

“Claudine, you are rather dramatic, my dear one. You are worried, but there is nothing to worry about.”

“You don’t think there is anything to worry about in passing off a child, who may be yours, as David’s?”

“Well, if he doesn’t know, what has he got to be upset about?”

How he revealed himself to me! What had I done? I had betrayed the best of men for the sake of a philanderer.

“Jonathan,” I said, “it is clear that you do not take this situation seriously.”

“I take you, Claudine, with the utmost seriousness. I am simply saying that there is nothing for us to worry about.”

“This deceit! This betrayal! This bringing into the world of a child, letting David believe it is his when it might not be?”

“Very high-sounding,” he said. “But, my dear Claudine, let us look at the facts. We have absolutely nothing to worry about. The child will have the best of everything. He’ll inherit his share of Eversleigh. It’s really very convenient, keeping it in the family as it were.”

I turned away and he laid his hand on my arm.

“Claudine,” he said pleadingly. “What a curse it is that all those people are working in Enderby. I’ve thought of you constantly all the time I’ve been away.”

I had changed. That pleased me. I was no longer moved. I saw him too clearly, or was it because the child had already made me into a different woman?

I thought exultantly: It’s over. He has no power over me now.

But it was too late.

I saw his expression of dismay change to resignation as I turned from him and galloped back to the house.

I was absolutely sure now, but I hesitated to tell David. That was going to be very hard. I knew that he would be delighted and I should feel this sick remorse because of the truth.

I went to my mother’s room. She was resting, which was unusual for her. She was lying on her bed in a peacock-blue peignoir, looking rather languid and as beautiful as ever—no, more so because there was a special radiance about her.

“I’ve come to talk to you,” I said. “No, don’t get up. I’ll sit here.”

I sat on the bed and she looked intently at me. “I think I know what you are going to tell me, Claudine.”

“Do you?”

She nodded. “I recognized the signs some time ago. My dearest, I’m so happy for you. It is a baby, isn’t it?”

I nodded. She began to laugh suddenly.

“You find it amusing?” I asked.

“Very. Wait till you hear.”

I looked at her in puzzlement and it was some seconds before she spoke. Then she said: “Me, too.”

“What?”

“I’m so happy, Claudine. It was all I lacked and now, I’m going to have a child, too. Isn’t that funny, gloriously funny. You and I, mother and daughter, in the same predicament.”

She had sat up and caught me to her. We rocked to and fro for a moment laughing. Perhaps my laughter was a little hysterical, but in her joy she did not notice it.

I thought: If only I could tell her. A burden shared is a burden halved, someone had said. But then was it fair to make others carry your troubles? I had made them myself. They were my affair. I must not involve her. I must not put a cloud into all the happiness I saw in her face.

“Of course you think I’m old,” she said. “But I’m not too old, Claudine. I can just about make it.”

“You’ll never be old. You’re eternally youthful.”

“There speaks my dutiful daughter, saying what she thinks Mother likes best to hear. You’re right. I do. But truth is truth, is it not, and I am no longer in my first flush of youth.”

“What does Dickon say?”

“Pure delight. Well, not exactly complete delight. Thrilled about the child, of course, but like you he remembers that I am not so young. I think he is going to fuss a bit. It will be odd to see him like that. He is already looking at me as though I might break at any minute.”

“How lucky you are to love like that.”

“Well, isn’t it the same with you and David?”

I nodded because I could not speak.

“I’m glad it was David you cared for,” she said. “Jonathan is very like his father… David is quite different.”

“And you think Dickon is the perfect man.”

“Oh, far from it. I soon discovered Dickon’s weaknesses. Odd, that I should love them more than other people’s virtues. Jonathan reminds me very much of what Dickon was at his age. I think he and Millicent will make a match of it. The Pettigrews want it. It joins up the banking interests, and Lord Pettigrew is very much involved with—that other work, I gather. But what about us? Two mothers, eh? What does David say?”

“I haven’t told him yet.”

“You haven’t told him! You mean I am the first to know.”

“You didn’t tell me first,” I said reproachfully.

“As a matter of fact I was a trifle embarrassed… at my time of life with a grown-up son and a married daughter. It seems indecent somehow.”

“How absurd, Maman.”

“Wait till Dickon hears your news. He’ll be so delighted. He always wanted a grandson. I suppose you want a boy.”

“I don’t care what it is.”

“No. And I feel the same. It’s not so important for us. Dickon already has two sons. I think I should like a little girl.” She looked tenderly at me and I put my arms round her. “Girls are closer in a way,” she added.

I felt it would be a great luxury then to let myself weep, and to tell her everything that had happened.

She stroked my hair. “You mustn’t be afraid, Claudine. I sensed that you have been a little, lately. Now I know why. There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

“No, no…” I said. “It’s not that. It’s just a little—overwhelming, isn’t it?”

She agreed solemnly that it was.

I found it an ordeal telling David. How different it would have been if I had been sure the child was his, if I had never gone to Enderby and let myself be overpowered by my emotions, if I had never let that house spread its tentacles about me…

There I was, blaming the house again, blaming anything but my own weakness.

I had sinned and must pay for my sins.

David took my hands and kissed them.

“Oh, Claudine, I hoped and hoped… It is wonderful news. And you’re happy, aren’t you? You want this.”

“Of course I want this… a baby of my own.”

“Our own, Claudine.”

I shivered a little. I wanted so much to tell, to rid myself of this burden of guilt. But I should have to carry it alone… all through my life.

I could not tell David any more than I could tell my mother.

What a celebration there was that night! The news was out.

Sophie was induced to join us at the table. It was a very special occasion, she was told. Sabrina came down too. She looked rather wan; she found the winters very trying and spent a great deal of time in bed now.

When we were all seated Dickon said: “I have an announcement to make. We have to drink the health of newcomers who will shortly be making their appearance at Eversleigh.”

Sabrina and Sophie listened intently.

Dickon then waved his hand first to my mother and then to me.

“Lottie and I are going to have a child—and so are Claudine and David. It is a most auspicious occasion. One would have been a matter for rejoicing, but two—that means jubilation. We are going to drink the very best wine we have in the cellars to the health of our mothers. God bless them, and may all they desire be theirs.”

Jonathan smiled at me as he lifted his glass.

Sabrina was shaking with emotion and I noticed that Sophie’s lips were drawn down at the corners. Poor Sophie, once more she was thinking of all that she had missed.

The tears were running down Sabrina’s cheeks.

“Come, come, Mother,” said Dickon, “this is supposed to be a happy occasion.”

“Tears of happiness, my darling boy,” she said. “I know this is what you wanted to complete your happiness. A dear child… Lottie’s… and another grandchild for me. I hope I live to see it.”

“What nonsense!” said Dickon. “Of course you’ll live to see it. I insist, and Lottie says you always do what I want.”

They drank to the future; and in the kitchens the servants drank a toast to us.

There was a great deal of talk about babies at the table. My mother told of the births of my brother and myself and all the difficulties of pregnancies as though this was the most enjoyable experience known to womankind.

“I suppose,” said Dickon, with feigned resignation, “this will be the burden of our conversation for months to come. I doubt we shall ever escape from nursery topics.”

“It is a great deal more healthy than this continuous talk of revolution, and spies, and poor men transported merely for speaking their minds,” retorted my mother.

“Wise men know when to keep silent,” said Jonathan, “and that goes for women too.”

He was looking straight at me and smiling.

I thought: Yes, he and Dickon are alike. Dickon must have been very like Jonathan when he was making his way to becoming one of the richest men in the country and not caring very much how he did it. Amoral, that was the word. Immoral too. But who was I to talk? I was realizing now how much I loved David; and yet I had played on him about the worst deception any woman can play upon a man.

There was no escaping my guilt. It was going to haunt me for the rest of my life.

A few weeks passed. We were in February now, and although it was cold there was the faintest hint of spring in the air. I felt very sick in the mornings and did not rise until midday; in the afternoons I felt quite well again. My mother did not seem to suffer from these signs of pregnancy.

Showing a certain resignation, Jonathan did not pursue me. I suppose I seemed a quite different woman to him now; and in any case I had lost all my desire to be with him.

I used to lie on my bed in abject misery, trying to look into the future and being unable to; and I used to think how easy it would have been to overcome this physical affliction if my mind were free from remorse. In the afternoons my mood changed, for the sickness passed and I felt surprisingly well.

I liked to ride then… alone. I should soon have to give up riding, and I wanted to make the most of it while I could still enjoy it.

Jonathan was very preoccupied; he and Dickon were a great deal together. Some days they rode over to Farringdon Manor and I believed Lord Pettigrew met them there. The position on the Continent was changing; and the war was not going as they had optimistically hoped. Who would have thought that a country in the throes of revolution would have been able to put an army in the field?

They were watchful; our whole country seemed to be, and that there were fears in certain quarters was certain. A great many people were being sent out to Australia for what was known as sedition.

However, I had my own problems, and on this February afternoon I decided to ride through the lanes and look for the signs of approaching spring. I had an idea that time would help me to come to terms with my problems. My baby was due in September, my mother’s in August; and I looked forward to that date with an intense yearning. I had some notion that once I had my baby he—or she—would bring me such joy that it would overwhelm my melancholy.

I rode on, walking my horse. I would not gallop for fear of harming the baby—although, of course, it was too early a stage to be disturbed. However, I was cautious.

I found a certain pleasure in the sight of a few celandines peeping up among the grass. They were early—the first sign of spring; and there were crimson-tipped daisies making a brave show among the green. In the distance the river wound its way down to the sea. I rode towards it and passed over the wooden bridge which spanned it. I was startled by the sudden cry of a lapwing. They were mating down there; their cries sounded more melancholy than usual.

Soon the birds would be in full song. I used to love to listen to them. They were so joyous; they hadn’t a care in the world.

I had a sudden desire to see the sea.

I remembered how Charlot used to look across to France with wistful longing eyes. Where was Charlot now? Charlot and Louis Charles—they were fighting with the French against the English. How would Charlot feel about that? What a complication we had made of our lives!

I could smell the sea now; the gulls were whirling round and round uttering their mournful cries, searching for food, I supposed. As I looked up and watched them I heard someone calling my name.

“Mrs. Frenshaw, Mrs. Frenshaw… can you come here?”

I turned my horse in the direction of the voice.

“Where are you?” I called.

“Down here.” A figure emerged on the shaw and I recognized Evie Mather.

“I’m coming,” I called, and rode towards her.

In a little cove, sheltered by protruded boulders, a man was lying stretched out. His face was pale, his eyes shut and his damp dark curling hair fell over his brow. He looked as though he had been washed up by the tide.

Dolly stood beside Eve, and their horses waited quietly.

“Who is he?”

Evie lifted her shoulders. “I’ve no idea. We’ve just found him. We heard someone and we came along to look. Then we saw him lying there.”

I dismounted and knelt by the young man. I saw that he was young—under twenty, I should think.

I said: “He is breathing.”

“He seemed to faint when we came along.”

“We have to get him away from here,” I said.

“That’s what we thought, and we were trying to figure out how when we saw you.”

“One of us could go back and send for help. Unless we can take him back with us. Do you think we could lift him and put him on my horse?”

“We could try,” said Evie.

“The three of us might manage it,” I replied. “It would be quicker. Could you take his feet and I’ll have the other end. Dolly, hold my horse while we try.”

It was not easy but we managed to get him up. He lay limply across my horse, his dangling hands almost touching the ground.

“It will be slow progress,” I said.

“But quicker,” repeated Evie, “than going all the way back and getting help.”

“Let’s go then.”

I mounted my horse and we made our slow return to Eversleigh.

That was how we found Alberic Claremont.

As soon as we arrived at Eversleigh we got him to bed. He opened his eyes and looked at us vaguely.

“He’s probably starving,” said my mother. “We’ll try him with a little soup. But first we’ll send for the doctor.”

When the doctor arrived he said the young man would soon recover. There was nothing wrong with him except that he was suffering from exposure and as we had thought, exhaustion. A few days’ rest and some nourishing food, served in small quantities at first but frequently, and he should soon be quite fit.

The diagnosis proved to be correct. At the end of the first day the young man was able to open his eyes and speak to us.

He spoke in French so we guessed his story even before he told it to us. He had escaped from the Terror and was seeking refuge in England as so many of his fellow countrymen were doing at this time.

They had taken his father to the guillotine. He had done no wrong, but he had been a bailiff to one of the big estates in the south of France. His brother was in the army serving his country. He had been warned that he had been marked as an enemy of the revolution, so he had known there was only one thing for him to do—get away.

He had left his home and travelled through France disguised as a peasant. He had reached the coast. There were ways of getting across, provided money could change hands, and he embarked in a remote bay in France and landed at an equally isolated one in England.

“Were you alone?” asked my mother.

He shook his head. “There were two others. I do not know what became of them. I only know that they shared the boat with me and when I said I was so exhausted that I could not go on they left me.”

“They might have looked after you,” I put in.

“Madame, they were afraid. We have suffered much. I understood, and I implored them to leave me. They say there are too many émigrés arriving and that your government does not want them and may send them back.” He shivered. “They were afraid that if there were three of us…”

“I wonder where they have gone,” I said.

He lifted his shoulders and closed his eyes.

“He is very tired,” said my mother. “Don’t let us disturb him just now.”

The next morning he was much refreshed. We kept him in bed and he seemed very pleased to stay there.

He spoke a little English but it was necessary for us to conduct our conversation in French.

He told us his name was Alberic Claremont. He said: “I can never go back to France. You wouldn’t send me, would you? Would you?”

There was such terror in his eyes that my mother cried out fiercely: “Never.”

Dickon, who had returned late in the evening, had listened to the story without any great surprise.

“They are flying from the Terror in hundreds,” he said. “I wonder we don’t get more of them. What sort of man is he?”

“He’s young,” replied my mother. “He seems educated. I think he has been through terrible dangers.”

“That seems likely.”

“I want to see him quite well before he leaves here.”

“Where will he go to?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps he has friends here. Perhaps he can find the friends he came with. I don’t think much of them, leaving him like that on the shore.”

I put in: “You know the spot, close by the old boat house. It’s very lonely there. Evie and Dolly Mather just happened to find him.”

“He might have stayed there for a long time if they hadn’t,” said my mother.

“He would never have survived at this time of the year.”

“Well, let’s see how he shapes up,” said Dickon.

Sophie was very interested to hear how we had rescued the young man. She came to see him and sat by his bed talking to him in their native tongue, and I could see that she had taken a fancy to Alberic Claremont.

Next morning Evie called with Dolly to enquire about the young man they had rescued.

I took them up to his bedroom. He was lying in his bed looking quite different from the young man they had found on the beach.

“So you are the young ladies who found me,” he said in French.

His eyes were on Evie and she flushed a little as she replied in English: “My sister and I were riding. We often go down to the sea. How glad I am that we went yesterday.”

He could not understand very well and I said: “Monsieur Claremont speaks very little English, Evie. Have you any French?”

She flushed again and stammered that she had a little but not much. “Grandmamma insisted that our governess teach Dolly and me French. But we aren’t very good at it, are we, Dolly?”

“You are, Evie,” said Dolly.

“Not very, I’m afraid.”

“Try,” I said.

And she did. She had just enough to make herself understood in simple sentences, and Alberic Claremont seemed to be very pleased to assist her. He tried to speak English and they laughed together while Dolly sat silent, watching her sister’s face all the time.

When she left, Evie asked if she might call again.

I said but of course she must.

My mother commented: “Evie is delighted with him because she has probably saved his life. There is nothing more endearing than someone who owes you a great deal, and what could be more than a life?”

“You sound more like Dickon every day.”

“I suppose one grows a little like someone with whom one is in constant contact.”

“Don’t grow too much like him, dear Maman. Stay yourself.”

“I promise,” she said.

Within a few days Alberic was quite well.

We had family discussions about him. What could we do for him? There he was, a young man restored to health; he had brought French currency with him, but what good was that in England? Where could he go? What could he do? Could he work somewhere? The French were not very popular in England at this time.

It was Sophie who came up with the solution.

She needed servants. She was looking for them now. What if she offered Alberic a post in her household? What could he be? A butler? Could he work in the gardens? It was not so important how he worked as that he did. She would talk to him and discover for what he was best suited.

“In any case,” she said, “he can come to Enderby and stay there until he decides what he must do. When this terrible revolution is over, perhaps there will be changes in France. In which case those French who are sheltering here might want to go back.”

It was a solution, and when it was put to Alberic that for the time being he should go to Enderby and work there for Aunt Sophie in whatever capacity they found most suitable, he accepted with alacrity.

At the end of February Sophie moved into Enderby. Alberic delighted her and Jeanne approved of him. He was an indefatigable worker, and he was so grateful to Sophie for providing a home for him that he declared he would die for her.

Dickon said cynically: “It might be a different story if the noble young gentleman were called upon to carry out his promise. All the same, French melodrama apart, he is reasonably grateful, and as Sophie was looking for people to serve her, she has found one, who because of his position and the fact that he shared her nationality, could prove satisfactory.”

At the beginning of March Jonathan went to London. I was always relieved when he was not in the house, and I was beginning to sink into a sense of security. I was completely absorbed by the baby as it grew within me, and other matters just slipped through my consciousness without my taking much notice of them.

My mother and I were together a great deal. As we both needed rest, we would often lie side by side on her bed and she would talk to me of her life, of her marriage to my father, of his death, and the knowledge that it had always been Dickon whom she had loved.

“My mother came to great happiness late in life, and so did I,” she said. “I think perhaps this is the best time for happiness to come. Then you appreciate it more; and it is not so easy to strive for it in one’s mature years, as it is when one is young. When you are young you believe in miracles. You think you just have to catch them and they are yours. When you are older, you know they are rare, and if one comes your way, how you cherish it, how you appreciate it!”

I was able to draw on her contentment, and it said a great deal for my powers of deception that I was able to convince her that I was as happy as she was.

We discussed the nursery. “It will be as though the babies are twins,” she said. “What if one of us did have twins? There are twins in the family. Twins for you and twins for me. Four of them, Claudine. Just think of that.”

I could laugh with her.

During that month Sabrina caught a cold which persisted. She lay in bed looking very small and wan.

Dickon spent a great deal of time with her, and that gave her immense pleasure.

We were all aware that she was dying and for several years we had watched her carefully through the winters. She liked to have my mother or me with her when Dickon could not be there. She would hold my hand and talk to me of the past, and again and again she stressed the great joy which had been hers when Dickon came home with my mother.

“He loved her as a child,” she said. “But your grandmother did not want the marriage. Oh, she did what she thought was right, and the result was that your mother—dear Lottie—was taken away from us. Dickon married and so did she, but now it is as it should be and they are together. It is wonderful that their marriage is to be fruitful. If I could have one wish it would be to see their child. But, my dear Claudine, I do not think I shall manage that.”

“You will,” I said. “Dickon says you must, and you know you always have pleased him.”

“He has brought the greatest joy into my life. When his father was killed in that dreadful battle at Culloden, I thought it was the end of everything for me, and then Dickon came and I started to live again.”

“I know,” I said. “And Dickon has made you happy.”

“He is the most wonderful of men, Claudine. And so are his boys. And now he is to have another child… and so are you. The family goes on. That is the important thing, Claudine. We come and we go; we live our lives; we make our marks. And I suppose every one of us has a part to play. Then we pass on. But the family remains. It will go on through the generations.”

I said she must not tire herself with too much talking; but she replied that it did her good to talk.

“Be happy, Claudine,” she said. “There is too much unhappiness in the world. I remember the guilt I felt as a child. It should never have been. It was only when I married Dickon’s father that I started to live. Then I lost him and would have mourned him all my life, but Dickon was born and then I was happy.”

I sat listening to her; and I saw clearly what I must do. Not only for my sake but for that of everyone else. There was no way of telling whether David or Jonathan was the father of my child, but I was going to believe that David was. I was going to try to put the past behind me and be happy.

March was gone and April had come in milder and with a touch of spring in the air.

It seemed that Sabrina had lived through another winter after all. But that was not to be. One morning in early April, her maid went into her bedroom as usual to take in her morning hot chocolate and could not wake her. Sabrina lay quietly, serenely, at peace.

Death in the house. It had come quietly and was not unexpected, but that did not make it any easier to bear. Sabrina had lived quietly, in the background; there had been days when we had not seen her; but she was part of the household and now she was gone.

Dickon was very distressed. She had adored him so unreservedly, and all his life she had been there to applaud his virtues and excuse his faults, and to assure him that he was the perfect man. My mother comforted him, but she, too, missed Sabrina.

Jonathan was away at the time and Dickon said that they must send for him to come home for the burial. I had thought that he was in London, but the messenger was sent to the Pettigrews’, and Jonathan came, accompanied by Lord and Lady Pettigrew and Millicent.

Sabrina was to be buried in the family mausoleum and there was to be a service for her in our own chapel. The priest who had married David and me read the service and we all followed the solemn procession to the mausoleum.

I was surprised to see that Harry Farringdon had arrived with several of those people who lived near enough to join the company.

Evalina Trent was there with her two grand-daughters. Afterwards they all returned to the house, where wine and food were served.

Everyone was talking about Sabrina, stressing her many virtues as people do at funerals, and we were all saying how much she would be missed.

“At least she died easily and happily,” was the verdict. “She was so delighted at the prospect of the new babies.”

I saw that Harry Farringdon was talking to Evie and that there was a slight flush in her cheeks. I thought: I hope something comes of that. It would be such a good match for Evie, and she is a nice girl, different from that dreadful grandmother of hers. Poor girl, she could not help her relations.

I sat down because I was beginning to feel tired, and in view of my condition I felt everyone would understand.

I was not long alone. To my dismay it was Evalina Trent who came and sat down beside me.

“Nice to get your feet off the ground,” she said cosily. “I expect you’re beginning to feel the weight. What’ll it be now, four months eh?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Then there’ll be rejoicing up at Eversleigh… and your mother too! That’s really a bit of fun, don’t you think?”

“It is very agreeable for us both.”

She looked at me slyly.

“Oh, you’re a lucky young lady. Such a good husband—and a little one on the way so soon! You’re one of the favoured of the gods, as they say.”

“Thank you.”

“I wish I could do more for my girls. I worry a lot, Mrs. Frenshaw.”

“Do you?”

“Well, look at my Evie now. Pretty as a picture. She’s old enough now to be out and about in society. And what can I do for her?”

“She seems very happy.”

“She’s a good girl. But I’d like her to have her chance.”

“In what way?”

“In the only way! I’d like to see her make a good marriage, be settled like.”

“I daresay she will marry.”

“Yes… but what sort of marriage, eh? I’d like someone of some position.” She was watching Harry Farringdon intently. “Such a pleasant young man. He’s very rich, I believe.”

“You mean Harry Farringdon? Well, I don’t exactly know the state of his family’s fortune.”

“Ha! You think I’m speaking above myself, don’t you? Perhaps I am. It’s Evie that bothers me. I’ve brought her up as a lady. The best of education… It’s not been easy. Grasslands is not Eversleigh, you know. My Richard… he’s gone now, God rest his soul… but he was a bit of a gambler. He lost a lot of what my first husband Andrew left to me. Not that it was anything like Eversleigh even then. But I’ve had a struggle to make ends meet, you know, and I was determined to give Evie the best.”

“I think you did very well.”

“She should be gracing some rich man’s table.”

“Is that what she thinks?”

“Her? She’s romantic. Young girls dream about love, not security. Mrs. Frenshaw, that Mr. Farringdon is taken with her, wouldn’t you say?”

“Yes, Mrs. Trent, I suppose I would.”

“You see I can’t give balls and banquets at Grasslands. Not the sort they’d expect. But I’d like her to have her chance.”

“I understand,” I said.

She put out a hand and took mine; hers was cold and bony; for some reason it made me shiver.

“Would you help me, Mrs. Frenshaw?”

“Help you?”

“With Evie.”

“I certainly would if I could, but I don’t see how…”

“Well, there are ways. You could—er—bring them together. You know what I mean. Pair them off and all that. You get my meaning?”

“But…”

She gave me a little nudge. “You will if you can, I know. Oh, there’s ways. You could invite him… and then have my Evie there. You know what I mean.”

“Well, we shan’t be entertaining for a while at such a time.”

“Oh, it needn’t be a grand entertainment. He just comes… and my Evie’s there. You could find a way… if you would.”

“I don’t think they’ll need my matchmaking.”

“A little helping along never did any harm.” She was looking at me steadily. “There’s reasons why you should help me, Mrs. Frenshaw.”

“Reasons?”

She nodded, smiling slyly, and my heart started to beat uneasily. What was she hinting?

“Oh,” she went on, “there’s a lot of secrets in life. Things happen… and you wouldn’t believe it unless you knew they were true.”

“What things?” I said sharply.

She leaned towards me. “One of these days I’ll explain. Then I think you would want to do all you could for my Evie.”

My mother was calling me and I said: “You’ll have to excuse me, Mrs. Trent.”

“Of course I will. Don’t forget what I said though, will you? Do all you can for my Evie. I think you’ll be rather glad that you did.”

I escaped.

“I could see that awful woman was bothering you,” said my mother. “I thought I’d rescue you.”

“Thanks,” I said. “I’m glad you did.”

I could not get her out of my mind; and that night she seemed to haunt my dreams.

The Farringdons left on the day of the funeral, but the Pettigrews stayed with us for a few days.

It could only have been two days after we had buried Sabrina that the news broke about the execution of Georges Jacques Danton, one of the prime movers in the revolution.

Dickon was grimly amused. “Ironical,” he said, “that the very Revolutionary Tribunal which he set up should be the one to condemn him.”

“It is clear,” commented Lord Pettigrew, “that the revolution is coming to an end.”

“There is still Robespierre.”

“Wouldn’t you say his days are numbered?”

“It would be wonderful,” said my mother sadly, “if they all stopped making this trouble and life returned to normal in France.”

“Life in France will never again be what it was,” said Jonathan.

Everyone agreed with that.

“Heads are falling fast,” was David’s comment. “Just imagine Danton’s living only six months after the execution of the Queen. It shows that this is a struggle for power. I daresay some of them started out with ideals. Perhaps they did want to fight for the rights of the people. Then they grasped power… and they struggled for more and when they had destroyed those they thought of as the enemy, they began to fight among themselves. This is the struggle of the giants. Danton could not have believed it possible that this could happen to him.”

“Robespierre has rid himself of Danton, but his turn will come,” prophesied Dickon. “And when that happens the revolution will be at an end.”

“Their successes with the army are just amazing,” said Lord Pettigrew. “There is talk of a young soldier… Napoleon Bonaparte, I think he is called… He seems to be making a name for himself in the army.”

“I’ve heard of him,” said Dickon. “He’s hand in glove with Robespierre. If Robespierre falls, that could be the end of this enterprising young soldier.”

“Events are moving fast,” put in Lord Pettigrew. “I think we are going to see changes.”

“Which will be very pleasant for us all,” said my mother. “The talk at this table is of nothing else but the French revolution.”

“I thought it was apt to centre on these blessed infants who are shortly to join the family circle,” said Jonathan.

“A much happier subject,” admitted Dickon.

“I think it is perfectly wonderful,” added Lady Pettigrew.

My mother and I used to rest immediately after the midday meal for an hour or so and then we would feel refreshed until the evening. We often spent the time together. We would lie on the big bed chatting, and we both looked forward to those sessions. Sometimes one of us dozed and the other would lie quietly. Even though we did not always talk we liked to be together.

On this afternoon, she said to me: “So it has come at last. They were going to announce it, but it did not seem an appropriate time because of the funeral.”

“Who and what?” I asked.

She laughed. “Oh… Jonathan and Millicent.”

“Yes?”

“Well, we always knew it would happen. I am so glad. It will take Dickon’s mind off his mother’s death. He feels that so deeply, far more so than you’d think. He always wanted a link with the Pettigrews.”

I said faintly: “Banking interests?”

“They were in a sense rivals. Together they’ll be supreme, the most influential in the country, I imagine. It is what they both want, the Pettigrews as much as Dickon.”

“I see.”

“You took David… and that left Jonathan.”

“Dear Maman,” I said, “how worldly you have become! You talk as though marriage were just shifting counters on a board. This one is taken so the other will bring in the banking interest.”

“It’s not like that at all. You can see Jonathan and Millicent like each other. I assure you neither of them had to be persuaded.”

“I suppose Jonathan would always be aware of the advantages. Millicent too. They seem to be ideally matched.”

She laughed. “You and David were so much in love and I’m glad of it. That can’t happen so idyllically to everyone. But that doesn’t mean that things can’t be worked out very satisfactorily.”

“Will they live here when they are married?”

“I suppose so. It’s the ancestral home, after all. It’s usual for sons to bring their wives to the house which will one day be theirs. I see what you are thinking. In a way there’ll be three mistresses of the house. Two have worked out very satisfactorily, haven’t they?”

“You are my mother. That’s different.”

She was thoughtful. “Millicent is rather a forceful young lady,” she mused. “It’s a strange situation. Twin brothers… and Eversleigh belongs to them both. There isn’t an elder son really, though Jonathan was born a little while before David. Dickon doesn’t say much about it. I believe he thinks there will be plenty for both of them when the time comes, which pray God will not be for a very long time. And Eversleigh will always be the family home. Claudine, don’t worry about this marriage. It’ll be all right. I shall be here. And I think they will spend a great deal of time at the London house. That’s where Jonathan’s interest lies. He is rarely here for very long stretches at a time. He was… just before Christmas. I have never known him to stay so long before.”

My heart was beating uncertainly, and again I had one of those impulses to confess all to her.

Fortunately it passed.

“They’ll be announcing their engagement soon,” went on my mother. “They will have to put off the wedding for a while, however, because of Sabrina’s death. But there could be a quiet wedding at Pettigrew’s place, of course.”

I closed my eyes.

“You’re tired, aren’t you? It was rather a strenuous morning. And all that Danton talk at the table! I’m so tired of it… and it always upsets me. It brings back memories.”

“Dear Maman, don’t think of it now.” I smiled at her wryly and said as she so often said to me: “It’s bad for the child.”

I saw the smile on her lovely face. She pressed my hand and we both closed our eyes. I guessed that in spite of everything, she was thinking of that terrible time when she was in the hands of the mob and Dickon had come, like a shining knight, to rescue her. My thoughts were of Jonathan married to Millicent, living here in Eversleigh; and at the back of my mind loomed up the sly eyes of Mrs. Trent, telling me that she was sure I should want to do all I could for Evie if she explained… What had she meant?

The oppressive weight of my guilt had descended on me once more.

The afternoon was warm. I had walked across the lawn and sat down on the seat near the pond about which the yellow daffodils were waving in the slight breeze.

I looked at the beautiful flowers, and I thought then, as I had a thousand times before, how happy I could have been if I had been a faithful and virtuous wife to David.

Jonathan came quietly across the grass and stood behind me. As he laid a hand on my shoulder I turned and got to my feet.

“No,” he said. “Sit down. I have to talk to you.”

He drew me down and sat beside me.

“Don’t be so agitated,” he said. “What is wrong with this? Brother and sister-in-law sitting side by side on a seat in the garden exchanging pleasantries. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

“I was going in,” I said.

“And now you will stay and chat for a while. I want to tell you something.”

“I know. You are engaged to Millicent Pettigrew.”

“So you knew.”

“My mother told me. There would have been an announcement but because of the funeral it has been held back.”

“You mustn’t think this makes any difference.”

“What do you mean? I should have thought there would have been a great difference between being married and unmarried.”

“I meant to us, of course. I’m still in love with you.”

“Jonathan,” I said, “I don’t think you have ever been in love with anyone except yourself.”

“I think that most of us, if we’re honest, have to admit to a lifelong passion for ourselves.”

“Some people care for others too.”

“That’s what I’m telling you. I have always loved you. I always shall and nothing is going to make any difference.”

“Haven’t you understood that all that is over? I thought I had made it rather clear.”

“You’ve been different, of course, aloof. But that is natural. It’s all this baby business.”

“You haven’t understood at all. I deeply regret what happened. I have been weak and foolish and everything that is despicable.”

“You were adorable. You are a passionate woman, Claudine. You have desires like the rest of us and it is only natural that you should gratify them.”

“I am very satisfied with what I have. I wish to God I had never done what I did.”

“You have forgotten that joy we had together.”

“It meant little.”

“Oh come now, Claudine. You have the maternal spirit with you now. It will be different when the child is born. You’ll come back to me then.”

“I wonder what Millicent would say if she could hear her prospective bridegroom trying to make assignations with someone else’s wife even before the engagement to her is officially announced.”

“You don’t propose to tell her.”

“No, I don’t. And I don’t propose to see you alone again ever.”

“You are most dramatic. That’s the French blood. You’ll feel differently later on.”

“You are quite—cynical.”

“I’m realistic.”

“If this blatant conduct is realism…”

“I know you prefer to live in your fantasy world. You are a strange girl, Claudine. Perhaps that is why I love you. You can be practical and yet so fanciful. Remember the voices you heard.”

“I often remember them.”

“That was when the trouble started. You got an attack of conscience.”

“A disease from which you are never likely to suffer.”

“It’s strange,” he said. “Our relationship has always been like this… sparring. Until those moments at Enderby in that room when you stopped pretending and admitted the truth. Remember?”

“I’m doing my best to forget, Jonathan. There is one thing I ask of you. Please, let me forget.”

He looked at me intently. I saw the light in his eyes; it was not that intense blue which I likened to flames. It was calculating, speculating. I saw that he did not desire me sufficiently now with my bulky body and what he called my maternal spirit; but he was thinking of the past and I guessed that with his natural arrogance he believed he could rekindle those fires in me which had been temporarily dampened down by my condition.

He said: “You are young in the ways of the world.”

“If you are an example of an adult, I never want to grow up.”

“You’re broody, maternal. I wouldn’t recognize you as that eager young girl.”

“You will never see her again.”

“I will find her. Rest assured of that.”

“There is one thing I rest assured of, and that is that you never will, for she has gone forever.”

“That would be a calamity too great to be endured. Trust me. I will find her. I will bring her out of her hiding place.”

“I wonder what your future wife would think,” I said. “Oh look. Here she comes. Shall we discuss it with her?”

It was true. Millicent was coming across the grass towards us.

“Oh there you are,” she said. “I’ve been looking for you. What a pleasant afternoon!”

She sat down on the other side of Jonathan and put a proprietorial arm through his.

Sophie had settled into Enderby. The house suited her sombre mood. She did not seem to notice its ghostly ambiance and if she did it did not disturb her.

Alberic Claremont had proved a great asset and she was clearly delighted with him. He was of a very merry nature with a gift for making friends—quite different from Sophie herself—and it surprised us all that she was so pleased with him. He had quickly taken the role of major domo, working in conjunction with Jeanne who, fortunately, did not resent this, but encouraged it. Jeanne would do anything to make Sophie’s life happier and she must have realized that her interest in this young man helped her to forget her own troubles.

There was another frequent visitor to the house. This was Dolly Mather. I could understand that well. Dolly was disfigured, as Sophie herself was, and lame ducks were special protégés of Sophie. It was natural, for they helped her to minimize her own misfortunes, whereas someone like my mother—beautiful and beloved, the mother of children—brought home most forcibly to Sophie that life had treated her unkindly.

She had a certain feeling for me and she was interested in the coming baby. I was made more welcome than most, and once, in a very unusual communicative mood, she told me that she often thought of me as her daughter. “If,” she said, “that tragic firework disaster had never taken place in the square that night, I should not have been like this. My marriage would have gone ahead. I should have been your father’s wife and you and Charlot would have been my children.”

I did not point out that my mother had also had a share in making me, and I believed I should have been a very different person if I had been Sophie’s daughter.

She talked of Leon Blanchard, whom she had loved much later. I remembered him. He had come to the château to be tutor to Charlot and Louis Charles and we had all liked him very much. Then he had left. I remembered that he and Sophie had had some romantic attachment. He had turned out to be no real tutor but an agitator who had wormed his way into the château to spy and he was urging the people to revolt.

Poor Sophie. Life had been cruel to her.

And now here she was with her own household in Enderby, making a life for herself with her lame ducks; poor Alberic, who had escaped from France, and Dolly, who was a sad little creature.

It was July. I was getting very heavy now, but I still liked to walk when I could, and the distance to Enderby was just about as much as I wanted, particularly as I could rest there before making my way back.

As I arrived I saw Evie and Dolly at the entrance to the house. I immediately thought of Mrs. Trent’s words at the funeral, and wondered whether Evie had had any communications with Harry Farringdon. It must be rather unsatisfactory to be living so far away and the Trents and Farringdons not being the kind of families who would be on visiting terms. It seemed to be a somewhat slight romance. No wonder Mrs. Trent wanted to speed it up.

Evie said: “Oh, hello, Mrs. Frenshaw. Dolly’s going to see Mademoiselle d’Aubigné. She’s invited.”

“And you?” I asked.

“No… not me. Only Dolly.”

I supposed that a lovely girl like Evie would remind Sophie of her affliction. How sad that life had to be seen that way by some! Poor Sophie! But who was I to criticize her for human failings?

“I am calling on her, too,” I said.

Alberic came out of the house then. He bowed to us. His eyes went to Dolly.

“Mademoiselle d’Aubigné will be delighted to see Madame Frenshaw and you, Mademoiselle.”

“I hope so,” I said.

“She awaits you,” he told Dolly.

Dolly took her horse to the stable and I went into the house, after Evie had said goodbye and ridden off.

Sophie was seated in a small room which led from the hall and where she received her visitors. She was dressed in that pale mauve which suited her dark colouring and her hood matched her dress.

She said: “It’s good of you to come, Claudine.”

“I wanted to know how you are. I shan’t be able to come much longer—until after the baby is born.”

“Sit down at once, dear child. You must be tired.”

I said that the little journey was just about as much as I could manage.

Jeanne came in and greeted me.

I said: “What wonders you have worked on the house, Jeanne!”

“It has been such a pleasure.”

“It must be nearly finished now.”

“We are always discovering new things.”

Dolly came in then, rather shyly, and Sophie held out a hand to her.

“Come and sit down, Dolly. We’ll have some lemonade. Alberic, will you bring it?”

“Lemonade!” I cried. “I should love some. I know French people love it. I remember how people used to sell it in the streets of Paris before…”

“Before everything went wrong.”

Jeanne said: “I have some little cakes. English cakes to go with the French lemonade.”

She left us then and I said: “Well, Aunt Sophie, you’ve worked a miracle with this house.”

“I am so glad I found it. It has made such a difference. I have my independence now. Jeanne and I appreciate that.”

“I understand.”

“And I have my friends.” She touched Dolly’s arm and the girl smiled shyly. “We are teaching Dolly French and Alberic English. It is amusing.”

That Aunt Sophie should find anything amusing was in itself miraculous, and I had a notion that Dolly and Alberic were doing as much good for her as she was for them.

Alberic came in with the lemonade.

“As we have a visitor today,” said Sophie, “there will be no lesson.”

“It is very pleasant for Mademoiselle to have a visitor,” said Alberic in halting English.

“Very good,” said Aunt Sophie. She spoke in French telling him to pour out the lemonade. “Dolly, hand round the cakes.”

Dolly rose with alacrity, a smile of pleasure on her face.

“They are very good today,” said Sophie as she bit into one of them. “They must have known we were going to have the honour of a visit from Eversleigh.”

I told her that I should be delighted to come whenever she asked me.

She nodded and enquired after my mother’s health.

“She is very well, thanks, and getting very near her time.”

“August, is it? Poor Lottie, she is a little old.”

“She doesn’t consider herself ‘poor,’” I said quickly.

“No, of course not. She always had… everything. I suppose there is a great fuss going on.”

“About the baby, you mean. The midwife is already there. It’s a little soon, but Dickon insisted. He is really quite nervous. I have never seen him like that before.”

Perhaps I should not have stressed his devotion to my mother; it was one of those aspects which Sophie found it hard to accept. I sometimes believed that she would like some misfortune to come to my mother. The thought so horrified me that I disliked Aunt Sophie in that moment. Why could she not accept her misfortune? Why did she allow her resentment to make her so bitter?

But who was I to criticize others? I was sure I was going through my life with the knowledge that my own sin was far greater than those I was condemning in others.

“An August baby,” said Aunt Sophie. “And yours is to be September. Imagine two babies in a nursery which must have been empty for so long.”

“That is how it is with nurseries,” I said.

“It makes it easier to have the two so close together,” remarked Jeanne practically. “They will be companions for each other.”

“That’s what I think,” I said, smiling at Jeanne.

Alberic came over to bring me more lemonade, which was cool and delicious, and after a little while I said I would be leaving as I seemed to want a great deal of rest nowadays.

“It’s wise to do as your body bids you,” commented Jeanne. “If you feel tired, that means you need rest.”

I smiled appreciatively at Jeanne. She was so reasonable and seemed to bring a breath of sanity into any situation.

“Before you go, would you like to look round the house?” she asked. “We have made alterations. Or do you feel too tired?”

“I’d like to see them. I’ve always been fascinated by this house.”

“I will show Madame Frenshaw round,” said Jeanne; and I kissed Aunt Sophie and said goodbye to her, Dolly and Alberic.

As we went out I heard Aunt Sophie say: “Now, my dears, we can proceed with our lesson. You begin, Dolly. You must talk more in company. There’s no need to be shy, you know.”

Jeanne smiled at me as she shut the door.

“It gives her great pleasure,” she said. “They are a pleasant pair. Little Dolly is a mouse. Alberic, he can roar like a lion. They amuse her, and they are coming along with their talking. Dolly is quite good but there is a shyness she must overcome. Alberic… he is not so afflicted.”

“It’s wonderful that she has found this interest.”

“That and the house. She needs to be interested. It is what I have always wanted for her.”

“You have been wonderful, Jeanne. You know how we appreciate you.”

“We owe so much to Monsieur Jonathan. He brought us out of France. We could not have long survived. We shall never forget.”

“It is the sort of adventure which he does very well,” I said shortly.

“He is like his father, who has been the good husband to Madame Lottie.”

“Yes,” I said. “Oh, I see you have the curtains up in the gallery.”

“It was so bare without them. They were such good curtains. Mademoiselle d’Aubigné would have had new ones but I saw that a good cleaning and a little stitch here and there, and they would be as good as new.”

“Always practical,” I said. “And they certainly look magnificent. They’ve restored that look to the gallery. That mystery. To think that it all comes from curtains!”

“Shall we start at the top and work down?”

“Excellent,” I replied.

We climbed the stairs.

“You do not find them too much?” she asked.

“Not if I pause here and there. I’m really very well… just weighty.”

“I understand. And what joy for you when this little one comes.”

“Oh yes, I long for it.”

We were passing the room. The door was shut. I would steel myself to look at it later.

We went up the stairs to the next floor.

“You will see that we have done much,” said Jeanne. “But there is still much to do.”

“It is miraculous.”

“I do not wish to finish too soon.”

“You like to keep the interest going for Mademoiselle d’Aubigné.”

Jeanne nodded. “There are many discussions and we discover what can be done about this and that. It adds a great excitement.”

“Of course.”

“You see we have new curtains in some places… but in many we have used those which were already here. And much of the furniture too. We have done rather well—with what your mother has given us from Eversleigh.”

“Indeed you have.”

We were down to the first floor. She showed me the big bedroom with the four-poster bed in it, which Sophie had taken for hers when they had first come to the house.

“She no longer sleeps in this room. She has moved and I have the room next to her. If she wants me in the night she has only to knock on the wall. I have given her a brass poker. It rests by her bed.”

“Does she need you in the night? She’s not ill, is she?”

“Oh no, no. It is just in case. She is nervous since the trouble started. While we were in France we never knew from one night to the next whether someone would be coming for us. I always had my bed in her room then, so I was within call. She is nervous if I am not at hand, so I thought of the poker.”

“Dear Jeanne, you think of everything. She has taken one of the other rooms then.”

“I will show you. Come.”

She led me along the corridor. I felt a little faint, for she had opened the door to that room which was so well known to me. I saw the bed with the blue velvet curtains—now cleaned and seeming a brighter shade of blue. I looked at the court cupboard, now polished and shining.

“So,” I said faintly, “this is now her bedroom.”

Jeanne nodded. “And mine is next to it. We made a discovery here… such an interesting one.”

“Oh?”

“Come. Look here… by the door. It is very cleverly done. You can hardly see it.”

“What is it?”

“A hole in the floor… right against the wall. Do you see it?”

“Oh… yes.”

“It’s the end of a tube. A kind of speaking tube.”

My heart began to beat wildly.

“Are you all right, Madame?” asked Jeanne.

I put my hand to my stomach. “It was—just a flutter.”

“Sit down on the bed. You are overtired, I think. You must go back in the carriage.”

“Oh, no. I’m perfectly all right. Tell me about this speaking tube.”

“It is cleverly constructed. When I first noticed it I had a vague notion that I had seen something like it before. I put my hand to the hole and shouted down it. I could not hear my voice, but I knew that it was coming out in another part of the house. We were immediately over the kitchens, so it seemed likely that the other end of the tube was in the kitchens. Someone must have had it put in when the house was built… perhaps someone who wanted to send messages from the bedroom down to the kitchens.”

“It’s ingenious,” I stammered.

“Are you sure you feel all right?”

“Quite sure. Do go on about the tube.”

“Dolly was here at the time. I made her shout through the tube and I went down to the kitchens. I heard her voice and discovered exactly where it was coming from. I was soon about to find what I sought. A cupboard has been built round it. But there it was. What an amazing discovery! When I told Mademoiselle about it she wanted to move into this room. She said that if I was in the kitchens she could talk to me from the bedroom. I can see you think I have exaggerated, Madame. Allow me to go to the kitchens. I will speak to you through the tube.”

I sat there on the bed and in due course the voice came up to me.

“Mrs. Frenshaw. You can hear me, I believe.”

It was all coming back: the memory of my abandonment on this very bed, the voice through the tube. It did not sound like Jeanne’s voice exactly; it was muted, hollow, in the way that other voice had been.

I stared at the door.

There had been someone in the house then… someone in the kitchens, someone who knew that I had been here with Jonathan.

That other voice echoed in my mind. “Mrs. Frenshaw, remember the seventh commandment.”

Jeanne came back triumphant.

“You heard?”

I nodded.

“You could have answered me through the tube. What a discovery! This house is full of surprises. I am so glad we came here.”

I walked home slowly across the fields. Jeanne wanted to accompany me but I wouldn’t hear of it.

There was one thought which whirled round and round in my mind. Someone was there. Someone saw us go into the house. Someone knew.

All through the sultry days of July we awaited the birth of my mother’s child. We were all a little anxious… except her. She had no qualms. I had never before seen Dickon in such a state of nerves. He had always been so calmly sure of himself and his ability to get what he wanted; now he was in a state bordering on terror.

Even the news of Robespierre’s execution did not arouse great interest in him, although he had been predicting it during the previous months and was sure that his removal would mean the end of the revolution.

He had no thought for anything but my mother.

On the fourth of August my little half sister was born and the moment she put in an appearance our anxiety evaporated. It was a quick birth; my mother came through with rare ease; and the child was perfect. We were all sitting tense, waiting; and I shall never forget the sound of that baby’s crying.

I ran to Dickon and embraced him, and as he looked at me I was sure there were tears in his eyes. But his first thought was, of course, for my mother, and later when I went in to see the child, he was there, holding her hand, sitting by her bed; and I was overcome with emotion just looking at them.

They were delighted with a baby—quite sure, both of them, that there had never been such a perfect child. They marvelled over her possession of ten toes and the requisite number of thumbs and fingers—all fitted with nails. They gazed at her red wrinkled face as though it were the very pinnacle of beauty; she was everything they wanted to complete their happiness.

There was a great deal of discussion about a name; and finally my mother said she was to be Jessica. She did not know why, but the name seemed just right.

So Jessica she became.

I had another month to wait and the days passed quickly.

I was not going out now, apart from an amble round the garden. My mother had quickly recovered and liked to have me with her. We talked about babies mostly, and that meant for my mother the perfections of Jessica.

The midwife stayed on to be ready for me, and my mother had engaged a nurse—Grace Soper—who would look after the two babies when mine arrived.

Everything was in readiness, waiting.

Often enough during those last weeks I had forgotten my fears. I lived in a world of serenity. I had recovered from the shock of discovering that it had been no ghostly voice that I had heard, and that a living person had actually been in the house while I had been there with Jonathan; and that person shared our secret.

It had been a devastating discovery and one which filled me with dread, yet I could forget it. I could think of nothing but the coming of my child.

At last the day arrived.

My delivery was not as swift and easy as my mother’s. I suffered long and intensely and now and then the thought would come into my mind that I was being punished for my sins.

But at last it was over and my child was born. There came that moment of sheer bliss when I heard my baby’s voice for the first time.

“Another little girl!” That was the midwife.

A little girl! I was exultant. In that moment I did not care what had brought her to me. All that mattered was that she had come.

They put her in my arms. She seemed prettier than Jessica. But perhaps that was just a mother’s prejudice. She had fine fair hair whereas Jessica’s hair was dark brown. Her face was smoother. I thought her beautiful. She reminded me of a lily.

They were at my bed—David and my mother. David was marvelling at the child which he believed to be his. My mother’s eyes were on me, proud, full of tenderness.

She is David’s child, I thought. She is. She must be. But how could I be sure?

My mother said we had the two most beautiful babies in the world. And what was I going to call mine?

The name came suddenly into my head and after that it seemed the only one possible. Rather fanciful, yet fitting her perfectly: Amaryllis.

During the next few weeks nothing was of any importance to me but my child. I thought of her every moment of the day. David shared in my enthusiasm—and I was happy.

My mother arranged that the two babies should be christened at the same time, and she thought we might choose a day at the end of October.

I agreed that was an excellent idea, and she went ahead making plans.

“We don’t want a grand affair,” she said. “We couldn’t, since Sabrina has been so recently dead. So I decided just the family and a few special friends. What do you think?”

I said that would be ideal.

“Well, we’ll fix the date.”

So we did.

The Pettigrews were invited and we could scarcely not include the Farringdons. But my mother thought they should be the only ones outside the family. “Of course,” she added, “the Pettigrews are family or soon will be, but I could not leave out the Farringdons. It will be very quiet. I expect the Pettigrews had better stay. And shall we ask the Farringdons to stay for a night, too? The nights will be drawing in and it is rather a long ride.”

The babies flourished and there was some question as to which of them should wear the family christening robes.

I said that Jessica should, as she was the elder.

“Are you sure you don’t mind?” said my mother.

“Not in the least. I don’t think it’s important.”

“I’ll call in Molly Blackett. She shall make the most beautiful robes for Amaryllis.”

So it was arranged.

It was about two weeks before the christening when I went over to Enderby to call on Sophie. She told me that Alberic had gone to London for a few days. Jeanne had wanted some special material and had sent him up to get it. “He has been up on several occasions and has done well. It is something of an upheaval for us to go, and he is there and back so quickly.”

I sat talking to her for some little time, telling her about the christening; and as I was on my way back, quite near Grasslands, I met Mrs. Trent.

Her face lit up when she saw me.

“Well, if it isn’t Mrs. Frenshaw. How are you? You look well, my dear. Having babies suits you.”

“Thank you,” I said.

“And how is the little angel?”

“Very well, thank you.”

I was about to pass on when she laid a hand on my arm.

“Why don’t you pop in for a little chat and a glass of something.”

“Not now, thank you. I have been visiting Enderby and should go back.”

“Just a little refreshment,” she said. “I did want to have a talk with you.”

My heart missed a beat and I began to form excuses.

“Come on,” she said. “It is rather important. I am sure you will think so when I have told you.”

My legs were trembling and I felt a flush rising to my cheeks.

“Haven’t been overdoing it, have you? Have to take care, you know. Having a baby’s no picnic, I can tell you.”

“I’m perfectly all right, thank you. Only just now—”

“Come along in. I must talk to you. I’m sure when you’ve heard what I have to tell you…”

She was leering almost. I thought: She knows. What now?

I had to discover the worst. If I did not find out what she was hinting at I could imagine something perhaps even worse… disastrous.

I allowed myself to be led towards Grasslands.

“Come on in. We’ll be nice and cosy. My girls have just gone out. I reckon they’ve gone up to Enderby. Mademoiselle Sophie has been so kind to my Dolly. She seems to have a feeling for her. Dolly’s very fond of her.”

“Yes… I have seen her there.”

“Nice for her and nice for Mademoiselle. You can’t have too many friends in this world, I always say. What will you have to drink?”

“Nothing, thank you. I did have something with Mademoiselle d’Aubigné.”

“All right then.” She had taken me into a small parlour near the hall. She shut the door and when I was seated, she looked at me steadily and said: “It’s about my Evie.”

“Yes?”

“I’m worried about her. She’s such a lovely girl. You see, that Mr. Farringdon was quite fond of her. But nothing comes of it, and for why? Because he never sees her, that’s why. I reckon that there could be a match there before long. He’s a nice sort of young man. Perhaps a bit slow, but sometimes they’re the best sort. But he needs a bit of a push. Will he be coming to this christening party?”

“Oh, it’s not a party, Mrs. Trent. The babies will be christened and then it’s just the family.”

“I reckon those Pettigrews will be there… seeing as Mr. Jonathan’s engaged to the young lady.”

I thought: She knows everything about us!

“In a way they are family,” I said.

“And the Farringdons?”

“They are rather special friends of Mr. Frenshaw Senior, and perhaps they will look in.”

“They’ll come for sure… and their son with them. I wish he could see more of my Evie. I reckon if he did he’d ask her to marry him.”

“I really don’t know about that, Mrs. Trent.”

“I do. If ever I saw a young man ready to fall in love, that man is Harry Farringdon. But what happens? He sees her for an hour or two and then he is whisked away. He’s fond of her all right. She’s such a lovely girl. I reckon if she was only in the right society… You get what I mean?”

“I do, of course, and I really will have to be going if… er…”

“Mrs. Frenshaw, ask my Evie to the christening party. Let that nice young man see her again. Oh, I worry about those girls, Mrs. Frenshaw. You’ve no idea. I have done everything I could to bring them up well—and you must admit I’ve made a good job with Evie. You see, I’m not well off… not like your family. It’s all very different for me. I’ve had to skimp and scrape. It was my son, Richard, you see. He was rather a wild one. Goes off and gets married. Then she dies when Dolly was born. And he’s left with two girls and he brings them to me. And then before Evie’s ten years old he’s gone. And Evie’s a girl to be proud of. I want to see her do well. I want to see her settled.”

“I do understand.”

“Then ask her to this christening party and whenever that young man is coming to you, make sure she’s there too. That’s all I want.”

I said: “My mother arranges that sort of thing.”

“She would listen to you.”

“I would see that Evie was asked if it were a more formal occasion. This is really just for the family and a few—”

“You mean the Farringdons, and if they are in it, why shouldn’t my Evie be? I know you’ll do this for me. You will when I tell you something, something you ought to know.”

I felt sick and faint. Now it was coming. This was blackmail. She knew. She was the one who had been in the house and spoken through the tube. She was going to say: If you don’t do what I want, I shall tell.

I heard myself say in a voice which sounded a long way away: “What is it… that you want to tell me?”

“Oh, well, we all have our secrets, don’t we? And human nature being what it is, there’s things we don’t always bring into the light of day, nor should they be. But if a wrong’s been done… right-minded people… well, they want to be able to right it, don’t they?”

I heard myself give a false laugh. “I don’t really understand you, Mrs. Trent.”

“Well, you’ve got to make excuses for people when they’re young. The blood runs hot then. They do things they’re sorry for after, but it’s too late then. We should think of these things… things like consequences… when we indulge in our little bits of wickedness.”

“Please, Mrs. Trent…”

“All right, my dear, I’m coming to it. What I am saying is that my Evie has as much right to a good life as anyone. If she had had her due she’d be up there at all those dances and parties. She’d have a real launching into society, which would help her find someone who’d give her a good home and look after her in the future.”

She seemed to have strayed from the point and I wondered when she would return to it, threatening me to do as she wanted as the price of her silence.

“I’m telling you this, Mrs. Frenshaw, because I know you’re a sensible young woman. You’ve got kindness in you, too. You wouldn’t judge anyone too harshly, would you? I’ve got a feeling you’ll understand.”

“Do tell me what it is I have to understand.”

“It goes back a long way.”

“Please tell me, Mrs. Trent.”

“It was before you were thought of, Mrs. Frenshaw. It was when your grandmother was here at Eversleigh.”

I began to breathe a little more freely. It did not seem to be what I had feared, unless of course she was coming to that later.

“I was here with my mother, the housekeeper at Eversleigh, looking after the old gentleman. Your grandmother came and stirred things up. Then he came down… that Mr. Frenshaw… Dickon, the master of Eversleigh. Oh, he wasn’t that then. He had some place miles away… not much consequence but he got Eversleigh and a wife to bring him a great fortune. He became a very important gentleman… but I knew him when he was nothing much more than a boy. I was only a bit of a girl myself. We had been up to games… if you know what I mean… that was before I married my Andrew. Then I came to Grasslands and Andrew got fond of me. I was fond of him too… and he married me. You can imagine what they all had to say in the neighbourhood about that.”

“Yes, Mrs. Trent,” I said. I felt that I was coming alive again. This could not possibly be anything to do with me.

“People are not always kind, are they? They never forget, and in places like this it is passed down through the family. I know my mother left Eversleigh under a cloud. They said she was lucky to get away. But it all came back to me, didn’t it? I was still here. My Andrew was marvellous. He was a good man; and when Richard was on the way he couldn’t have been prouder. I don’t know whether he really believed Richard was his. He was so proud. I couldn’t tell him, could I? There’s a time to keep silent about these things. It would have broken his heart… so I let him believe and we were all happy. You see what I mean?”

“Yes,” I said faintly.

“What I’m telling you is that my Richard’s father was your mother’s husband.”

“Oh no!”

“Oh yes. That’s the case.”

“Does he know…?”

“I reckon he knows all right. It was possible with him whereas it wasn’t with my Andrew, and there wasn’t anyone else it could have been. But it was good for me to say it was Andrew’s child, good for Andrew and good for Mr. Frenshaw.”

“Who knows about this?”

“I know and nothing will convince me that Mr. Frenshaw didn’t know. And now you know.”

“And you let me into this secret which you have kept for years.”

“Only because I want to do what is right and proper. It’s Evie’s right, don’t you see?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Of course, now it wouldn’t matter so much people’s knowing, would it? My poor Andrew went to the grave thinking he’d got a son… but that’s years and years ago. These things settle in time. It’s just that it’s right… and I want it for my Evie. You understand me, don’t you?”

“Yes, I do understand.”

“Then you’ll help my Evie, won’t you?”

I was so relieved that I felt drawn towards her. After all, she was only concerned with the welfare of her grand-daughter, which was very natural.

I said: “I’ll do what I can, Mrs. Trent.”

“I knew you would. You’d be understanding. You know how it is with people. To tell you the truth, if I could see my Evie married into that Farringdon family, I’d die happy, because I know my Evie would look after Dolly—and that’s the two of them taken care of.”

I said I would have to go, and this time, having made her point, she did not attempt to detain me.

It was easier than I had imagined it would be. I said casually to my mother: “I think it is a shame that Evie Mather can’t see Harry Farringdon more often.”

“The romance does seem to be wilting. It wouldn’t have been very suitable. I don’t think John and Gwen would greatly care to be allied with Mrs. Trent.”

“I know she is a rather dreadful woman, but I think she is genuinely fond of Evie, and Evie is quite a nice girl. I do think we ought to help a bit. Harry will be at the christening. Couldn’t we ask just Evie?”

My mother grimaced. “I wouldn’t mind but there’s her grandmother and her sister, who always seems to stand about in brooding silence.”

“Still, I should like to ask Evie. I wonder if we could ask her alone? I know what I’ll do. I’ll say it is just a family affair, but if Evie cared to come… just as a representative of Grasslands… or something like that.”

“Oh, I’ve got no objection to Evie,” said my mother.

I said I would ask her.

Then I fell to wondering what Mrs. Trent would have done if I had ignored her request. Would she have raked up that long-ago scandal, and what would my mother think of her husband’s youthful misdemeanours? She would surely not be very grieved. It was so long ago and these things settle down in time. I had to thank Mrs. Trent for that comforting thought.

I rode over to Grasslands the next day and saw Mrs. Trent.

“It is just family, Mrs. Trent,” I said, “so could Evie come alone… just to represent Grasslands, as it were.”

Her face broke into smiles, and I felt very pleased.

“I knew you’d help, Mrs. Frenshaw,” she said.

I was glad to have done this service. She was quite right. If her story were true, Evie certainly deserved some little help—and even if it were not, Evie still deserved it.

The priest who had married David and me presided at the christening, which took place in our own little chapel at Eversleigh. It was a moving ceremony. Jessica looked magnificent in the christening robes, which had been worn by Eversleigh babies for the last hundred years; and Molly Blackett had done her best to make Amaryllis no less splendid.

Amaryllis behaved impeccably, but Jessica indulged in a screaming fit at the font and refused to stop until she firmly grasped the priest’s rather predominant nose which he recklessly allowed to come within reach of her hands.

Apart from that all went well; the babies were taken back to their nurseries, divested of their ceremonial garments and put to sleep in their cots.

After everyone had had a peep at them and expressed admiration, we went back to the hall, where wine was served with sandwiches and my mother and I between us cut the christening cake.

Aunt Sophie had come over with Jeanne. They had been driven by Alberic, for she had acquired a small carriage, more like a trap which held her and Jeanne comfortably, and there was room for the driver up front. Alberic drove this round and he took great pride in it, I believed.

I insisted that Jeanne join us, which she did, rather against her will. Alberic went to the kitchens. He was very friendly with one of the servants—young Billy Grafter, for whom he had actually found a job in our kitchens.

Engaging staff was usually left to the housekeeper or butler. I knew they had been looking for a replacement for old Jem Barker, who had died a few months before, and when Billy Grafter appeared, the butler asked permission to engage him, which was immediately given for he was bright and young and supplied references which assured us that he was a willing worker. It appeared that on one of his visits to London, Alberic had met Billy when he was working at an inn. Billy was a country boy who did not like town life and he jumped at the chance to come to us.

I knew that he and Alberic were often in each other’s company. Alberic had to exercise Sophie’s two horses and as there were several in our stables, the young men often went off together in their spare time.

Sophie was pleased about this. She said Alberic’s English was improving and she was glad he had a friend at Eversleigh.

My attention that day was on Evie and Harry Farringdon. They seemed so happy together. I wondered why Harry did not make some effort to see her. He could always make some excuse to visit us and go to Grasslands.

Mrs. Trent was a very wily woman. She knew she could not invite the Farringdons to Grasslands, for she was not the kind they would welcome into their family. No, Evie had to fascinate the young man to such an extent that he would suggest marriage even without the enthusiasm of his family.

That was probably where the affair was flagging. If Evie had come from a suitable family, they might have been engaged by now.

I would do my best for Evie. I liked her. She was different from her grandmother and sister. She was a pleasant, pretty, ordinary young girl.

Jonathan had come home for the christening. Outwardly he seemed devoted to Millicent. Only I knew what a farce that was, for he conveyed to me by his looks and the occasional whispered word that he had not given up hope yet and he was sure I was not going to abandon him.

To tell the truth, he filled me with misgiving. There was some potent sexuality in him of which I could not help being aware and I was horrified to realize that I was still unsure of myself.

I must tread warily, I knew.

I spent as much time with David as I possibly could. I believe he had never been so happy in the whole of his life. He adored Amaryllis and was so delighted when he fancied she knew him. It soothed me a great deal to watch him with her, and I could not help thinking of that old man, Andrew Mather, who had been so happy with the child who was not his. But Amaryllis was David’s. I was sure of it—or perhaps I was trying to convince myself that this was so.

After the christening Aunt Sophie had been driven home by Alberic, for she had merely come for the ceremony. My mother said it was amazing how she had changed. “At one time, when we were in the château, she would not emerge for anything.”

“Enderby has done a great deal for her,” I said.

“Enderby, Jeanne, of course, and I think she has a great interest in that boy Alberic.”

“Thank Heaven she found something to be interested in!”

“I hope she will become more and more reconciled,” said my mother.

She had asked Evie to stay for a rather informal supper and Evie accepted with alacrity. It was a pleasant meal; we were very merry; we heard at length about Millicent’s christening, and Gwen Farringdon talked about that of Harry. There was no mention of the state of affairs on the other side of the Channel and that was pleasant.

We all sat in the punch room afterwards conversing until everyone began to droop a little and my mother suggested we retire. Evie should be escorted home. Harry immediately offered to take her and my mother thought that either David or Jonathan should accompany them, discreetly implying that it would not be quite acceptable for the pair to go alone. David offered to go and my mother and Dickon said good night.

I went along to the library to get a book which I had left there and was coming out when Jonathan came in. He shut the door and leaned against it, smiling at me.

“I thought you had retired,” I said.

“No. I saw you come down here, so I followed.”

“For what purpose?”

“Unnecessary question. To do that which you are making increasingly difficult. To talk to you.”

“What about?”

“Us.”

“There is nothing more to be said.”

“After all we have been to each other! You can’t dismiss it like that.”

“It was madness… momentary madness.”

“Oh come, Claudine. It wasn’t momentary, was it? Didn’t we meet by arrangement?”

“I admit I did a terrible thing. Please, Jonathan, forget it, and let me forget it.”

“You are never going to forget that, Claudine. Nor am I. Besides, we have our little angel upstairs to remind us.”

“No, no,” I said. “Amaryllis is David’s.”

He smiled at me maliciously. “It’s a wise father who knows his own child. How wise is David? How wise am I?”

“It pleases you to be flippant. Jonathan, let me alone. It’s over… done with. We have sinned terribly against David. I shall try to do everything I can to make him happy. Won’t you help me?”

“I certainly will. You don’t think I’m going to tell him: ‘Your wife is a very passionate little lady, which I discovered to my delight.’ What do you take me for?”

I looked at him steadily and wondered: What? He frightened me. Why, oh why, when he stood before me with his blue eyes alight, should I feel that desire to be close to him, to forget for a while everything but that overwhelming sexual satisfaction which he alone could provide?

I was trembling a little. I was sure he was aware of it. He was a man who had had a great deal of experience in what he called love. I am not sure that I called it that.

What was it I felt for him? Love? No. It had a less pleasant name. It was lust. But where did lust end and love begin? I loved David. I wanted to be with David. I wanted never to hurt him and yet this man had made me break my marriage vows and hurt David in a manner which could be more wounding than anything else I could do; and still, although I was trying not to admit it, I was drawn to him.

I was ignorant, inexperienced. I could not understand myself and I was afraid.

I tried to speak firmly. “It’s all over, Jonathan. I’m deeply regretful that it ever happened. I don’t know what possessed me.”

He came closer and laid a hand on my shoulder. “I do, Claudine,” he said softly. “I do.”

I stepped backwards.

“You can’t do without me,” he said, “any more than I can do without you. We were meant for each other. What a pity you galloped into marriage!”

“And now you are about to do the same.”

“Not a gallop. A graceful, well-planned canter.”

“I’m sorry for Millicent.”

“You shouldn’t be. She is perfectly contented.”

“When she discovers she is married to a philanderer, what will she think? A man who is contemplating marriage with her and at the same time is trying to seduce another woman.”

“She is delighted with the amalgamation of the two families. You don’t realize what that is going to mean. She does—and so do her papa and mama. Millicent is too worldly not to realize that there are certain concessions to be made even in the best of bargains.”

“You are so calculating.”

“All part of my success.”

“And I am tired. Good night.”

He caught my hand.

“Are you going to tell me that you don’t love me any more?”

“I never loved you. It was something different. I know that now.”

“Well, whatever it was, it was rather fierce, wasn’t it?”

“I was foolish. I can only say ignorant. Please, Jonathan, I want to forget it. When you are married you will be mainly in London. Don’t think we can ever start again.”

“Is that what you want?”

“With all my heart.”

“For the sort of man I am it is a challenge. That which is out of reach is always more desirable than that which falls into one’s hands. You’re challenging me, Claudine.”

“I am telling you to let me alone. Good night.”

I went to the door. He laughed and I heard him say: “I never give up.”

I ran into the hall. David was just coming in with Harry.

“Safely delivered to her home,” said David, referring to Evie. He put an arm round me and I smiled at him.

“You’re tired,” he said.

“It’s been a long day.”

“The christening went off perfectly,” said Harry. “The babies were very good… on the whole.”

“Particularly Amaryllis,” said David proudly. “She is a beautiful child.”

Harry smiled at me. “Fond parent,” he said.

“I think Evie enjoyed it,” I put in.

“Oh yes,” agreed David. “She was rather reluctant to go home, I believe. Grandma Trent was waiting up for her. There was a candle in one of the windows. She was obviously watchful. She dashed down and wanted us to come in for some sloe gin or elderberry or dandelion or something. We pleaded the lateness of the hour.”

“She is devoted to her grand-daughters,” I said.

“No doubt about that,” added Harry.

We had come to the room which Harry was using so we said good night and left him there.

David and I went on to ours.

“Such a happy day it’s been! Shall we just peep into the nursery to look at her?”

So we went there and stood on either side of the sleeping child.

David looked down at her with wonder. Nothing… nothing must disturb his happiness.