As I turned to leave, the door opened and Harriet came in.

“I saw you come up,” she said. “I wondered where you were going.”

“I was just watching the rider.”

“Going away with all those letters you have written to your family.”

“We look out for arrivals now and then and hope that they will be our parents. But the messenger with letters is the next best thing.”

She nodded.

“He brings and takes,” she mused. “And you give them all the news?”

“Some of it.”

“You have told them I am here?”

“But of course.”

“They’ll want me to go.”

“Why should they?”

“A player. An actress. They won’t like that.”

“I didn’t tell them that you were an actress.”

“What, then?”

“Oh, I said you came with a party of people and because of the snow you had to stay here. You hurt your ankle and stayed on and then said you would help teach the children for a while. That’s how it happened, wasn’t it?”

“So you didn’t tell them everything.”

I did not meet her eye. “I told them no lies,” I defended myself. “And I said how fond the children are of you and that they are attending to what you teach them and how we did our little play.”

She laughed suddenly and threw her arms about me.

“Dear Arabella!” she cried.

I extricated myself with some embarrassment. I felt I was growing a little like her. I was no longer the innocent girl I had been, always so natural with my parents.

“Let’s go down,” I said. “What a gloomy old place this is. Imagine a man sitting up here all day watching to see who was coming, and giving the alarm if it was an enemy.”

“They must have had a lot of enemies to make watching a full-time occupation.”

“Oh, he watched for friends as well. And he composed songs while he watched. Watchers were always minstrels so I heard.”

“How interesting!” She slipped her arm through mine as we went to the top of the spiral staircase. “Nice of you to give a good account of me,” she went on. “You would have aroused their fears had you told them I was an actress who contrived to remain here. Good. Now we shall not have to put a watcher at the tower to look for anxious parents. Sometimes it is helpful to tell a little of the truth when the whole could be disturbing.”

We went downstairs.

I was a little uneasy. Yet I knew that I should be very unhappy if my parents had wanted to send her away.

That night she came to my room for another of our talks. I think the letter I had written to my mother made her more sure of me than she had been.

She took her seat near the mirror; her hair hung loose about her shoulders. I thought her very lovely. I could see myself reflected in the mirror. My thick, straight brown hair was also loose, for I had been about to brush it when she knocked at my door. I was very like my mother and I knew she was an attractive woman. I had inherited her vitality, her finely marked brows and deeply set, rather heavy-lidded eyes, but I felt my brown hair and eyes were insipid beside Harriet’s vivid colouring, but then, I consoled myself, most people would seem colourless in comparison.

She smiled at me, seeming to read my thoughts. That was disconcerting in Harriet. I often felt she knew what was in my mind.

“Your hair suits you loose like that,” she said.

“I was just about to give it a brushing.”

“When I disturbed you.”

“You know I enjoy talking to you.”

“I came to say thank you for your letter to your mother.”

“I can’t think why you should do that.”

“You know very well why I do. I don’t want to leave here … yet, Arabella.”

“You mean you may sometime … soon?”

She shook her head. “Well, I suppose you wouldn’t want to stay here forever.”

“We have always believed that someday we should all go back to England. There was a time when we daily expected the summons to come. Then we stopped looking for it, but I suppose it has always been there in our minds.”

“You wouldn’t want to stay here for the rest of your life.”

“What a notion. Of course, I shouldn’t.”

“If you were in England they would now be looking for a husband for you.”

I thought of my mother’s letter. Wasn’t that just what she had implied?

“I suppose so.”

“Lucky little Arabella to be so well cared for.”

“You forget I’m caring for myself.”

“And you’ll be very good at it … when you’ve learned a little more about life. It’s been so different for me.”

“You told me quite a lot about what had happened to you. Then you stopped. What did you do when you fell in with those strolling players and your mother liked one of them?”

“She liked him so much—I suppose he reminded her of my father—that she married him. I shall never forget the day of her wedding. I have never seen her so happy. Of course she was well content with the Squire and it was a dignified life she had there. Lady of the Manor almost. But she had been brought up very strictly and she had never felt really respectable. Now she did. She had had a strolling player lover who had given her a child; now she had a strolling player husband and that seemed to make it right in her eyes. She always referred to him as Your Father. And I really believe the two merged together in her mind.”

“Did she join the company?”

“It wasn’t much of a company. By this time theatres were pronounced sinful in England and strolling players, if discovered, would have been thrown into prison. So they planned to go to France. It wouldn’t be easy. They were going to do puppet and miming shows … because of the language, you see. But they reckoned they could learn that in time. It wasn’t a very bright prospect, but what else could they do when there wasn’t a hope of playing in England at all? We set out and a few miles off the French coast a terrible storm blew up. Our ship was wrecked; my mother and her new husband were drowned.”

“How terrible!”

“At least she had had that supreme happiness. I wonder whether it would have lasted. She had endowed him with all the virtues she had moulded onto my father. It was strange, really. My father disappeared and her husband died before she had time to realize they did not possess them.”

“How do you know her husband didn’t?”

“I knew by the way he looked at me that he wouldn’t be the faithful, loyal creature she had built him up to be.”

“So he wanted you …”

“Of course he wanted me.”

“Then why did he marry her?”

“He wanted her as a wife. He wanted to be looked after, cared for by a mature woman. He was eager to take her, and don’t forget I went with her.”

“What a disgusting creature!”

“Some men are.”

“What happened to you then?”

“I was rescued and taken ashore. I was fortunate that the men who rescued me were employed by the local landowner, the Sieur d’Amberville, a gentleman who was, as you have guessed by his title, a power in the district. He lived in a fine old château surrounded by vast estates. First I was taken to the cottage in which my rescuers lived and news went round that I had been saved from the sea. Madame d’Amberville came to see me, and realizing that I was somewhat distressed to find myself in such a humble dwelling, to which, I made it clear, I was unaccustomed, she said I should be taken to the château, and so I was given a delightful bedroom there and Madame’s servants waited on me. When she questioned me, she had the impression that I was the daughter of Squire Travers Main.”

“Which you gave her no doubt.”

“No doubt. And she realized then why I found a workman’s cottage distasteful. I stayed on until I recovered, and then I told her I must go, and when she asked where, I said that I did not know, but I could not encroach any longer on this hospitality of the d’Ambervilles. She was loathe to let me go and an idea came to me. There were several young d’Ambervilles … six of them from the ages of five to sixteen, and that was not counting the eldest daughter of eighteen and her brother Gervais, the eldest son, who was twenty years of age. So I suggested to her that I should become …”

“The governess?” I said.

“How did you guess?”

“Sometimes history has a habit of repeating itself.”

“That is often because what happens once makes us resourceful in similar circumstances. It’s what is called experience.”

“I always knew you were very experienced.”

“Indeed I am. I became the governess. I taught the children as I now teach your sister and brothers. I was a great success and I enjoyed my stay with the d’Ambervilles.”

“Why did you leave?”

“Because the eldest son, Gervais, fell in love with me. He was very handsome … very romantic.”

“Did you fall in love with him?”

“I was in love with the title he would have and the lands and the riches. I am being very frank tonight, Arabella. I think I am shocking you a little. Mind you, I liked other things about him besides the worldly possessions which would one day be his. He was gallant, adoring, everything that a lover should be. Hot-blooded and passionate. He had never met anyone like me. He wanted to marry me.”

“Why didn’t you marry him?”

“We were discovered.” She smiled as though amused by the memory. “In flagrante delicto … almost. By his mother. She was horrified. ‘Gervais!’ she said. ‘I can’t believe my eyes.’ Then she went out, banging the door loudly. Poor Gervais. He was horrified. It was very embarrassing for a well-brought-up boy.”

“And what about you?”

“I knew it had to come to a head, and I thought it was better to have the family’s consent to the marriage before it took place. The French are more conventional than we are at home. They might well have cut him off with a few sous. After all there were two other sons and Jean Christophe was rising twelve—one of my most appreciative pupils—so Gervais was not indispensable. Now they knew how far it had gone. From what Maman had seen during her brief glimpse into our love nest it was possible that I might already be enceinte and a little d’Amberville on the way.”

“You really mean …”

“My dear, sweet, innocent Arabella, isn’t that what life is all about? If it were not so, how should we replenish the earth?”

“So you really were in love with Gervais … so much that you forgot …”

“I forgot nothing. It would have been an excellent match. Gervais appealed to me; he was madly in love with me; and his family had shown me kindness.”

“It did not seem the way to repay it.”

“What, by making their son happy? He had never known anything like it. He told me so many times.”

I tried to understand her. It was difficult. I did know that, if she had been here, my mother would have decided that she must go at once.

“Should you not have waited until after the marriage?”

“Then, my dear Arabella, it would never have happened at all. Think what poor Gervais would have missed.”

“I think you are rather flippant about what should be treated seriously.”

“Innocent Arabella, flippancy is often used to disguise seriousness. Of course I was serious. I was summoned to the salon. There I was confronted by the elders of the family. There was a long speech about my betraying their trust in me and how they could no longer allow me to stay under their roof.”

“What about Gervais?”

“Dear Gervais. He was such an innocent really. He said we would go away together. We would snap our fingers at the family. We would marry and live happily ever after. I told him that he was wonderful and I would love him until I died, but being of a practical nature I was asking myself what we would live on. I knew what hard times could be; Gervais had no notion. I could live by my wits perhaps, but poor Gervais was not endowed very lavishly with those useful assets; and I was appalled by the thought of poverty. When they said he should be cut off, I knew they meant it. After all, when you have several sons, you can dispense with one who displeases you—even if he is the eldest. Besides it serves as a good lesson to the others. Madame d’Amberville had been horrified by what she had witnessed. She implied that she would never be able to look at me again without remembering it.

“While all this was happening a party of strolling players came to the village. The d’Ambervilles, being of a rather religious turn of mind, had not encouraged players. However, they could not prevent their playing in the village. I went to see them and there I met Jabot. You remember Jabot?”