‘It is I who should be thanking you.’

‘It has been a wonderful journey. A duel of sorts in the Plump Partridge, losing fifty pounds last night, a lecture on the evil of my ways—and best of all, my dear sweet Clarissa, your company.’

I was mollified. He had great charm of manner and perhaps I liked him better because of his obvious imperfections.

So we rode on and I was moved when I saw the great stone walls of the mighty Tower of London, and the river running like a ribbon between the fields and houses. It was growing dusky as we came through the city to Albemarle Street where Lance had his London residence. As soon as we arrived there was a bustle of excitement. There seemed to be innumerable servants. He explained that a room was to be prepared for the niece of General Eversleigh whom he was taking next day to her family in the country. In the meantime our main desire was for food and we were very tired after having ridden so far.

It was a beautiful house—by no means old. It had been designed, I learned later, by Christopher Wren soon after the Great Fire of London when the famous architect was rebuilding so much of the town. It was not large, by Eversleigh standards, but it had an elegance which bigger houses lacked. The panelling was beautiful, the curved staircase of exquisite design and everything as I would have expected, knowing Lance, was far from flamboyant but at the same time impressed even those like myself that it was in the best possible taste.

The household was impeccably run. That was obvious by the speed with which our rooms were made ready and the meal served.

We sat in a room with windows which reached almost from floor to ceiling that they might let in the maximum of light. There was a silver candelabrum on the table and in the mellow lighting I found the surroundings extremely gracious.

‘I think your house is beautiful,’ I told Lance.

‘Thank you, Clarissa. I am rather fond of it myself. I spend a great deal of time here… rather than in the country. I am, as you may have observed, what is generally known as “a man about town”.’

‘Well, naturally,’ I replied. ‘The gaming houses are here.’

‘Oh, you can manage very well in the country. There are all sorts of ways of losing your money there, I assure you.’

‘And saving it would not provide the same excitement, I suppose.’

‘How could it?’

‘It would to me,’ I said. ‘I should enjoy watching it accumulate.’

‘Dear saintly Clarissa! A lesson to us all… and in particular to foolish gamblers. Try some of this soup. It is my cook’s very special pride. I believe there is always a cauldron of it bubbling in the kitchen.’

‘You are very well cared for here.’

‘I see to it. It is one of the passions of my life to be well cared for… second to gambling, of course.’

‘I am learning a great deal about you.’

‘Oh dear, that sounds ominous. I am learning a little about you, too.’

‘I often think it is a mistake to know too much about people.’

‘That could be a very profound statement,’ he said.

So we bantered.

I spent the night in a delightful room. There was a fire in the grate and no sooner had I sunk into my feather bed than I was sound asleep.

I was awakened by a serving girl who brought me hot water. It was still dark but she told me that Sir Lance had said we were to be ready to leave as soon as it was light.

Oddly enough I felt a certain regret that the adventure was nearly over. I was still dazed by all that had happened. I was just beginning to realize how much I had enjoyed my days with Lance.

We left the comfort of the house in Albemarle Street and took the road to the south-east. There were two stops on the road and the last was at the historic town of Canterbury. We were then a day’s ride from Eversleigh.

In all the places we passed through, if we stopped and engaged in conversation with anyone the talk always turned to the attempted rising of the Chevalier de St George—or the Pretender, as he was more frequently called.

There was fear of war in the air and I was uneasy, thinking that if it really came Dickon would be on one side, my family on the other.

Lance was a little subdued, I thought, as we rode out of Canterbury.

I asked if he was thinking of the martyr who had been slain in the Cathedral. Was it the fate of St Thomas which occupied his mind and made him melancholy?

‘No,’ he cried. ‘I must confess I had hardly given him a thought. Surely you know there could be only one cause for my melancholy. It is because soon I must part from you.’

I was so happy to hear him say that that I laughed with pleasure; then I remembered Dickon and was ashamed that I could do so.

‘You have a habit of saying what people want to hear,’ I said.

‘Not a bad habit, you will agree.’

‘If you mean it…’

‘That,’ he said, ‘is an added bonus. I assure you I mean what I say when I tell you I have rarely enjoyed anything more than our little jaunt together. Thank you, dearest Clarissa, for giving me such a happy time.’

‘Nonsense. You know it is I who should be thanking you,’ I replied. ‘I am afraid I have been a melancholy companion.’

‘Indeed you have not. In spite of all that happened you have made me feel you have enjoyed our journey.’

‘I have been as happy as it was possible for me to be considering all that has happened and how worried I am.’

We rode on in silence. I think we were both a little moved.

That day we reached Enderby. Damaris rushed out in amazement when she realized who it was. She hugged me tightly and then I was seized by Jeremy.

‘Oh, Clarissa… we’ve been so worried… so anxious… with all this going on.’

Damon jumped round and I was glad he took an immediate fancy to Lance.

I must see Sabrina, who had grown since I left; messages were sent over to the Court and to the Dower House. They would all be coming over to Enderby. This was a great occasion.

Lance stayed the night and received the thanks of every member of the family for bringing me home safely. They listened spellbound to my story which I told them in detail for I saw no reason to withhold anything except of course my love for Dickon and his for me.

‘Thank God for this Dickon,’ said Damaris. ‘Oh, my darling, you were in great danger.’

‘Damned Jacobites,’ growled Great-Grandfather Carleton. ‘I’d string up the lot of them. As for that Pretender… hanging’s too good for him.’

So I was back in the bosom of my family and it seemed strange to be sleeping in my own bed again.

Christmas came. Damaris kept telling me how delighted she was that I was home in time for the celebrations. Besides, this was no time to be travelling about the country. There could be civil war, and what a disaster that would be, and all because some people wanted to put this Pretender on the throne.

She was sure the loyal army with men like Uncle Carl commanding it would soon put a stop to all that nonsense—but there might be trouble first.

Jeanne was delighted that I was safely back. She wept and crooned over me.

‘Oh, Mademoiselle Clarissa, you are the one things happen to,’ she cried. ‘It is the way with some. There you are snatched from England… brought to France, living in a grand house and then in a cellar. Rescued from that… you see how it goes. Oh, how ’appy I am that you are with us again! “Christmas,” I said, “What is Christmas without the little Clarissa?” I have la petite Sabrina… yes. I have the little one. But for you there is something special… Do you know…’ She touched her heart. ‘Something in here…’

‘Jeanne,’ I said solemnly, ‘I shall always love you.’

Then we wept together.

I could not join wholeheartedly in the festivities. All the time I was wondering where Dickon was and whether I should hear from him. We did hear scraps of news about the Pretender. He had left Bar-le-Duc, where he had been living—for he was no longer welcome at the French Court—and, disguising himself as a servant, had travelled to St Malo where he had tried to take ship to Scotland. This he failed to do, so he made his way to Dunkirk. It was at that time the middle of December but, accompanied by a few attendants he managed to find a ship to take him to Scotland and landed at Peterhead three days before Christmas.

This news filled me with dismay for I felt certain there would be bitter fighting, and if there was, Dickon might well be in the thick of it.

The days passed and there was no news. The family had been amazed to hear that I had a half-sister. It was something they did not want to discuss openly though, because they deplored the fact that my parents had not been married and they found it rather shameful that Hessenfield should have had another illegitimate daughter.

I thought a great deal about those days in Paris when Aimée must have been living not so very far from me, and chatting with Jeanne was the best way of recalling them. Naturally she remembered so much more of our life there than I could. I asked her a great many questions and I began to feel that I was back there living it all again.

I made her tell me about the life at the hôtel. ‘Did you ever hear of Aimée and her mother?’

‘Never,’ declared Jeanne. ‘But never… never. My lord was always with your mother when he was in Paris. He did go away now and then… it was all rather secret. He went to and from Paris to the Court at Saint-Germain. But never did I hear that there was another woman.’

‘Are you sure, Jeanne?’

Jeanne nodded emphatically. She closed her eyes and lifted her head to the ceiling. She was casting her mind back in time.

‘I remember it well,’ she said, ‘I remember Yvonne, Sophie, Armand… he was the coachman. And there was Germaine… she was above herself… what you might say too big for her boots. Germaine, she thought she should not be there… she should be a lady in her carriage… not a servant in such a house. Then there was Clos… who cleaned the boots and grates and whatever he was told to do. A happy boy he was… always a smile. Then there was Claudine, another such as Germaine… only not quite so haughty. Oh, I remember them well. There was one day when my Lord and Lady Hessenfield were away at Saint-Germain and Germaine dressed up in my lady’s clothes. We laughed and laughed. She did it all so well. Only trouble was she didn’t want to take those things off… she didn’t want to go back to work.’

‘And was I there at the time?’

‘You might have been with my lord and lady… or you might have been in the nursery.’

‘I don’t remember any of them except you, Jeanne.’

‘Mon Dieu! You were only a baby. I’d take you out sometimes… perhaps to the druggist to get something for my lady… something sweet-smelling to scent herself with… or to the glove-makers to collect gloves. Little errands like that. I’d orders never to venture with you into the forbidden places… never to the Pont-au-Bled or the Rue du Poirer. I remember one morning a man in a carriage drive by—some young lover chasing his mistress’s carriage—and you were spattered with mud. I had to get one of the brushers-down at the street corner to deal with you. I couldn’t take you back like that and I’d have to get that mud off you the minute it went on or it would eat into your clothes…’

‘When you talk, Jeanne, it brings it back to my mind.’

‘Well, there’s much that’s best forgot. We came through it all, didn’t we? I often wonder what became of Germaine. She had a lover… and she was proud of him. He lived somewhere on the Left Bank. I remember once she stayed out the night with him. Clos let her in in the early morning. Monsieur Bonton did not know. Do you remember Monsieur Bonton? He led us all, you might say. He was reckoned to be one of the best chefs in Paris and it was said that the King himself would have liked him for his kitchens. But that was just talk, maybe. But we all feared him. He had the power over us. One word from him and we could be sent off…’

‘Jeanne, it seems so strange to me that there should have been this woman… Aimée’s mother.’

‘He would have been finished with her by that time.’

‘No, I don’t think so. She had a letter from him which said he wanted Aimée taken care of. He must have been seeing her.’

‘Who can say with men? The best of them have their secrets and often that secret is a woman. It is just men, ma petite. We must never be surprised by what they do.’

I supposed she was right, but I found it difficult to accept.