“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.