“What do you want to talk seriously about?” I asked. “You are never serious.”

“Rarely. But this is one moment when I am. Marriage is a serious business. My father would be quite pleased if you and I married, Claudine, and what is more important—so would I.”

“Married to you!” I heard a pitch of excitement in my voice. I went on scathingly: “Something tells me that you would not be a very faithful husband.”

“My chère Mademoiselle would keep me so.”

“I think I should find the task too onerous.”

He laughed aloud. “Sometimes you talk like my brother.”

“I find that rather a compliment.”

“So now we are to hear of the virtues of St. David. I know you are rather fond of him—in a special sort of way.”

“Of course I’m fond of him. He is interesting, courteous, reliable, gentle…”

“Are you, by any chance, making comparisons? I believe Shakespeare once commented on the inadvisability of that. You will know. If not, consult Erudite David.”

“You should not sneer at your brother. He is more…”

“Worthy?”

“That is the word.”

“And how it fits. I have an idea that you are more favourably inclined towards him than I like.”

“Are you by any chance jealous of your brother?”

“I could be… in certain circumstances. As no doubt he could be of me.”

“I don’t think he has ever aspired to be like you.”

“Do you think I have ever aspired to be like him?”

“No. You are two decidedly different natures. Sometimes I think you are as different as two people could be.”

“Enough of him. What of you, sweet Claudine? I know you respond to me. You like me, don’t you? You liked me very much when I came into the room and routed old Blackett and I kissed you. True, you put on your mask of properly-brought-up-young-lady. ‘Unhand me, sir!’ which really meant I want more of this… and more…”

I was scarlet with mortification.

“You presume too much.”

“I reveal too much which you would prefer to hide. Do you think you can hide the truth from me? I know women.”

“I had gathered that.”

“My dearest little girl, you don’t want an inexperienced lover. You want a connoisseur to direct you through the gates of paradise. We would have a wonderful time together, Claudine. Come, say yes. We’ll announce it at the dinner party. It’s what they want. And in a few weeks we’ll be married. Where shall we go for our honeymoon? What say you to Venice? Romantic nights on canals… the gondoliers singing love songs as we drift along. Does that appeal to you?”

“The setting would be ideal I am sure. The only thing I should object to is that I should have to share it with you.”

“Unkind.”

“You asked for it.”

“And the answer is?”

“No.”

“We’ll make it Yes.”

“How?”

He looked at me intently; his expression changed and the set of his lips alarmed me faintly.

“I have ways… and means,” he said.

“And an inflated opinion of yourself.”

I turned sharply away. He fascinated me and I had to overcome a desire to dismount and face him. I knew that would be dangerous. Beneath the light banter there was a ruthless determination. I was very much aware of it and it reminded me strongly of his father. It was said that men wanted sons because they liked to see themselves reproduced. Well, Dickon had reproduced himself in Jonathan.

I started to gallop across the field. Ahead of me was the sea. It was a muddy grey on that day with a tinge of brown where the frills of waves touched the sand. The tang of seaweed was strong in the air. It had been a stormy night. I felt a tremendous sense of excitement as I galloped forward and let my horse fly along by the edge of the water.

Jonathan pounded along beside me. He was laughing—as exhilarated as I was.

We must have gone a mile when I drew up. He was beside me. The spray made his eyebrows glisten; his eyes were alight with those blue flames which I was always looking for; and I thought suddenly of Venice and gondolas and Italian love songs. In that moment I would have said: “Yes, Jonathan. It is you. I know it will not be easy; there will be little peace… but you are the one.”

After all, when one is seventeen one does not look for a comfortable way of life. It is excitement, exhilaration, and uncertainty which seem appealing.

I turned my horse and said: “Home. I’ll race you.”

And there we were once more pounding along the beach. He kept beside me but I knew he was choosing the moment to go ahead. He had to show me that he must always win.

In the distance I saw riders and almost at once recognized Charlot and Louis Charles.

“Look who’s there,” I cried.

“We don’t need them. Let’s go back and do that gallop again.”

But I called: “Charlot.”

My brother waved to us. We cantered up to them and I saw at once that Charlot was deeply disturbed.

“Have you heard the news?” he said.

“News?” Jonathan and I spoke simultaneously.

“It’s clear that you haven’t. The murdering dogs… Mon Dieu, if I were there. I wish I were. I wish…”

“What is it?” demanded Jonathan. “Who has murdered whom?”

“The King of France,” said Charlot. “France no longer has a King.”

I closed my eyes. I was remembering the tales my grandfather used to tell of the Court, of the King who was blamed for so much for which he was not responsible. Most of all I thought of the mob looking on while he mounted the steps of the guillotine and placed his head beneath the axe.

Even Jonathan was sobered. He said: “It was expected…”

“I never believed they would go so far,” said Charlot. “And now they have done it. That vile mob… They have changed the history of France.”

Charlot was deeply affected. He reminded me of my grandfather at that moment, of my father too. Patriots, both of them. Charlot’s heart was in France with the royalists. He had always wanted to be there to fight the losing battle for the monarchy. Now that the King was dead—murdered like a common felon on that cruel guillotine—he wanted it more than ever.

Louis Charles looked at Jonathan almost apologetically. “You see,” he said, as if he needed to explain, “France is our country… he was our King.”

We all rode back together quietly, subdued, in mourning for a lost régime and the death of a man who had paid the price for the excesses of those who had gone before him.

The news had reached Eversleigh. As we sat at the table, the execution of the King of France was the only topic of conversation.

Dickon said he would have to leave for London and Jonathan must go with him. He guessed the Court would be in mourning.

“It is alarming to all rulers when one of their number is treated like a common criminal,” commented David.

“Yet this death comes as no great surprise,” said Jonathan.

“I always believed that it could never happen,” added Charlot vehemently. “No matter how powerful the revolutionaries became.”

Dickon said: “It was inevitable. When the King failed to escape and join the émigrés, he was doomed. If he had been able to join them, the revolution might have come to an end. And he could so easily have escaped! What an example of idiotic ineptitude! Travelling in style… the grand carriage… the Queen posing as a governess! As if Marie Antoinette could ever be anything but Marie Antoinette! One could laugh if it were not so tragic. Imagine that cumbersome and very, very grand carriage riding into the little town of Varennes, and the inevitable questions. Who are these visitors? Who is this lady calling herself a governess? No marks for guessing! What a charade!”

“It was a brave attempt,” said Charlot.

“Bravery counts for little when folly is its companion,” said Dickon grimly.

Charlot was sunk in gloom. Never had I realized how deeply his feelings were involved.

Dickon was very well informed. We were never quite sure why he spent so much time in London about the Court; he was a friend of Prime Minister Pitt, and at the same time on excellent terms with Charles James Fox and the Prince of Wales. It was rare that he talked openly of what we thought of as his secret life, though I daresay he confided to some extent in my mother. She went with him everywhere, so she must have had some notion of what his business was. But if she had, she never betrayed it.

On this occasion he did talk a little. He said that Pitt was an excellent Prime Minister, but he wondered how he would shape up to war.

“War?” cried my mother. “What war? Did not Mr. Pitt say that England was assured of peace for some years to come?”

“That, my dear Lottie, was last year. A great deal can happen in politics in a very short time. I am sure William Pitt regarded all that turmoil on the other side of the Channel as a local matter… no concern of ours. But we are all realizing now that it is of concern to us… of the greatest concern.”

Charlot said: “And it is right that it should be so. How can the nations of the world stand aside and let an outrage like this pass unavenged?”

“Quite easily,” retorted Dickon dismissively. He always showed a faint contempt for Charlot, which I think would have been more than faint but for the fact that it upset my mother. “It is only when events affect us tangibly that we act. The revolutionaries, having ruined France, now seek to see others in a similar plight. The success of the French debacle was assured by its agitators. They are the real provokers, those who pointed out to the people how wrongly they had indeed been treated, who stressed the differences between the aristocrats and the peasants, and who, where there were no grievances, created them. Now we shall have them here. The dog who has lost his tail cannot bear to see those who have retained theirs. The agitators will be here. That is one thing. I can tell you this: societies are being formed in London and as far as Scotland. They are seeking to bring about in this country that to which they have so successfully contributed in France.”

“God forbid!” said my mother.

“Amen, my dear Lottie,” replied Dickon. “We will not allow it here. Those of us who know what is going on will do everything possible to prevent it.”

“Do you think you will be able to?” asked Charlot.

“Yes, I do. We are aware of what is happening, for one thing.”

“There were some who were aware of it in France,” said my mother.

Dickon snorted. “And they involved themselves with the American colonists instead of cleaning out their own stables. Perhaps now they see the folly of their ways, for those young fools who were screaming for liberty, and for the elevation of the oppressed, are now seeing what the oppressed are offering them—the guillotine!”

“At least Armand tried to do something,” insisted my mother. “He formed a group of real patriots who wanted to see justice. Oh I know you thought he was incompetent…”

“He thinks everything is incompetent which is not done in England,” said Charlot.

Dickon laughed. “How I wish I did! I should like to see this country act wisely, which I admit to you, my young Monsieur de Tourville, it does not always do. But perhaps we are a little more cautious, eh? That little bit more likely not to act rashly… not to excite ourselves unduly over matters which are not to our advantage. Shall we leave it at that?”

“I think,” said David, “that it would be wise.”

Dickon laughed at his son. “I see troubles ahead,” he went on, “and not only for France. Austria can hardly stand aside while its Archduchess follows her husband to the guillotine.”

“Do you think they will kill Marie Antoinette too?” I asked.

“Undoubtedly, my dear Claudine. There will be more to gloat over her death than those who have done so over that of poor Louis. They have always blamed her, poor child… which was all she was when she came to France, a pretty little butterfly who wanted to dance in the sun—and did so most charmingly. But she grew up. The butterfly became a woman of character. The French liked the butterfly better. And she is Austrian.” He grinned at Charlot. “You know how the French hate foreigners.”

“The Queen has been much maligned,” said Charlot.

“Indeed it is so. Who is not maligned in these ferocious days? France will be at war with Prussia and Austria. Holland too, most likely, and it will not be long before we are drawn in.”

“Horrible!” said my mother. “I hate war. It does no good to anybody.”

“She is right, you know,” said Dickon. “But there are times when even peacelovers like Mr. Pitt see the necessity for it.” He looked at my mother and said, “We must leave tomorrow for London. The Court will be in mourning for the King of France.”