I was sure he thought he would not be away for more than six months. Yet I could not forget that he had gone with a certain amount of eagerness.

Then Dickon? What had been his motive. To separate us, I believed.

During the months I heard nothing from Dickon but Sabrina sent messages expressing the wish that I would come to Eversleigh. ‘Poor Clarissa, she is very weak now,’ she wrote. ‘She would love to see you.’

My mother received the same appeal and perhaps if she had suggested going I would have gone with her; but she did not. My father must have persuaded her that he needed her more than anyone else. Moreover the situation between France and England was worsening, and the more help France poured into America, the more difficult it was for the English to subdue the Colonists, and the greater was the rancour between our two countries.

So there were many reasons why it would not be wise for me to pay a visit to England at this time.

We had settled into the new routine at Tourville. Amélie and I had always been friendly in a mild way; her husband was a gentle person, very honoured and delighted to live in the château and take over the management of the estate. His own business affairs had been small and he was able to incorporate the two without much difficulty. As for my parents-in-law, they were delighted to have their daughter back. I think they understood her more than they had Charles, so his absence did not appear to concern them as much as I had thought it would.

I spent a great deal of time with the children and it was enjoyable to watch them growing up. Lisette was my constant companion and I was more in her company than that of any other of the adult inhabitants of Tourville.

I remember well that spring day when Lisette and I sat together in the garden. Claudine was running about on the grass and the boys were out riding with one of the grooms.

We were talking about Charles and wondering what was happening in that far-off land.

‘Of course,’ I was saying, ‘it is difficult to get news through. I wonder if there is much fighting.’

‘I imagine he will soon grow tired of it and long for the comforts of home,’ said Lisette.

‘Well, at least he did what he said he would do.’

‘Dickon rather forced him to it. Have you heard from Dickon?’

‘No, but from Sabrina.’

‘I wonder …

‘Yes, what do you wonder?’

‘About Dickon … whether he just likes to stir up a little mischief or whether this is part of a great design.’

‘A little mischief,’ I said; and just at that moment I saw a maid running across the lawn and behind her a man. I stood up but I did not recognize him immediately. It was my father, and I had never seen him look as he did then. He seemed to have aged by at least twenty years and what was so unusual for him, he was carelessly dressed and his cravat was ruffled.

I knew something terrible had happened.

‘Father!’ I cried.

‘Lottie.’ There was desolation in his voice.

He took me into his arms and I cried out: ‘What is it? Tell me … quickly.’

I drew away from him and saw the tears on his cheeks.

I stammered: ‘My mother … ’

He nodded, but he could not speak. Lisette was beside me. She said: ‘Is there anything I can do?’

I replied: ‘Perhaps you would take Claudine and leave us. Father,’ I went on, ‘come and sit down. Tell me what has happened.’

He let me lead him to the seat which Lisette had just vacated. I was vaguely aware of her taking a rather bewildered and inclined-to-protest Claudine across the grass.

‘You have just arrived. You must be worn out. Why … ’

‘Lottie,’ he said, ‘your mother is dead.’

‘No!’ I murmured.

He nodded. ‘Gone! She’s gone, Lottie. I shall never see her again. I could kill them … every single one of them. Why her? What had she done? God preserve France from the rabble. I would hang them all … every one of them … but that’s too good for them.’

‘But why … why my mother?’ I was trying to think of her gone, but I could only think of this poor broken man who now had to live his life without her.

‘Tell me what happened,’ I begged. ‘Talk … please … I must know.’

‘How could I have guessed how it would be? That morning she went off into the town … just as she had so many times before. She wanted to go to the milliner’s. She talked about the hat she was having made. She asked me about the colour of the feathers.’

‘Yes,’ I said soothingly. ‘And then she went to the milliner’s … ’

‘In the carriage. She had two grooms with her and her lady’s maid.’

In the carriage! I remembered it. A glorious vehicle with his crest emblazoned on it in gold.

‘I did not know that the day before one of the agitators had been preaching in the town. He had stirred them up to riot. It is going on all over France … not in any great degree and we don’t hear where it is happening, but they are working the people up in the remotest places … ’

‘Yes,’ I urged him. ‘Yes?’ I felt he was putting off telling me the dreadful truth because he could not bear to speak of it.

‘While she was in the milliner’s the riot started. It was at the bakery. She came out and must have heard the people shouting. She and her maid got into the carriage. It was immediately surrounded by the mob.’

‘Oh no,’ I murmured, and I recalled the occasion when I had been with the Comte and we had heard a man preaching revolution. I had never forgotten the fanaticism in his eyes.

‘The coachman tried to break through the crowd. It was the only thing to do.’

‘And then … ?’ I asked.

He shook his head. ‘I can’t bear to think of it. Some of those criminals seized the horses … tried to stop them. The carriage was overturned and the frightened horses tried to dash through the crowd. One of the grooms was saved, though badly hurt. The rest … ’

I put my arms round him. I tried to comfort him, but that was impossible. He sat for what seemed a long time, saying nothing, just staring blankly ahead.

I don’t remember much of the rest of that day. A shock such as this one had stunned me as it had him.

It was a week since he had come to tell me of my mother’s death but I still could not entirely believe that it had happened. I know my father tried to convince himself that he was dreaming, and that this overwhelming tragedy was a nightmare which he had conjured up out of a fevered imagination. The only comfort we could derive was from each other. We talked often of my mother, for that seemed to soothe us both and we were constantly together. I knew he could not sleep and Amélie, who was very sympathetic and eager to do all she could to help, made soothing possets conducive to sleep and I made him take them before retiring. In this way he did get a measure of rest. Sometimes he slept late into the mornings and I was pleased because that shortened the day.

I was in his room one morning when he awoke and for a few seconds he seemed happy, not remembering where he was. Then I glimpsed the man I had known. But for how briefly! It was tragic to watch the realization of what had happened dawn on him. I knew that he was never going to be happy again and he was not an old man.

While he stayed on at Tourville I devoted myself to him entirely. I realized then how deeply I had loved my mother, although we had drifted apart when she had separated me from Dickon and I had nursed a grievance against her. Now she was gone, I could understand how she had felt, how she had been ready to sacrifice herself for me. I wished that I could have told her that I understood and how much I had loved her. What she would have wanted me to do more than anything was to care for my father, and this I would do. Theirs had been one of the most romantic love-stories I had ever heard of. The idyllic adventure of youth, then the reunion in middle age when they had both grown wiser and realized what they could offer each other. Their perfect love had a bitter, tragic ending. Did every good thing in life have to be paid for? I wondered.

To see him now, this poor broken man who had once been so suavely sure of himself, wounded me almost as much as the loss of my mother. We had taken to each other on sight, and now there was a close affection between us. He had first brought me to France and looked after me when I needed special care; now it was my turn to look after him.

He seemed to be unaware of the passing of the days. He wanted to be with me all the time, to talk of my mother—of his first meeting with her, the excitement, the passion they had shared … and then the long years without each other. ‘But we never forgot, Lottie, neither of us … ’ And then the coming together, and the perfection of that later relationship. ‘It was a miracle,’ he said, ‘finding her again.’

I was thoughtful. She had written to him, telling him of my existence and the need to save me from an adventurer. Dickon! I thought, Dickon again. He moulded our lives. It was always Dickon.

There was comfort in thinking of him now because it took my thoughts momentarily from our tragedy.

One day my father said: ‘Lottie, I wish you could come home. Come back with me … bring the children. I think life would be bearable if you did.’

I replied: ‘I could come for a while, but this is my home. When Charles returns … ’

‘I know, I know,’ he said. ‘A selfish thought. But if only it could be …

‘We shall see each other often. You must come here and I will come to you.’

‘Dear daughter,’ he said, ‘how different you are from the others. But then you are her daughter too.’

‘Perhaps this will change Sophie. Perhaps now that she knows you need company … your own about you … ’

‘Sophie thinks of nothing but her own hurt. Armand … I never had much in common with him. He goes his own way. He is indifferent to me … to his wife … to our family … indifferent to life, I sometimes think. I have had one child who is dear to my heart. Oh, Lottie, I wish you would come home with me.’

He knew that I could not do that. I must wait here for Charles’s return.

I tried to make him talk of other things, but there were so many dangerous subjects. I dared not mention the state of the country because that would remind him of that terrible scene which had resulted in my mother’s death. Neither Sophie nor Armand was a happy subject. The children were a great help. Charlot delighted him and I was glad to see a friendship springing up between them. Claudine was interested in him and would sometimes allow him to pick her up, when she would peer into his face and scrutinize him.

She said to him: ‘Are you my grandfather?’

I saw tears in his eyes when he told her that he was.

‘You’re crying,’ she accused, looking at him in horror. ‘Big people don’t cry.’ She added: ‘Only babies do.’

I took her from him because I saw his emotion was too great for him to bear. He loved the child, though. He might be proud of Charlot but I think it was Claudine with her frank comments who had first place in his heart.

With the three of us together I think we could have found some semblance of happiness and I wished that I could go back with him.

The next best thing was that he should stay at Tourville and this he did, seeming in those first weeks to be unaware of the passing of time.

He talked to me a great deal of his past life. There had been many women between that first encounter with my mother and the reunion. ‘Yet never once did I stray in deed or even thought when she was with me. Perhaps that does not seem very remarkable to you, but for the man I was it was little short of a miracle.’ He went on: ‘I am pleased to see your friendship with Lisette.’

I am very fond of her,’ I replied. ‘It is not always easy for her. She was educated with Sophie and me and she was with us so much, and then there were occasions when it was brought home to her that she was only the niece of the housekeeper. I think she felt that a little.’

‘Perhaps I shouldn’t have done what I did.’ He shrugged his shoulders. ‘It seemed best at the time.’

‘It was good of you to allow Tante Berthe to have her niece with her.’

There was a faraway look in his eyes and he said at length: ‘I think perhaps I should tell you how it came about. It started years ago when Lisette’s mother came to the hôtel to bring some gowns for my first wife. She was a seamstress employed by one of the fashionable dressmakers, and if any alterations were required, Lisette’s mother used to come to the house to do them. She was very pretty … a dainty, slender girl. I came upon her struggling in with a bundle of materials … far too heavy for her. I carried them for her up the stairs to my wife’s room. That was the beginning of our acquaintance. I was interested in her. Her name was Colette. The inevitable happened. I visited her. She lived in one of those little streets close to Notre Dame … narrow, winding, not very salubrious, where the dyers had their tubs. I was often splashed by the red, blue and green streams which flowed down the gutters. She had two rooms in a house which was run by an old crone. On those days I found it quite an adventure to visit such an area. It meant dressing as an artisan. I was quite young then, so don’t judge me too harshly. I learned that Colette had come down in the world. Like many girls, she had come to Paris for a life of greater excitement than she could enjoy on her father’s farm. She was one of a strictly religious family and longed to escape from it, but she soon found that life in Paris was not what she expected. She could sew well but that was not enough to give her a living. She found a protector … some tradesman who was a little better off than she was. He left her after a while and then she found another. She was not a prostitute. She just took the occasional lover to keep her going.