‘You, Lottie, with it.’
‘But there was a choice, wasn’t there? One or the other.’
‘You were a child. I didn’t know then … ’
‘It is strange to hear you admit ignorance. Shall we talk of something more interesting.’
‘This is of the utmost interest to me.’
‘But not to me and it takes two to make a conversation. Tell me about affairs in London. There is a great deal of talk in France about the American Colonies.’
‘Talk!’ he said. ‘There is more than talk. The wretched French are helping the rebels.’
‘I believe some people even over here think they are right.’
‘There is no reason why foreigners should interfere.’
‘My husband is a staunch supporter of the colonists and thinks those in France who are seeking to help them are doing what is right.’
‘And you can live with such a traitor?’
‘Traitor? He is no traitor. He is a man of opinions.’
‘Are you in love with him?’
I hesitated for a moment and then replied almost defiantly: ‘Yes.’
‘A convincing negative,’ he said. ‘Lottie, don’t go back. Stay here.’
‘You must be mad. I have two children over there.’
‘We could send for them.’
‘You’re joking, of course. You have a most extraordinary high opinion of yourself. I suppose that comes of living your life with two adoring females.’
‘I think I see myself as I am.’
I laughed. ‘Tall, handsome, commanding, irresistible to all women, chivalrous—in conversation—honourable, never betraying anyone unless the price is high enough … ’
‘You are hard on me.’
‘I see you as you are.’
‘And if you were honest with yourself you would admit you like what you see.’
I pressed my horse to a gallop, for at that moment we had come into open country.
He was beside me and I enjoyed the sheer exhilaration of the ride.
We came back past Enderby. It looked gloomy now. I remembered it as it had been when the Forsters had been there. They had cut away the shrubs which grew in profusion round the house; now they were overgrown again. I could see why it had a reputation for being haunted.
‘Would you like to look round it?’ asked Dickon. ‘We can get in easily through one of the ground-floor windows. It has a broken latch. The place is very overrun. It has been empty for two years.’
I wanted to go inside and yet on the other hand I was aware of warning within me. No, I must not go into that house. My mother had gone there with my father. Very possibly I had been conceived in that house. There was something about it which was apparent even from the outside. My mother, when she had told me about my birth, had felt that there was some spirit there … something which had the power to change people who entered.
Fanciful thinking, perhaps, but I would not go into that house with Dickon.
‘Not now,’ I said. ‘It’s getting too late.’
And turning our horses away we rode back to Eversleigh.
A groom was coming round by the house as we approached, and Dickon called to him to take our horses to the stables. Dickon leaped down before I could to help me. He took me in his arms and lifted me up as he had when I arrived. A gesture, I think, which was meant to be symbolic. He was strong. I was at his mercy.
‘Thank you,’ I said coolly. ‘Put me down.’
But for a few moments he held me, and I did not want to meet his eyes. I saw someone at a window looking down at us. Even as I looked up, whoever it was stepped back.
As Dickon put me on the ground I said: ‘Who is up there?’
‘Where?’ he asked idly.
‘That window … right at the top.’ I nodded in the direction and he looked up.
‘That would be old Grissel’s place.’
‘Old Grissel?’
‘One of the servants. Griselda. The boys call her Grissel. It fits.’
I went into the house, my thoughts full of Dickon and his implications so that I forgot about old Grissel until later.
I wanted to get to know something about Dickon’s sons and one morning, when I knew it was time for their break from lessons, I went up to the schoolroom.
The boys were seated at a table with Mr Raine their tutor drinking glasses of milk.
‘I hope I’m not intruding on lessons,’ I said.
‘Come in,’ called Jonathan.
Mr Raine assured me that this was the morning break and that the boys would not resume lessons for another fifteen minutes.
‘Then may I sit down and talk. I want to get to know you.’
Jonathan grinned at me; David looked interested.
‘I have a boy of my own in France,’ I said. ‘He must be about three years younger than you.’
‘Three years!’ said Jonathan with a look of contempt.
‘You were three years younger once,’ David reminded him.
‘That was a long time ago.’
‘Three years to be precise,’ said Mr Raine. ‘Now, boys, stop arguing and be civil to Madame de Tourville.’
‘You’re French,’ said Jonathan, who clearly said the first thing that came into his mind.
‘She knows that and doesn’t want you to tell her,’ added David, who seemed to have an irresistible urge to irritate his brother at every turn.
‘I am French,’ I explained, ‘because my father and my husband are. But I used to live here for a while before I went to France.’
‘That was years ago.’
‘Before you were born.’
They looked at me in wonder.
