“Bring everyone in,” I cried, taking command of the situation, glowing with pleasure at having been called a beautiful lady and pleased as ever to show my authority as the châtelaine of the castle.

They came. They seemed to fill the hall. Their eyes gleamed at the sight of the fire and I bade them to come and warm themselves.

There was a middle-aged woman, who could have been the wife of the leader, and another whom I judged to be in her late twenties … and Harriet Main. Three of the men were bordering on middle age and there were two younger ones. One of these appeared to be very handsome, but they were so wrapped up that I saw little of their faces, and when I had brought them to the fire, I said I would go and see what food we could give them.

I went to the kitchen and saw our two maids, Marianne and Jeanne, who had been bequeathed to us with Jacques to look after our needs and were all we had.

When I told them what had happened they were gleeful. “Players!” cried Marianne, who was older than Jeanne, “Oh, we are in for some fun. How long is it since we had players call here? They usually go only to the big houses and castles.”

“The weather has brought them to us,” I said. “What can we give them?”

Jeanne and Marianne would put their heads together. I could rest assured, they said, that the eight players would be adequately fed and might they come to see the play?

I readily gave my permission. We would ask the Lambards in to see it too. Our audience would be very small even so.

I went back to the group in the hall. That was the first time I really saw Harriet. She had thrown off her cloak and was stretching her hands out to the fire. Even crouching over the fire as she was I could see that she was tall. Her thick, dark, curling hair released from the hood had sprung out to give a beautiful frame to her pale face. I noticed her eyes immediately. They were dark blue, rather long; mysterious, concealing eyes, I thought them; and their thick, dark eyelashes were immediately noticeable, as were her heavy black brows contrasting with her pale skin. Her lips were richly red, and it was only later that I discovered that she used a lip salve to make them so. Her forehead was higher than is usual and her chin pointed. So many people look alike that you see them once and don’t remember them. No one could ever have looked at Harriet Main and forgotten her.

I found I was staring at her; she noticed this and it amused her; I expected she was accustomed to it.

She astonished me by saying: “I’m English.” She held out her hand to me. I took it and for a few moments we looked at each other. I felt she was summing me up.

“I have not been long with the troupe,” she said, speaking in English. “We are on our way to Paris where we shall play to big audiences … but we call at houses on our way and play for our lodging.”

“You are welcome,” I said. “We have never had a troupe call before. We are all looking forward to seeing you play for us and will do our best to make you comfortable. This is not a grand place as you see. We are exiles and here only until the King returns.”

She nodded.

Then she turned to the players and said in rapid French that I was sympathetic and they must all give of their best this night as that was being given to us.

I had decided that as soon as the potage was hot they should eat, so I summoned them to the table and the great steaming dish was brought in. The contents soon disappeared, and while they ate I was able to take stock of our guests, who were all colourful and all spoke in resonant voices, giving great importance to the most trivial comment.

The leader of the troupe and his wife made much of the children, who were overcome with excitement.

Then the snow started to fall, and Monsieur Lamotte, the leader, declared that it was fortunate indeed that they had come upon Castle Plenty in good time. I was apologetic about Castle Plenty, and, as I pointed out to them, we were so unaccustomed to guests that I feared we could not entertain them as we would wish.

How exciting their conversation seemed. They talked of their plays and their parts and the places in which they had played, and it seemed to us all listening that an actor’s life must be the most rewarding in the world. Jeanne and Marianne, with Jacques, came and stood in the hall listening to the conversation which seemed to grow more and more sparkling as time progressed. I sent Jacques to tell the Lambards that they must come over to see the play. He came back and told me how excited they were at the prospect.

Harriet was less talkative than the others. I saw her looking around the hall as though judging it—comparing it I suspected with other places in which she had lived. Then I would find her eyes on me, watching me intently.

She was seated next to the very handsome young man—whom they called Jabot. I thought he was a little conceited because he always seemed to demand attention. When Angie went to him and, placing her hands on his knees, looked up in adoration at his face and said: “You are pretty,” everyone laughed, and Jabot was so delighted that he picked her up and kissed her. Poor little Angie, overcome with shyness, immediately wriggled free and ran out of the hall, but she came back to stand some distance away where she could not take her eyes from Jabot.

“Another admirer for you, my boy,” said Madame Lamotte, and everybody laughed.

Fleurette, the other female player, her lips tightening I noticed, said: “We must tell the little one that Jabot is constant to none.”

Harriet shrugged her shoulders and replied: “That is a commonplace,” then she started to sing in a deep rich voice:

“Sigh no more ladies,

Men were deceivers ever …”

And everyone laughed.

They sat a long time at the table and I went into consultation with Jeanne and Marianne. We must give them supper after the play, which was to take place at six o’clock, and we must make sure it was a good supper. What could we do?

They were determined to provide the best possible supper in the circumstances. Jacques was already busy bringing their trappings into the hall. The children stared on in wonder at the carpetbags in which tawdry garments could be seen—but they did not seem tawdry to us then. The players had brought an enchantment with them.

They would sleep in the hall, they said. They had rugs and blankets, and they would be off next morning as soon as it was light. They must not be late for their engagement in Paris.

I protested. They must not sleep on the floor. The château was not grand by any means, it was little more than a farmhouse, but at least we could put a few rooms at their disposal.

“The warmth of your welcome is like a hot cordial on a cold day,” declaimed Monsieur Lamotte.

That was a night to remember. The candles were burning in their sconces and what an entranced audience we were. The tall Lambard sons, usually so vocal, were silent in wonder, and the rest of us shared in their awe. The children sat cross legged on the floor. By good luck there was a dais at the end of the hall and this they had turned into a stage.

The play was The Merchant of Venice. Harriet was Portia, and of all the players she was the one from whom I could not take my eyes. She was clad in a gown of blue velvet with something glittering round the waist. Daylight would show the velvet to be rubbed and spotted, the girdle some cheap tinsel stuff, but candlelight hid the imperfections and showed us only that beauty in which we were only too ready to believe.

This was magic. We had never seen real players before. We had dressed up now and then and played our charades, but this seemed to us perfection. Jabot was a handsome Bassanio; Monsieur Lamotte was a wily Shylock with a hump on his back and a pair of scales in his hand. The younger children cried out in horror when he appeared in the court scene, and Angie wept bitterly because she thought he really was going to take his pound of flesh. “Don’t let him, don’t let him,” she sobbed, and I had to console her and tell her to wait and see how Portia was going to make it all come right.

How she declaimed, how she tossed her head. And how incredibly beautiful she was! I shall never forget Harriet as she was that night, and they could never played before a more appreciative audience than we were. We were all so innocent and inexperienced. Jacques watched, his mouth agape, Lucas was in ecstasies and the little ones were amazed that there could be such wonders in the world.

When the last scene had been played and Bassanio united with Portia, the children embraced each other and laughed with joy and I think we all felt a little bemused.

Monsieur Lamotte made a little speech and said he thought we had enjoyed his little play and as for himself he had never played before a more appreciative audience—which I imagine was true.

The maids scurried to the kitchens, and props were cleared away and very soon we were sitting down to a meal such as, I was sure, had rarely been served before in Château Congrève.

There was magic abroad that night. Dick whispered to me that our good fairies had sent the snow so that those wonderful people could come to Congrève. The Lambards stayed to supper and Madame Lambard brought in a great pie full of chicken and pork topped with a gold-brown crust. She had heated it in the oven, she said, and had she known how we were to be honoured, the crust should have been made to represent a stage, for, she confided, she was a dab hand with a bit of pie crust.

Monsieur Lambard brought in a cask of wine. This was an occasion we should never forget.