But if the subject was dismissed for that night, it reared its head again the very next day. An entertainment was given in our honour. I had always known that the family had vast interests in London. Whenever I came up with my mother and Dickon, there had been a great deal of social activity from which on account of my youth I had generally been excluded. Now I realized the extent of Dickon’s connections and the desire of certain people to show friendship for Dickon’s son and my mother’s daughter.

I enjoyed meeting these interesting people who seemed so poised and knowledgeable. I liked to listen to their conversation, but I did notice that it revolved round one subject at the moment.

As we sat at table on this occasion, the talk took the usual trend. Someone said something about Charlotte Corday. It was just over three months since she had been executed for stabbing Jean Paul Marat in his bath but it was still talked of as though it had happened yesterday.

“I don’t think,” said the man next to me, “that anyone has much sympathy for Marat.”

“No,” I agreed, “but many have for Charlotte Corday.”

“A brave woman. She knew she was signing her own death warrant. That takes courage.”

I agreed with that too.

Our host said: “I wonder who will be next. Danton perhaps.”

“Do you think it will come to that?” said the lady on his right.

“These people always turn against each other,” replied our host.

David said: “I feel sure that the leaders of the revolution like Danton and Robespierre will in due course be brought to the guillotine. They are all jostling for power; they are envious of each other. That is what it is all about. Better conditions for the people? Of course not! Power for Messieurs Marat, Danton and Robespierre… and the rest. And each one in his turn will be the downfall of the others.”

There was a murmur of agreement round the table.

Our hostess said: “I trust you will be able to forget these disagreeable men when you listen to Ludwig Blochermund, who is shortly going to entertain us on the piano.”

“Blochermund!” cried a fat fair lady. “My dear, how did you manage to get him? I hear he is in great demand.”

“Yes. He was performing at the Rotunda recently.”

“I did have the pleasure of hearing him there and I look forward greatly to hearing his performance tonight.”

“Wonderful,” murmured several of the guests.

After the meal we went into the drawing room in which was a grand piano and there Herr Blochermund performed to our delight.

I sat in blissful contemplation until the recital was over and just as the pianist had risen from his stool and was receiving the congratulations of his audience, the butler came in and announced that a gentleman had come to see our host, and it appeared that the matter was somewhat urgent.

Our host went out and it was ten minutes later when he returned, looking very disturbed.

He addressed us all in a tone of melancholy and said: “I know you will all be made aware of this sad news soon enough. I am sorry to spoil the evening with it, but you will not wish to be kept in the dark. The Queen of France has followed her husband to the guillotine.”

There was a hushed silence.

“So they have dared…” whispered someone.

“Both are dead now… the King and the Queen… murdered by a bloodthirsty mob,” said our host. “Where will all this end?”

The party broke up then. No one was in the mood for festivity. All of us must have been thinking of that frivolous girl who little more than twenty years before had come to France to make the brilliant marriage arranged for her, and we were all thinking: What now? To murder kings and queens makes a dangerous precedent.

As we left, our host looked earnestly at David.

He said: “Your father should be informed without delay.”

David nodded.

He said: “We shall leave for Eversleigh tomorrow.”

I was a little hurt that we should be leaving two days before we planned to go.

“It has happened. The Queen is dead,” I complained to David. “What good can we do by going home so soon?”

“My father must know at once,” he said.

I was exasperated. “But what can he do about it?”

“There is more to this than the execution of the Queen, Claudine.”

“What more?”

We were in the carriage then, leaving London behind and riding through the open country.

“While the Queen lived there was a monarchy in France, even though a captive one. Now the monarchy is at an end.”

“There is a Dauphin.”

“A boy, poor child… in the hands of sadist torturers intent on making him suffer for being the son of a king. I tremble for him.”

“It is France, David, and this is England.”

“Everything that happens affects us all, particularly when it is happening so close to us. There are great fears in the country. Revolution is like a fire. Once it gets out of control, it spreads.”

“You mean people are afraid we might have the same thing here?”

“Very few governments in Europe have enough support from their people to feel very safe. I think we in England may be more fortunate than most. Our King is no despot. He is a gentle creature. The people wouldn’t hate him. They might refer to him as Farmer George but there is an element of affection as well as contempt in the epithet. They could not hate such a mild man… a man of simple tastes who is determined to do his duty, even if he is not very clear how it should be done. We need reforms here, and rest assured we shall get them. But the last thing we need is revolution.”

“Surely that is the last thing any country needs.”

“I really believe that in their hearts our people do not want revolution. We have too close to us an example of what it can mean. The French are merely changing one set of masters for another, and I firmly believe that many sane people would prefer the first, however oppressive. The country may have been led by men who were selfish, effete, careless of the needs of the people, too eager to pander to their own—but even they were better than these bloodthirsty power-hungry murderers who are ruling them now.”

“Then if our people know this, why should we have to hurry home?”

He was silent for a few moments, then he said: “There are agitators—men who did so much to stir up revolution in France. They aim to do the same all over Europe. They want to bring down the Church, the State and the Monarchy.”

“Do you mean that these men, these agitators, are actually in our country?”

“I am sure of it. Their number will increase now and we have to be prepared.”

“And what can your father do about it?”

David shrugged his shoulders, and I wondered how much he knew about Dickon’s secret work.

There was nothing more to be said. The honeymoon was over.

David looked at me indulgently. “Don’t forget,” he said, “when things are better, we are going to take that trip to Italy.”

I nestled close to him. “It will be wonderful. I do believe, David, that one of these days I shall know as much as you do.”

“As long as you don’t know more and despise me for my ignorance, I shall be happy with that.”

I watched the passing countryside. Few of the leaves remained on the trees, but the colours of those which did were beautiful. In some of the orchards they were gathering the last of the fruit. Winter was almost upon us.

We had planned to arrive before darkness fell and at this time of year it grew dark early. But we made good progress and dusk was just beginning to fall when I saw the high wall of Eversleigh with the glimpse of the gates beyond, and my heart gave that little leap of pleasure as it always did when I saw it after being away.

As we passed through the gates and to the house the grooms came out of the stables—astonished to see us.

David helped me from the carriage and I turned to the house. I could scarcely wait to see my mother and tell her of the wonderful time we had had in London.

I went ahead of David running into the hall—the beloved hall with its high vaulted ceiling, its stone walls and the family tree over the fireplace.

The hall was deserted. Of course, they did not know we were coming that day.

I started up the stairs.

“Maman,” I called. “It’s Claudine… and David. We’re home.”

My voice seemed to echo back to me; and then suddenly at the top of the staircase, I saw a strange figure. It was grey and hooded. I thought it was a monk or a nun standing there and I felt myself grow cold with terror. In that moment I really believed I was face to face with the supernatural.

I stood very still and indeed if I had tried to move I believe I should not have been able to do so.

The figure moved slightly; a pair of burning dark eyes seemed to be boring through me.

Then a voice said: “It’s Claudine… Oh, Claudine, you don’t know me.”

I cried out: “Aunt… Aunt Sophie.”

Then I knew she was back. Jonathan, Charlot and Louis Charles had gone over to rescue her.

And Jonathan would always do what he set out to do.

What a homecoming that was!

Even as Sophie embraced me I heard my mother’s voice. She appeared on the stairs and Dickon was with her.

“Claudine! David! We didn’t expect you today.” My mother hugged me. “My dearest, you look so well. It is wonderful to see you.”

“There is important news,” said David. “They have sent the Queen of France to the guillotine.”

Dickon, who had come out, did not speak. He stood very still and I saw that he was frowning.

“We were at the Cranthornes’,” went on David, “and the news came through to John Cranthorne. They wanted you to know at once.”