Dickon nodded and my mother looked at him anxiously.

“We shall leave for London tomorrow,” he said.

There was a brief silence and my mother said: “You see what has happened.”

“Aunt Sophie…” I began.

“It is wonderful that she is here.”

“And Charlot?”

My mother looked sad. “Charlot has not come back. Nor has Louis Charles. They have joined the army… the French army.”

“Oh no!” I cried. “They’ll be fighting against us.”

“Fools,” said Dickon.

My mother laid a hand on his arm.

“Charlot was always fretting to get back,” she said. “At least he is alive and we have news of him at last.”

There was one question I wanted to ask and I felt too emotional to say his name. But my mother answered it for me. “Jonathan brought Aunt Sophie back with Jeanne Fougère. You remember Jeanne Fougère?”

“Yes, yes, of course. So… Jonathan is safely home.”

My mother looked at me intently. “Yes, Jonathan is back.”

When David and I went down to dinner he was there. My heart leaped with excitement; he looked different—older and even more attractive than he had before he went away.

I looked at him quickly and then averted my gaze. I hoped no one noticed how the colour in my cheeks had risen.

Jonathan said: “I’ve been hearing about the wedding. So I have to congratulate you both.”

“Thank you,” I said faintly.

He came towards me and, placing his hands on my shoulders, kissed me lightly on the cheek.

“So,” he said scoldingly, “you stole a march on me.”

He gave a little laugh and I tried to smile. “How long have I been away? Eight months? And I come back to find you a wedded wife!”

He raised his eyes to the ceiling. He had spoken as though it were a joke and I felt relieved in a way because he took it all so lightly.

“When did you return?” I asked.

“Two days ago.”

Two days, I thought. While I was riding in the Park, so contented, laughing, so happy, Jonathan had been coming home with Aunt Sophie. If I had known…

Sabrina, who had joined us, said: “Dickon is so relieved that Jonathan is home.”

“Of course,” I said.

“Poor darling, it has been an anxious time for him.”

Aunt Sophie appeared then. That is the way to describe her movements. She glided rather than walked, and she was so quiet that one was almost unaware that she was there; and then suddenly one would lift one’s head and see those burning intense eyes in the half-shrouded face.

I wondered what she looked like without her hood and how deeply scarred she was by those terrible burns she had received in the Place Louis XV at the time of the wedding of that Queen who was now a headless corpse.

She wore a gown of delicate mauve with a hood to match. I could see the dark hair at one side of her face—the hood hid the other side. There was about her an ambiance of tragedy, of which all must be aware.

“We are very very happy to have Sophie safe with us.” My mother seemed almost pathetically anxious to make Sophie feel at home. She had always been like that with Sophie. I remembered that there were times when she almost seemed to hold herself responsible for Sophie’s disfigurement, just because she had been present when the disaster had happened and my father, who had at that time been engaged to Sophie, had brought my mother safely out of danger while my Uncle Armand had rescued Sophie. It had happened long before I was born—about twenty-three years ago, so all that time Sophie had been living with her disfigurement. She must be nearly forty years old now.

“Jeanne Fougère has come too, I am happy to hear,” I said.

“I wouldn’t have left Jeanne behind,” said Sophie.

“Of course not,” put in my mother. “Jeanne has been a wonderful friend. I wanted her to join us at table but she would not. She is a stickler for formality. ‘Jeanne,’ I said to her, ‘you are a dear friend. That is how we regard you.’ ‘I am Mademoiselle Sophie’s maid, Madame,’ she said. ‘And that is what I wish to be.’ I could not persuade her.”

“If you have no objection I shall eat with her as I have always done,” said Sophie. “It is a special occasion tonight and I wanted to be here to greet Claudine.”

“Thank you, Aunt Sophie.”

Her eyes were on me and I saw in them a hint of the warmth she showed for Jeanne Fougère, and I felt rather pleased that this strange woman should have a certain feeling for me. She always had had—and for Charlot too—but I think particularly for me. I remembered long ago in the Chateau d’Aubigné before that day—so far in the distant past now—when we had left for a holiday in England and never came back. It was the last time, before this, when I had seen Aunt Sophie.

“Do come to the table,” said my mother. “They have brought in the soup and it will be getting cold.”

We sat down to dinner and Jonathan said: “I claim the honour of sitting on the right hand of the bride.” Whereupon he took the chair next to mine.

“No need to ask if the honeymoon was a success, is there, Dickon?” said my mother.

“Bliss and contentment shine from their eyes,” replied Dickon.

“And to think,” said Jonathan, “that while you were discovering the joys of matrimony, I was bartering for a boat in Ostend.”

“So you came that way,” said David.

“My dear brother, where else? How do you think an Englishman would fare in Calais or some more convenient port? An Englishman… bringing Frenchwomen across the Channel! Have you any idea what it is like out there?”

“A vague one,” replied David. “I did not expect for one moment that you could come through France.”

“Jonathan will tell you about it sometime,” said my mother. She was flashing a look at me and glancing at Sophie. I understood what she meant and so did David. The subject was too painful to be talked of in front of Sophie. We should hear all later when she was not one of the company.

“Well, here you are now and that is wonderful,” I said. “We have been so worried.”

My hand was lying on the table and Jonathan pressed it briefly. It was outwardly a brotherly gesture, but the touch of his hand on mine made me shiver.

“I have given Aunt Sophie the nursery rooms,” said my mother.

“Oh… they haven’t been used for years.”

“I liked them as soon as I saw them,” said Sophie.

“They arrived in the early hours of the morning. What a day that was!” My mother went on talking quickly. “I was so delighted… and then I looked for Charlot.”

Dickon said: “He is doing what he wanted to do. You can’t stop people doing that, you know, Lottie. He’s got to live his own life.”

“What will become of him?”

“Charlot will do well,” said Dickon. “He’s that sort. He’ll soon rise to be a general in that rabble, you’ll see.”

David said dryly: “It seems to be doing surprisingly well for a rabble army.”

“Yes indeed,” agreed Dickon. “A surprise for us all. They’ve got some fight in them, those rebels. The French have always been excellent soldiers. I will say that for them.”

He was looking at Lottie tenderly. He would never feel the same for his sons as she did for hers. Dickon was too self-centred; he was not the man to form sentimental attachments. That was why his obsession with my mother was so remarkable; and all the more intense, I supposed, because his affections were not divided.

“Oh yes,” he went on, “Charlot has found his niche in the world—and his shadow Louis Charles with him. When this stupid war is over, when these bloodthirsty citizens of the Republic settle down, when sanity returns to France, reality will come with it. Then, Lottie, my love, you and I will pay a visit to France. We shall be graciously received by Monsieur le Général, sporting all the medals he has won… and you’ll be very proud of him.”

“Dickon, you are absurd. But you’re right. He does know how to take care of himself.”

They had taken the soup away and we were now being served with the roast beef.

“The roast beef of old England!” said Jonathan. “Nothing like it. How I have longed for it.” He pressed a little closer to me. “…among other things.”

“Nothing like an absence from the old country to increase one’s appreciation of it,” commented Dickon.

Aunt Sophie spoke little English and the conversation at the table was half English, half French. Jonathan’s French was like his father’s—extremely anglicised.

I said: “I wonder how you ever got along over there.”

He put his fingers to his lips and my mother said laughingly: “Do you think Jonathan would be defeated by a mere language? He’d override such obstacles. He’s like his father.”

Jonathan and Dickon looked at each other and laughed. There was a rapport between them which was lacking between Dickon and David. I supposed this was because they were so much alike.

“I hope you’ll be comfortable in the nursery suite,” said David to Sophie. He understood French very well indeed and spoke it moderately well, but his accent and intonation did not make him readily understood. I imagined that now Aunt Sophie was with us he would want to put that right. I smiled indulgently. He would want to practise his French with me. That was typical of him. He always wanted to master any intellectual exercise. Jonathan was the same with those matters which interested him, so they were alike in some ways. Jonathan, however, would never concern himself with such matters as perfecting himself in a language.

Sophie said: “Yes, thank you. I am comfortable. Those rooms suit my needs.”

Her mood was one of aloofness. I saw what she meant. The nursery was apart from the rest of the house just as her quarters in the Chateau d’Aubigné had been and her great desire had been to set herself apart from the rest of the family. I think that was why she always made me feel that there was something not quite normal about her.