What disturbed me was that no attempt was made on my father’s part to stifle such rumours. Tante Berthe did her best and that was very good, for she was one who was accustomed to being obeyed; but although the stories were never repeated in her presence that did not mean they were not in the maids’ bedrooms and the places where the servants congregated.

So it was not a very happy household.

Lisette enjoyed being there—for I had taken her with me—but she did not altogether relish coming under Tante Berthe’s scrutiny. ‘I am a married woman now,’ she said, ‘and even Tante Berthe must remember that.’ At the same time she loved the château, and said it was such a grand old place and Tourville was nothing compared with it.

My father took such pleasure in my company and talked most of the time about what he and my mother had done together; how they had been completely happy in each other’s company. As though I did not know!

‘We were singularly blessed to have such a daughter,’ he said, but I believed that when they had been together they had thought of little else but each other. It was only now that he had lost her that he turned pathetically to me.

He visited us at Tourville and I was inclined to think that he was happier there than when at Aubigné. There were not so many memories. Besides, the children were there and it was not always easy to travel with someone as young as Claudine. So I prevailed on him to come to us, which he often did.

It pleased me. It meant that I did not have to be in that grim house with Sophie brooding in her turret. The Tourville family were always happy to see him. I thought then that I had been very lucky marrying into such a family. They might not be so grand as the Aubignés but they were most certainly kindly, and the atmosphere at Tourville was in complete contrast to that of Aubigné, bland, comfortable; Lisette called it flat and unexciting, whereas at Aubigné she felt that anything might suddenly happen.

Amélie was happily married; her husband was a gentle, rather meek man, colourless but extremely kind … rather like Amélie herself. My father-in-law, I imagine, got on better with his son-in-law than he had with his less predictable son. Charles was of a fiery temper; he might be more significant as a person but not always so easy to live with and my parents-in-law, who liked to live in peace, were very happy with present arrangements.

We talked often of Charles. We had heard nothing of him. It was not possible to get news. He was so far away for one thing and how letters could be sent from a country engaged in war I could not imagine.

From time to time we had visitors at Tourville and some of them had returned from America so they were able to give us a little news of what was happening there. One or two of them had been with Charles, so we knew he had arrived safely.

They were earnest young men, those returning warriors. They talked enthusiastically about the struggle for independence.

‘Men should be free to choose who governs them,’ one young man said. He was very young, idealistic, and his pleasant features glowed with enthusiasm.

My father was with us at the time this young man came and years later I was to remember the manner in which he answered him.

‘I believe,’ said my father, ‘that you young men, when you return from America, preach freedom for the oppressed.’

‘That is so, Comte,’ said the young man. ‘There is a wonderful spirit abroad and this war has made it clear. Monarchs and governors have no right to oppress those whom they rule. The oppressed must stand up and fight for their freedom.’

‘And these are doctrines you are preaching here? Is that so?’

‘Assuredly, sir. They are the doctrines of truth and honour.’

‘And the doctrines which are inciting the mobs to riot?’

The blood flamed into my father’s face. I knew he was seeing my mother coming out of the milliner’s shop to face the mob whose fury killed her. It seemed that everything we discussed led to that dangerous subject.

‘We are only telling people that they have rights,’ said the young man.

‘Rights to kill their betters!’ cried my father.

‘No, sir, no, of course not. Rights which should be given them and if they are not … to fight for them as the Colonists are doing.’

I changed the subject hastily. It was what I had to do continually. I liked best to be with my father on our own and if then he talked of the war I could make sure that he was not reminded of the troubles in France.

He thought Charles was a fool to have gone to fight. First he said the quarrel had nothing to do with France; secondly it meant that Frenchmen were coming back with revolutionary ideas; thirdly France was paying heavily for her support of the Colonists … and in more than money, which it could ill afford in any case.

‘He has left his family … all this time. How long is it? It must be over a year now. I wish we had found a better match for you, Lottie.’

‘I am fond of Charles and I think he is of me.’

‘To leave you all this time! To go and fight for a cause which has nothing to do with this country!’

‘He was challenged rather … I think he saw it like that.’

‘Yes,’ mused my father, ‘I would have liked someone higher for you.’

‘He was going to marry Sophie. You approved of that.’

‘Sophie was not the sort to attract important men … as you would. I was glad to make a match for her and the Tourvilles were ready. If only … but then you see you were not born in wedlock, and foolish as these conventions are they have to be considered. It seemed that the Tourville marriage was a very good one for you at the time.’

‘It was, and then I have Charlot and Claudine.’

‘Those dear ones, yes. Lottie, how I should love to have them at Aubigné … always.’ He looked at me sharply. ‘I see you are thinking it is hardly the place for children. But they would change it, Lottie. We should forget Sophie in her tower with dragon Jeanne, and Armand who cares for nothing but his pleasure, and his psalm-singing wife who spends most of her days in prayer instead of bringing babies into the world. And then there is that old misanthrope—myself—who would be a changed man if only he could have his loved ones about him.’

‘One day Charles will come home,’ I said. ‘I must be here when he does.’

So once again we parted and my father went back to his life of mourning and I continued to wait for news of Charles’s return. Occasionally I heard news of the war. It was not yet over. There seemed to be a series of victories and defeats and I gathered the English were not doing well.

Then one day we had a visitor.

I had met the Comte de Saramand when Charles had been making his arrangements to go to America. He had been one of those who had answered the call and he had stayed at the château several times with us.

As soon as I saw him standing in the hall I knew that he had brought news of Charles and a feeling of dread swept over me.

Why was Charles not with him? They had gone together. Surely they would return together. And why had the Comte de Saramand called on me?

There was something about his demeanour which disturbed me. He looked very grave.

‘Welcome, Comte,’ I said. ‘You have news of my husband … ’

The Comte looked at me steadily and said: ‘I have bad news for you, I’m afraid.’

‘Charles … ’ I murmured.

‘He fell at the Battle of Eutaw Springs. I was with him at the end. His last thoughts were of you. He regretted leaving you and said he never should have done so. He wanted me to tell you that he loved you … that you were the only one.’

‘Dead?’ I murmured. ‘Charles … dead.’

‘He gave me this ring which I was to return to you.’

I took the ring. It was the gold ring with the lapis seal which he had always worn. There could be no doubt. Charles was dead.