‘But if people ask who I am?’ Mistral asked. ‘What am I to reply? Am I, too, to have another name?’

‘Most certainly,’ Emilie replied. ‘You are to tell no one that your name is Wytham. Is that clear? The word Wytham must never pass your lips. I shall be – Madame – yes, Madame Secret! It is an appropriate nomination. People will be curious – I want them to be curious, people will ask questions – I want them to ask questions, people will talk – I want them to talk.’

‘But, Aunt Emilie, I do not understand.’

‘Does it matter if you do or not? I have already told you, Mistral, you must obey me. I must also add that you must trust me. I know what is best for you, as I know what is best for myself. Is that clear?’

‘Yes, Aunt Emilie.’

‘Then we are agreed. We will journey together, you and I, and my reason for the journey will for the moment remain my secret.’

Mistral would have said something, but at that moment there came a knock on the door and Jeanne came into the room. ‘Madame Guibout is here, Madame.’

‘Good,’ Emilie said. ‘Ask her to come in. Mistral, you go at once and put on your clothes with the exception of your gown. Madame will wish to fit you in your petticoats.’

‘But first Mademoiselle must have her breakfast,’ Jeanne exclaimed. ‘I put it in her room nearly twenty minutes ago, as I thought you desired me to do.’

‘How stupid you are, Jeanne! I wished Mademoiselle to have it here, but never mind! Eat it in your room while you dress, Mistral, but do not be too long.’

‘Very well, Aunt Emilie,’ Mistral said obediently and followed Jeanne from the room.

Emilie watched her go. As she reached the door, Mistral glanced back over her shoulder, giving her Aunt a shy smile. She made a little gesture of farewell, and for a moment Emilie thought it was Alice who smiled, Alice who made the little gesture with her head. Emilie almost cried out at the resemblance, then the door closed behind Mistral and she was alone.

‘Alice!’

She whispered the name to herself. It seemed only yesterday that she had seen her smile so sweetly. How lovely she had been and how lovable! How much those soft clinging arms had meant round her neck. She could see Alice now as she was when John Wytham brought her from England at the age of ten, a thin, frightened little girl, with eyes which seemed too big for her face – tear-drenched blue eyes, and lips which were ready to tremble at a harsh word.

Emilie had been feeding the chickens on the farm when her father arrived. She could see him now driving up the lane, the black horses rearing and prancing as if they were just fresh from the stable. He drew up with a flourish, threw the reins to a groom, jumped down and held out his arms to a small child who had been seated beside him on the driving seat.