But they could still have sent a telegram, even from the French countryside—unless they were both seriously hurt and lying unconscious in a hospital… or dead. I felt a great lurch of fear in the pit of my stomach. I was alone in a strange country. How would I ever find out what had happened to them? What would I do if they had died?

Calm down, I told myself. So they have been away for one day. Maybe they are in a small village with no telegraph office. Maybe they are in an automobile that broke down miles from the nearest town. And at this very minute they are worrying about me arriving and finding nobody home. By tomorrow morning we’ll all be sitting around their fire, drinking Sid’s disgusting coffee, and laughing about this. Thus reassured I finished changing my son and went into the kitchen to look for something I could prepare for an evening meal. I was reluctant to go out just in case some message came from my friends, and I have to confess that I didn’t fancy going down all those stairs, out in the pouring rain, and then up again, with no buggy for Liam and no free hand to hold an umbrella.

There was plenty of butter and cheese in the larder, as well as potatoes, onions, and a few wilted carrots. I cooked the carrots and a potato and mashed them together with butter for Liam, then fried some potatoes and onions and drizzled melted cheese over them for me. After I had finished my meal I realized that I should write to Daniel. I had promised to write again as soon as I reached Paris. He would be worrying about us and want to know that I was safely with Sid and Gus. No need to tell him that I did not feel safe at this moment. I looked around and located Sid’s writing desk on a side table. As I opened it the first thing I saw was a postcard, showing a scene by the painter Monet, addressed to Miss Augusta Walcott, and on it were scribbled two words: Absolutely not! And it was signed, if I could read correctly, Reynold Bryce.