‘No, Papa! Please stop! Stop! You will murder her!’ shrieked the eldest, courageously reaching forward to disentangle us. Something in her expression suggested that this was not the first occasion in which she had intervened. Once wrenched apart, we four sat in silence, panting, shamefaced and shaken. All that could be heard were the sniffles of the youngest Valentin as we continued to roll along the road.

After a spell, Monsieur spoke under his breath.

‘I shall deliver you to Meudon, mademoiselle, but prepare to be collected at six o’clock. At this time my carriage will return for you whereupon you shall be conveyed to my sister’s house and this charade shall be enacted, whether you will it to be or not. You have been the cause of this debacle, mademoiselle, and I mean to have you extricate us from it.’

I understood that this was no idle threat, though my contempt for Monsieur Valentin was such that I made no reply. I would not even deign to lift my eyes to him. Instead, I sat and listened to the rumble of the wheels along that stony, rutted road and contemplated my pleasure in arriving at the end of it.

Chapter 24

THE FROZEN MIST lay so heavily upon the road that day that when we approached Mrs Elliot’s dark green painted gate, I could scarcely discern it from the stone wall which ran beside it. Valentin uttered not a word to me as I stepped from his vehicle. No sooner had I been deposited than he gave the coachman the order to drive away, abandoning me to my fate in the most ruthless fashion.

I pulled upon the bell cord and listened for the sound of footfall. Indeed, I waited some time, and with each moment that passed I began to fear that I had arrived too late. My head began to paint fanciful pictures of my friend’s sudden departure. I imagined that her coach had been loaded and that she had already arrived at Calais. I feared that there was now a letter awaiting me at the Palais-Royal explaining all, and informing me that I was too late. I rang again, this time with more urgency. I had no sooner begun to curse myself, to fretfully twist my hands, when Langlois, Mrs Elliot’s porter, peered from behind the gate.

‘Mademoiselle Lightfoot?’ said he with an air of surprise, before pulling back the doors.

What relief it was to behold his familiar hulking figure there!

‘I fear Madame Elliot is not expecting me. Is she at home?’ I apologized as I stepped through the gate.

‘Yes, mademoiselle,’ said he, ‘and I should think she will be pleased to learn that it is not the guard returned again to make trouble.’