Dark Desire

Dark Desire

Written by Virginia Coffman

Candlewood Books

****

ISBN: 978-1-937211-21-9

Published by Candlewood Books at Smashwords

Copyright © 2012 by Candlewood Books, a Division of Harding House Publishing Service, Inc. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission from the publisher.

Prologue

There are memories of passionate love or hate that sear themselves on the brain. And so it was that night before the arrest, before he was taken from me for questioning.

Long afterward, when the autumn air is filled with wood smoke, and the great château walls are bright with tenacious red ivy, I remember every detail of our desperate lovemaking on that night.

It began when we argued in an upper hall of the Château Bertold. In any case, Nicolas argued. He had guessed my suspicions and was harsh and bitter.

You don’t really trust me, either, do you? My own nephew has convinced you that I am a murderer. That I poisoned a kind old man who had been my friend since my childhood. Now you believe I would murder that boy, the only blood relation left to me.

Hush! Someone will hear you.

He seemed to care very little, though the huge old château was filled with dinner guests staying the night and scattered throughout the many rooms around us.

In former days Nicolas must have been just as indifferent to those who heard his quarrels with my brother William. His eyes burned with the passion of those feelings that had been building all night. He reached for me. I reacted instinctively against that look like burning darkness in his eyes. I backed away.

He caught my arms and pulled me to him.

I feared him and I feared myself. I knew that despite everything, I would never love again as I loved him now when he needed me.

Come.

Nicolas, Jeremy is waiting to say good night.

I knew the influence his lovemaking would have on me. Suspicion, certainty, a hundred doubts would fade.

Come with me.

I found myself propelled across the hall to that bedchamber with its warm, crimson hangings, the Velvet Room in which we had achieved our wildest happiness.

I tried to laugh.

Look at me . . . darling. A half-dozen petticoats, all these yards of taffeta. My jewels—

His thumbs pressed painfully into the swelling flesh of my bosom above the neckline of my gown.

That is easily solved. I have always imagined making love to a Venus who let nothing but diamonds intrude upon her beauty. Take off everything but the diamonds. Let me see you as Venus.

I am no Venus, and you are being nonsensical. There may still be guests wandering about the halls.

He gave me a little shove.

Take them off. The skirts, the petticoats, all those ridiculous coverings. He bolted the door.

Did he think I would run out screaming, introduce a score of sleeping guests to our domestic crisis?

I began, Nicolas . . .

It was darling a moment ago.

Darling, listen to me.

He laughed. It was not a pleasant sound.

Please, don’t force yourself, my sweet. I sometimes wonder if there ever was a time when you loved me.

I was hurt and indignant at his willful misunderstanding of my nature. I am an English countrywoman. In our family we seldom, if ever, used endearments. I turned away but was startled by his deep, resonant voice. The command came like the crack of a whip.

Undress.

I was too proud to struggle over his manner. I closed my eyes, so angry that I could scarcely reach the buttons and hooks at the back of my gown. He stood watching me in that nastily amused way, which alarmed, even while it excited, me.

He did not help me.

The gown whose materials and style we had chosen together in Paris spread in a circle around my feet. The stiffened petticoats came after, with my lace-and-satin camisole and the tight lacing.

By the glimmer of two candles, one at either side of his shaving stand, he stared at me, the smile gone, his eyes glowing with that hard light as he studied my unclothed flesh. I tried not to shiver or to laugh nervously, aware of Grandmama’s earrings dangling against the flesh of my face.

There was a fire in the grate across the room and I was not cold, but I couldn’t hide my quickened breathing or the effect his gaze, his mood, had upon my nakedness. He would notice the rising hardness of my breasts betraying my own desire, the way I moistened my lips without intending to.

But I refused to cover my nakedness coyly with outspread fingers. With the necklace of my grandmother’s diamonds heavy against my throat, I stood there trying to look proud and triumphant while he stared at my breasts and then at the curve of my flanks and the red-gold triangle of hair that modesty should have made me ashamed to reveal in the light, even to him.

I got up enough courage finally to challenge him.

What? Now that you have what you wanted, don’t you know what to do with me?

He was as tense as I, and fully ready. I knew the signs. Extending one hand, he said hoarsely, Come!

I could not let that challenge pass. I swallowed hard, managed to exclude all uncertainty. I became greatly daring, for I knew his strength and power; and he looked very forbidding in the stark black and white of eveningwear.

Very well. I am as you want me.

His extended arm was close to me. At my challenge his fingers curled in on his palm. Otherwise he was perfectly still. I thought my heartbeat would stifle me, and I laughed, though I was no more amused than he. But this last taunting sound was too much for him.

He reached for me, pulled me so roughly that my long, dangling earrings lashed my cheeks. At my bare throat, the diamond settings in their intricate webbed pattern cut into my flesh as I was pressed against his breast, but neither Nicolas nor I cared for that. His lips, at the hollow between my breasts, further aroused me, as he knew they would.

Where we had always been so happy in our lovemaking, on the high bed with its velvet curtains pulled back, I made a struggle for pride’s sake, but I knew this only stimulated us further.

In the bed he fell upon me, his mouth like fire, branding my breasts and my thighs so that I would remember forever. Then, as my limbs opened to his invasion, he took possession of me, even as I possessed him, within my body and my heart.

But the end was inevitable. Though I still loved him, my suspicions remained, and minutes later, when we parted, our senses reeling at what we had shared, he guessed that nothing had changed.

While I dressed again, tying loops in petticoat cords, lacing myself once more, fastening both buttons and hooks in my gown, he kept watching me, with what bitter thoughts I could well imagine when he spoke.

My God, I wish I had never met the Daviots, any of them! My loving brother-in-law or that accursed boy or you. You may rot in hell for all it concerns me.

I shot back the bolt of the door and left him. He did not follow me.

It was only a few hours later, on a sunny, autumn morning, that he was quietly charged by his friend, the king’s prosecutor, and they rode away together.

How had it all begun, my acquaintance with Nicolas Bertold and murder? And how different my feelings were, before I ever met this dark, embittered French aristocrat!

It was easy to believe him guilty in the days before I knew him, months before that last, fiery night of passion and suspicion.

Chapter 1

In those summer days I knew only what news reached me in rural England. The investigation into my brother’s death was still proceeding, but the French judicial system was very slow and very thorough. How sure I was of this unknown Frenchman’s guilt!

Each morning I told myself that today the London mail coach would bring news of the aristocratic murderer’s trial. During that long wait for the decision of the French courts, it often seemed to me that this bright, flower-scented summer of I847 was the most harrowing of my life.

It was not until the first beech trees on Ferndene Heath were beginning to turn that we heard the news one August afternoon and the nervous tension was lifted, only to reveal the terror beneath.

The morning rain cleared early that day. I threw on a shawl, got my nephew into a light summer jacket, and walked with him into the village to await the mail coach. While we waited, I hoped to free myself, and especially eight-year-old young Jeremy, from anxious thoughts and perhaps show him some of our English ways.

But I should have known we could not escape. There are helpful gossips in any village, even among the coombes, cliffs, and water meadows of Dorset. Lady Willoughby is the self-appointed social arbiter of our region. She has known me from infancy, and we hold to little formality between us.

Her Ladyship’s daughter, Mavis, and I once shared a bedroom at Miss Ponsonby’s London School for Genteel Young Females. Though we were still great friends, our school days were far behind us. I was now a spinster of twenty-three, but I daresay that I will never be an adult in Lady Willoughby’s eyes.

She called to me from the doorway of the mercer’s shop. My dear Alain, do tell me the latest news.

What news? I asked, knowing quite well what she meant.

She shook a finger at me. The trial, of course. Will there be one? My daughter insists that no one as attractive as Nicolas Bertold can be a villain. There was a sketch of him in the London Post last Wednesday week. I daresay you saw it.

I did. Indeed, her daughter Mavis had broken all records with her pony cart in bringing the paper to me.

I remembered too well the powerful, dark head of the monster, and the hint of a somber, dangerous nature in those extraordinary black eyes. Mavis claimed his smile might change all that. But for me his looks only added to his crimes against my family. I allowed for my friend Mavis’s deeply romantic heart. She would have defended Satan himself if she thought him sensual. It could not sway me. I said, The sketch alone warned me. A villainous fellow if ever I saw one.

Lady Willoughby chided me. Don’t look so serious, child. I am told they still send murderers to the guillotine in France.

A comforting thought.

So you need not fear to see that rogue arriving on your doorstep one day to snatch up his sweet little nephew.

Beside me, clutching my hand in a passionate grip, my nephew reacted. His delicate features hardened, and his lower lip went out belligerently.

I’m Aunt Alain’s nephew.

I squeezed his thin shoulder to acknowledge our warm bond and dismissed Her Ladyship’s hint of the threat from that quarter.

I daresay the French courts will hold Monsieur Bertold for trial. They are perfectly competent, and Nanny Pemberton has offered Jeremy’s testimony. He was an eyewitness.

It is unfortunate that the boy was too ill to be questioned in his own person, so to speak.

I said stiffly, The French authorities thought it best. Jeremy has breathing problems when he is nervous or upset.

She held a length of puce-striped barège up in the watery sunlight and nodded to the mercer’s wife. Just so. Nothing elaborate. About eighteen yards. My little seamstress will make it up. . . . Well, Alain, I’m sure we all wish you good fortune with young Jeremy. But they do say this Bertold is one of King Louis-Philippe’s bosom friends. And that may save the wretch.

Jeremy was shaken, but he managed to inform her bravely, I’m to stay with Aunt Alain. He can’t make me go back. I won’t go! His voice rose and, with it, the difficulty in catching his breath that always accompanied any excitement. Will I? He gazed up at me with that same poignant, wary look I have seen in a vixen I’ve come upon suddenly in the woods.

I said, Of course, you shall not go if you don’t wish to.

He admitted wistfully, I’d like to go back. If it wasn’t for—But I wouldn’t be afraid if you were there.

Between us we had attracted some of the other villagers, who were quite as curious about the fate of Jeremy’s French uncle as Lady Willoughby was. Tad Spindler, a man I knew to be a poacher in season, pulled open the door of the one inn our village afforded. I waved to Tad, who grinned back, showering the ground with drops of gin from his rum mug.

Good day to ye, Miss Alain. Heard a news o’er the water?

I often employed Tad at Daviot House for odd jobs when he was sober, and we were old friends.

Not yet, Tad. Nanny Pemberton and her son will be returning from Paris any day now. But they had many things to do, arranging Jeremy’s affairs and presenting Jeremy’s testimony.

They’re a bad lot, them Frenchies. His expert opinion received nods from the other villagers within hearing. He was also pleased at my mention of Nanny’s son, Richard, who had always befriended him during his scrapes with the game laws. Aye. Master Richard. He’ll do. He finished his gin, and after throwing the mug back through the doorway of the inn, he loped off to Coombe Bower outside the village where he shared a tiny shepherd’s hut with his aged father.

To take Jeremy’s mind off the subject of his French uncle, I tried to be very cheerful.

Since we’ve beaten the London mail, shall we go to the Penny Shop and buy a sweet?

Jeremy revived like a lamb gamboling through the water meadow. Oh, may we? And could I have a . . . what you call them? A Banbury cake full of spices?

I assured him we would both have one, and we walked along the muddy runnel of the street in excellent charity with each other, he in his elegant French boots and I in my countrywoman’s pattens, to preserve my skirts.

I knew when he bit into Mother Hagar’s newly baked spice bun, however, that the delicious aroma brought back memories. He began to look thoughtful and to eat very slowly, preserving each bite in the pocket of his cheek. I tried to tease him out of his sullen mood.

What, Jeremy? Spice buns make you sad?

He shook his head. It was just the good smell made me think of . . . He paused, then added in a small voice, . . . of home.

A little hurt, I wanted to remind him, You are home, but I did not. I knew that Château Bertold, in France’s Loire country, was a very grand place, much finer than Daviot House, in which my brother William, Jeremy’s father, and I had been born. But I had thought Jeremy’s memories of the bloody crime that occurred this January at the château would color his feelings for the place and turn him from it. Evidently not.

Do you miss the château so much? I asked him, attempting to make the question casual.

He considered what remained of his spice bun. Having eaten all around the edges, he saved the spicy center for the last.

Well, I knew the people, you see. And there were Mama and Papa. Of course, Papa hated the big house, and Uncle Nicolas. And he didn’t like the pond with all the lily pads. It’s a moat for the house, you know, and very old. Papa said he didn’t like anything where you couldn’t see the bottom. On account of the lily pads, you know. He raised his dark eyes, so like his mother’s, I’m told, and looked at me, to see if I understood.

I prompted him matter-of-factly, But still your father remained at the château. He did not bring you and your mother home to Daviot House.

He was afraid Uncle Nicolas would take all the land from Mama and me. Uncle Nicolas gets half of everything, you know.

Yes. I knew. It was a divided inheritance that had caused the whole tragedy. Everything I had heard about the death of my brother William, and Yolande, his wife, pointed to that accursed will in which Maréchal Bertold, one of Napoleon’s generals, had left his estate equally to his son, Nicolas, and his daughter, Yolande. The estate was all the greater because the wily Maréchal had betrayed his imperial benefactor during the Hundred Days and worked first for the Restoration. Then, fifteen years later, he had betrayed the Bourbons for the present Orléans king, Louis-Philippe.

A treacherous family, it would seem.

From the moment my good, stubborn brother William went to Paris to sell King Louis-Philippe on the subject of British wool, it had been love at first sight of the capricious and beautiful Yolande. The Bertolds, as William wrote to me with some amusement, were so proud of their ancient name that they made no effort to acquire spurious titles. But William Andrew Daviot was a foreigner. Worse, he was as opinionated and arrogant as the Bertolds—two black marks against him in Bertold eyes—and there had been some resistance to the marriage, a resistance that galled William. My brother was fully as proud as the Bertolds.

Yolande, however, was determined to have her Anglais, and in the end they were married. The son of our Nanny, Richard Pemberton, stood up for William, who had been his boyhood friend. Richard came home to our village delighted with the marriage and describing in detail the elaborate celebration at Château Bertold after a private ceremony in the local village church.

All that was ten years past. Jeremy was born a little more than two years later. William had brought Jeremy here, to meet me in England, when the boy was five. He was a delightful child, if somewhat delicate, and we got on very well, but even then, I could see that William was discontented, more easily angered and more explosive than he had been before he went to France.

I suspected the problem lay in two such different masters ruling over the extensive Bertold estates. I couldn’t imagine William living anywhere without loudly asserting his own opinion. I had learned long ago to manage him by quietly ignoring his shouted orders. Eventually he came to see things my way. But it was obvious that this system was not successful with the Bertold family, particularly Yolande’s brother.

Jeremy swallowed the last of his spice bun in a great hurry and rushed to the door, rattling off French in his excitement.

It is the diligence, the coach with the mails. I saw it crossing the bridge. There. It passes the church.

I made some attempt at decorum, moving calmly to the door to watch the street over Jeremy’s head. The Exeter Coach made connections with the Shaftesbury Mail, thus circuitously bringing both passengers and news of the Great World to our doorstep . I saw the top-heavy coach rolling toward us, over the wagon ruts and cobblestones, the winded team wild-eyed and stirring up dust that made Jeremy cough.

I drew him back, but I was as anxious as he. In order to prevent too great a disappointment, I reminded him softly, Even if the news doesn’t come today, there is tomorrow. Remember. Tomorrow.

You said that yesterday. The accusation was more sad than accusatory. It’s not the news I want. It’s— He broke off.

I ran a hand over the crown of his head in an effort to make him feel less alone, less deserted by all that he loved. I knew now that his real concern was for Nanny Pemberton, whom he had loved quite as much as he loved his father and mother.

Probably Nanny, herself, would bring the news about Nicolas Bertold’s approaching trial for the murders of his brother-in-law, William Daviot, and his sister Yolande. I gave him the benefit of the doubt about his sister. According to my correspondence from Nanny’s son, Richard, it seemed that Nicolas Bertold had hoped to catch William and Jeremy in the collapse of the moat bridge. On an impulse Yolande had started to the village with her husband instead, and died with him in place of young Jeremy, Bertold’s logical target.

Whether Bertold intended to kill his own sister or not, he had certainly planned William’s murder, and for that I led the local hatred of the evil Frenchman.

The old coach, which carried a full complement of passengers as well as the mail, lurched to a stop before the inn, and Jeremy pulled hard at my hand.

Come along, Aunt Alain. We’ll be late. They may drive on and take Nanny.

I let myself be tugged along by Jeremy, retracing our steps toward the inn. Three young dandies, who had been imbibing rather too freely on the coach roof, tumbled down, one of them losing his fine silk top hat in the process. Their descent brought them into collision with a lady about to make her way down the coach steps. The lady was wearing the new spreading skirts stiffened with horsehair, and the result was calamitous. The skirts flared out, revealing petticoats and what may have been a shift, as the lady was pressed hard against the side of the coach.

Behind her, a gentleman was about to assist down an elderly female in a sensible round gown, but he leapt neatly to the ground and managed to set all to rights. It was exactly what one might have expected of Richard Pemberton, looking neat, well-groomed, but far from a dandy in his tan frock coat and pantaloons, his hat firmly in place despite his exertions.

He placated the lady, brushed her off, and displayed all the good manners for which he was locally celebrated. The lady, somewhat mollified, was escorted to the inn for a brief refreshment of tea and cakes, while a new team was run out. Richard then turned to assist his mother down.

Nanny Pemberton’s round, pleasant face was wreathed in smiles as she caught sight of Jeremy, who jumped up and down crying shrilly, Nanny! C’est tu. C’est tu.

The plump little woman held her arms out to him.

Of course, it is, my pet. Come to Nanny and give us a big kiss.

I was a trifle surprised that the boy had behaved in such a grown-up fashion toward me, very reserved in his affections, as I myself was, and then demonstrated such a public devotion to Nanny. He ran to her, let her enfold him, and knocked her bonnet askew while he kissed her on both cheeks in the French fashion.

But why should he not? Nanny had been my own second mother in youth, as she was William’s. Indeed, Richard Pemberton often complained in his joking way that his mother was more fond of his friend than of himself, and Richard and William often joked about themselves as brothers.

It was this early companionship between Richard Pemberton and my brother that had several times made me remind Richard, If I were to marry you, it would be a sin.

A sin? Richard was baffled.

Marrying you would be like marrying one’s brother.

Richard saw no humor or irony in that. But humor was one of the rare attributes our childhood companion lacked.

With Jeremy enfolded in Nanny’s arms, and myself in a state of apprehension over the result of their trip from France, Richard came to me, holding out his hands, almost as his mother had done to welcome Jeremy. His smile was warm. The afternoon brightened as the clouds dissolved overhead.

Dearest Alain! Lovelier than ever, I do believe. Those dark Frenchwomen are nothing to you. You are sunlight. They are shadow.

And you’ve come home a French gallant, I teased.

Our hands joined as he smiled into my eyes. Still, I could not tell from his manner what news he and Nanny brought, except that he appeared to be his own gently firm self, always capable in an emergency and looking quite as handsome as Mavis Willoughby and I always had considered him.

I turned to Nanny, whom I used to tease because the males were her first priority and I only came second. But today she gave Jeremy over to her son briefly while she welcomed me with a little bobbing curtsy and a pretty blush when I kissed her cheek.

Nanny, dear, how you were missed! I should hate you. Do you know, I haven’t had a day’s peace since I welcomed Jeremy at Dover. He is forever asking when you will be home.

The dear lamb. She looked around at Jeremy with loving eyes. Missed his old Nanny, did he?

Jeremy pulled at the knitted and fringed shawl she invariably wore over her dark, motherly gowns.

Aunt Alain gave me a kitten, Nanny. And a lamb. A real lamb. And I fell in the brook. It runs through the water meadow. She would have given me a dog, but it jumped on me, and I didn’t like that.

Nanny’s gaze shifted to me, deeply reproachful. It was Richard who answered with some impatience, Jeremy can swim, Mother. And Daviot Brook is hardly the English Channel. As to dogs, he should be used to them at his age.

Jeremy looked uneasy, but Nanny softened and patted my arm.

I know. You did all that a maiden could be expected to do, not having children of your own. But now you may rest, Miss Alain. Old Nanny is home to look out after both of you. I only wish Master William was—

Mother, Richard reminded her.

She bit her faintly wrinkled lip, shrugged, and smiled with an effort. Forgive me, all. Shall we be on our way? It will be good to get home again. Did old John Coachman bring you, Miss Alain?

I’m sorry. We walked. You see, we didn’t know whether to expect you or not.

Richard looked around the street, frowning. He had become aware of the townspeople’s interest in us, and especially in him. He knew very well what they wanted to hear. I shared their burning curiosity but, for some reason, was afraid to ask the all-important question.

He said, I’ll arrange something with the hostler here at the inn. We are old friends.

It was done in a matter of minutes, during which time Jeremy and Nanny chattered with such animation that I had no chance to interrupt them. I found myself trembling with anxiety. I suspected the news was bad, and it would be better to know it now and have done with it. As long as it was not certain, I could still hope.

Finally we were all bundled into Farmer Budleigh’s wagon, with Jeremy proudly squeezed between Budleigh and Richard while Nanny and I settled down gingerly near the furze cuttings in the back, which had been collected by the farmer’s three sons.

During the ride back through the late-summer meadows, now sparkling with shallow blue pools of rainwater, Nanny spoke of the changes she’d noticed since her departure for France with William and Jeremy after their visit two years ago.

My dears, Miss Alain, that meadow was ablaze with pretty pink campions. They were so dark, they made me think of— She cleared her throat. Well, now, they were positively red, so they were. And that oak. I saw a thrush on the longest branch where William and my Richard used to hang their swings. Light brown it was—the thrush, I mean—with the prettiest spotted bosom. It must be long gone by now . . . Her voice trailed off at a memory. Like so many others.

I hated it when someone aroused all the pain of my loss again. I wanted to be strong, to think of abstract matters, such as justice. Surely, when justice was served in my brother’s case, the pain would eventually ease. Finally, I blurted out. The news is bad.

Nanny reached for my hand. My dear child.

It is, then.

These Frenchies, you know. And the aristocrats are the worst. Monsieur—I mean that man—had such friends! Detestable. They read books like that dreadful George Sand. So shocking! They say he is a woman. And they called Master William le Sauvage Anglais. I daresay it was because of the language. They are so very particular. I must say, my dear, your French was always superior to Master William’s. And the accusation is absurd. Monsieur Bertold is much more of a savage than our William.

What happened?

Nanny took a long, shuddering breath.

They freed the m-monster.

Chapter 2

I was stunned, and yet I should not have been. Lady Willoughby had warned me that Monsieur Bertold was closely allied to the present king of France. I did not doubt for a moment that this relationship had shielded the murderer from justice.

Unless, of course, the French courts knew something that we did not, and Nicolas Bertold was actually innocent . . .

Impossible. Not with the evidence of Jeremy and of Nanny Pemberton.

Nothing will be done against him, then?

Miss Alain, I saw him with these eyes, the great, arrogant creature that he is, walk out of that dreadful castle on the island in Paris. I had no idea people were still taken there for questioning. Exactly like their nasty revolutions, just as Richard says.

The Conciergerie. I shared her revulsion. Even though I hated the unknown Nicolas Bertold, I remembered all the dreadful stories of victims during the Great Revolution and how they had gone directly from the gloomy, medieval Conciergerie to the guillotine.

That was over fifty years ago, but the dreadful picture remained in my mind. I could not wish anyone to meet such a fate, unless the evidence of his crimes was overwhelming.

After reordering my thoughts and trying to adapt to the news, I asked her carefully, Do you know why they dismissed the evidence of Jeremy’s own eyes? And yours?

Nanny picked at her glove, held her hand out before me, the plump, short fingers spread. I remembered how often in my childhood those fingers had been gentle, caressing, sometimes scolding, but never cruel. It is nice; isn’t it? Genuine kid. I never had any before.

They’re very nice, indeed. From Richard?

She regarded the glove thoughtfully.

You will not credit it. They came from Monsieur, himself.

That did startle me.

Nicolas Bertold gave them to you? Handsome of him.

Perhaps he hoped to buy my friendship. It was last Christmas. Her expression softened. She was recalling happier times. Monsieur Bertold was always very generous. When I first came to the château, I thought he was abrupt but rather likable. On occasion, when he smiled, he was even—well, that was in his rare moods.

A strange man, I murmured, conscious of an unwanted ambivalence in my feelings toward him.

Yes. So strange. At first, eight years ago, when the baby was born, and after, he seemed to like Jeremy. Of course, he never got on with Master William, but who would have thought he would come to hate a harmless little boy?

You really think he intended to kill Jeremy as well as William? I know Jeremy saw him with the estate workers on the moat bridge removing the under-supports that morning—if only either you or Jeremy had guessed his purpose!

My Richard tried to question the family steward, this Grégoire, but he was one of those creatures with a blind devotion to his master. Oh, Miss Alain, it’s all a tangle of . . . ifs. If we had done this or that. If. Master William would have been saved. And Jeremy’s mother too.

Nanny lowered her head, her face anguished as she covered it with her hands. I wished I hadn’t mentioned the matter. I could see my brother William now, as clearly as if he sat beside us, a big, athletic man, with his rusty brown hair all awry, his funny, blustering ways silenced as he enjoyed the warm air of a late summer and, truly enough, the company of us women. Dear William!

I felt the bitter stab of loss, those dreadful words never again, and cleared my throat. I tried to assume a businesslike voice.

Then the French authorities took no heed of what Jeremy overheard—when Monsieur Nicolas wished William dead only the night before it all happened?

Wished him gone from the château. That was what the monsieur claimed. She looked at her gloves as if she had never seen them before. Then, to my astonishment, she began to tear them off, her fingers slipping on the leather, frantic to keep them from touching her flesh. And me with his gift on my hands. It is like a betrayal of them that died.

No, it isn’t, Nanny. They are only gloves. They keep your hands warm. You will need them in the winter. I could see that my argument had no weight with her; so I added, ashamed that my former presents to her of gloves had always been knitted of wool or cotton, Never you mind. You shall have some fresh ones. And finer than our murderous Monsieur Bertold could produce.

She sniffed and gave me a watery smile. Dear Miss Alain. You think that matters. It’s the giver, not the glove. And the Daviots have given us everything, Richard and me.

I hugged her and cried too. It was a very wet few minutes.

I was relieved when we arrived at the crossroad where a little humped stone bridge crossed Daviot Brook. Farmer Budleigh drew up, eyeing the Pemberton portmanteau and valise with some curiosity as Richard set them on the ground and then lifted Jeremy down. Richard came back to help us, strongly seconded by Jeremy. I was amused