Marrying Miss Monkton. Helen Dickson

told anyone you were coming here—what you were doing?’

      She shook her head. ‘They would have stopped me.’

      ‘And they would have been right to. Your family ought to punish you most severely for this escapade and curtail all your outings in future. Go home, and should you have any more noble intentions, I advise you to think again. Shall I escort you?’

      She stepped back, her look telling him that she deeply resented his high-handed attitude. What right had he to criticise and chastise her? ‘Certainly not,’ she answered tightly. ‘I can take care of myself. I will go my own way.’

      Charles watched her carriage drive off before mounting his horse and riding away to find an inn where he could stay the night.

      

      It was a subdued Maria that rode back in the carriage to Chateau Feroc, her empty basket on the seat beside her. Putting the obnoxious stranger out of her mind, she stared wide-eyed out of the window. Even though the scenery was marred by the lowering clouds, it was hard to imagine the turmoil that beset France when such a beautiful landscape unfolded before her eyes. But how she wished she were back in England, at Gravely, her home, where she had spent the happiest time of her life.

      Maria’s father, Sir Edward Monkton, had expressed in his will his desire that she be made the ward of the Countess de Feroc, his deceased wife’s sister, until she was of an age to marry Colonel Henry Winston. Colonel Winston had obtained a well-paid administrative post in the ranks of the East India Company, which was where he had become acquainted with her father. It was six years since Colonel Winston had been home to England, six years since he had visited Sir Edward at Gravely Manor.

      Having contracted various ailments whilst in India, her father had suffered greatly from ill health. Aware that his time was limited and desperate to settle Maria’s future before fortune hunters began presenting themselves at Gravely, when Colonel Winston approached him as a possible suitor for her hand—his tanned face and colourful talk of India reviving memories of his own years spent in that country—he had accepted his suit, satisfied that his daughter’s future would be secure.

      Maria, though just thirteen at the time, had not objected, for she had become extremely fond of the handsome, dashing colonel, who went out of his way to talk to her, to flatter her and to tell her of his exciting life he led in India. Of course the wedding could not go ahead until Maria was of age and by then Colonel Winston would have served another six years in India.

      When Maria was fourteen years old, her arrival at Chateau Feroc had made an unfavourable impression—an impression that was equally unfavourable to her.

      The chateau was so very different from her home in England. The contrast was startling, the warm, happy and colourful environment that she had left behind so very different to the cold and stately French chateau. Here she was met with strict discipline and hostility from family and servants alike. Not even Constance, her spoilt cousin, had made her welcome. Driven in upon herself by the circumstances of this new life reduced Maria to a state of loneliness, despair and dumb misery. Her silence would have aroused compassion and understanding even in such a hard, dispassionate person as the Countess, but Maria’s quietness and her desire for solitude was put down to petulance and resentment.

      

      It was mid-morning when Charles approached the Chateau Feroc. On all sides of the magnificent house large formal gardens were enclosed by freshly trimmed box hedges, with long, elegant walks peopled with statues, and urns brimming with flowers, and ornate, soaring fountains. Arrogant peacocks displaying their full, colourful plumage strutted on lawns like green velvet.

      An air of peace and serenity prevailed over it all—in marked contrast to the character of its owner who, he was told when he asked to see the Count de Feroc, was being interred in the family tomb in the local church this very day.

      Turning his horse, he headed off in the direction of the church. The path leading up to the gates was lined with faces bearing every expression from sadness to sympathy, curiosity and hostility for the man whose demand for higher taxes had made their lives intolerable.

      All eyes were on the church as people began filing out in a subdued procession. Charles dismounted and removed his hat as a mark of respect for the dead Count and his family. He stood apart, a quiet observer as they were handed up into waiting carriages. Mourners were few, for people of the upper classes were afraid to travel far in these troubled times.

      His eyes were drawn to the impressive and stately figure that could only be the Countess. She was followed by two women, their heads bowed, and like the Countess they were dressed in deepest black, their black gloved hands clutching their prayer books. Veils fell from their bonnets’ edges concealing their features, but failed to disguise their youth. Charles’s eyes were drawn to the taller of the two. She was of slender build, and there was something about the way she moved that he found vaguely familiar.

      Watching them drive away, he felt it was inappropriate for him to intrude on the funeral party and the Countess’s grief, so he returned to the inn until the next day. But he would wait no longer. It was dangerous for him to remain in France, and if he were apprehended he would more than likely be hanged or shot or beaten by the mob. He must leave France without further delay.

      

      As Charles followed the imposing servant in white wig and midnight blue livery up the great white marble staircase of the Chateau Feroc, he was surrounded by all the graceful elegance of eighteenth-century France. Here, it was gilded scrollwork, innumerable tall mirrors that seemed to double the house by reflection, exquisite porcelain, heavy silks and thick carpets and glittering chandeliers.

      He went along a corridor and was admitted into a high-vaulted room, with all the elegance and luxuries befitting a family of the nobility. The furniture was in the mode of the present reign, Louis XVI, delicate and fine, the beads of the crystal chandelier catching the firelight and brightening the whole room.

      Madam la Countess—an English woman who had met and married the Count de Feroc on a visit to France with her parents—received him alone. She was a stiff, thin, elderly woman with grey hair and very pale skin. In deepest mourning, she presented an imposing figure in a high-necked gown of heavy black silk. Grim faced, she rose from her chair when he entered and calmly watched him approach. There was no sign of grief for her dead husband on her face.

      Charles stopped in front of her and inclined his head. When he straightened up it was to find himself looking into a pair of coldly critical pale eyes. Immediately he could see she was one of those aristocrats who had her feelings buried under deep layers of social propriety, the sort who might stare icily at someone, or turn away, affecting indifference.

      ‘Thank you for receiving me so promptly, Countess,’ he said in flawless French. ‘May I offer my deepest condolences on your loss.’

      ‘Sir Charles Osbourne! Welcome to Chateau Feroc.’ The Countess spoke English to the Englishman, her voice clear and incisive.

      ‘Please speak to me in French, Countess,’ he requested with calm gravity. ‘These are difficult times and servants hear and speculate too much.’

      ‘As you wish,’ she replied coolly.

      ‘I apologise for my inopportune arrival. Of course I had no idea of the Count’s demise until I arrived.’

      ‘How could you? It was very sudden.’ The Countess had never been particularly fond of her husband, and had regarded him with tolerance rather than affection. ‘You are here on behalf of Colonel Winston?’ she remarked, resuming her seat and indicating with a wave of her hand that was almost royal that he should occupy the chair across from her.

      ‘That is so, Countess—to escort your niece, Miss Monkton, to England.’

      ‘I know. I was expecting you.’

      ‘Colonel Winston said he would write to you apprising you of my arrival and the nature of my mission. You have received his letter?’

      ‘Yes, some weeks ago. We expected you earlier than this.’

      ‘I