Helen Dickson Read Free

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 andremoved 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 luxuriesbefitting 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