more imperative to maintain her life at the Château Giradet and hang on to whatever privileges that still remained.
She was not an ardent royalist; she deplored the extravagance of the King and his court, the secret whisperings of scandal, the way favours could be bought and sold and the courtiers indifference to the suffering of the poor, made worse by the Revolution that should have eased it. Neither did she like the way the country was being run, the summary justice and injustice, the constant edicts that confused rather than enlightened. Surely, she thought, there must be a middle way, something like the English system where King George ruled in a democracy, though it was said he was mad.
The countryside they passed through was showing signs of poverty and neglect. The fields were not tended as well as they once had been, the livestock grazing on the meadows was thin. Everywhere had an overgrown, neglected air and the people who watched the carriage pass were poorly clad. Some looked on with the dull eyes of dejection, others were angry and spat at the coach as it passed. Lisette was thankful for their escort, especially when they stopped each night at posting inns.
Paris, when they reached it three days later, was seething with discontent. Everywhere—in the crowded narrow alleys, in the wider main streets, in the squares and public buildings—noisy crowds gathered, sporting red caps or wearing a red, white and blue cockade in their hats. The carriage made slow progress, being frequently stopped and searched on its way to the Tuileries Palace, where the King held court. He had been forced to leave his preferred home at Versailles by a mob of women who thought he should be with his people in the capital where they could keep an eye on him. Lisette was thankful when the carriage drew up in the main courtyard of the palace and she was able to go in search of her brother, followed by the rather nervous Hortense.
There was an air of agitation mixed with despondency in the demeanour of those she encountered as she hurried through the maze of corridors to reach Michel’s apartment. People were either hurrying from one place to another or huddled in groups, whispering. They stopped their chatter as she approached and watched her pass without speaking. No one challenged her.
She was admitted to the apartment by Michel’s valet, Auguste, who invited her to be seated and went off to tell his master she was there. The room, not one being in the front of the building where the public were admitted, was shabby. Whether that was a sign of the times she could not tell.
‘Lisette, what are you doing here?’ Michel demanded, emerging from his bedchamber in nothing but breeches and a silk shirt, followed by Auguste with a fancifully embroidered waistcoat into the sleeves of which he was endeavouring to put his master’s arms. ‘I am about to attend the King. And where is Papa?’
‘Papa has been seized by a mob and taken to the prison at Honfleur.’
‘Mon Dieu! Whatever for?’
‘For refusing to remit the taxes he has collected over the years. They seemed to think they had the King’s blessing to demand them back. They stole pictures and plates and bottles of Calvados and wrung the necks of some pigeons as well.’
‘That’s ridiculous, the King would never sanction that. He is not in a position to sanction anything. Since his failed attempt to flee the country, he is no more a free subject than our father.’
Lisette’s heart sank. ‘I was hoping for his intervention.’
‘Not possible, I’m afraid.’ Auguste had succeeded in putting on the waistcoat and tying his master’s cravat and was now in the bedroom fetching his wig and coat.
‘What are we going to do, then? I can’t leave Papa to rot in gaol, can I?’
‘You could ask the Citizen Deputy for Honfleur to intervene. Let him earn his keep.’
‘I did that on my way here. He refused on the grounds that justice must run its course. Is there no one in this benighted country that can do anything but rant and rave?’
Michel was thoughtful for a moment. ‘You could try Sir John Challon.’
‘Sir John! What can he do?’
‘He’s English, he might know someone in authority in England who could be persuaded to help, especially since our dear mama was English.’
Sir John Challon was a neighbour and lifelong friend of her father’s. He had been a firm supporter of the exiled King James of England and came to France shortly after the abortive uprising of the Jacobites.
‘But he’s an old man, older even than Papa.’
‘What is that to the point if he can summon others to our aid?’
‘Then I must return home.’
‘Yes, you must, Paris is not safe for you. The outcry against the aristocracy is becoming more vociferous. It does not look good for any of us.’
‘But what about you?’
‘I stay by my sovereign’s side. It is my privilege and my duty.’ He was fully dressed now in a blue-satin coat with a cutaway skirt, wide revers and silver buttons. His formal white wig was firmly on his head and his high-heeled shoes put extra inches on his height. He bent to kiss her cheek. ‘Go now, sister dear, and God go with you. Let me know how you fare with the Englishman.’
Lisette returned to Villarive more dejected than ever. Her beloved papa was in prison and there didn’t seem to be anything she could do about it. She felt somehow that she had failed him, that she ought to have been able to do more. The château when she reached it already had a neglected, unlived-in air. That once-great house was no longer a home and it took all her self-control not to burst into tears.
‘We will go and see Sir John tomorrow,’ she told Hortense as they unpacked. ‘He is our last hope.’
John James Drymore, known to friends and family as Jay, rode into the stable yard at Falsham Hall at the side of his ten-year-old son, Edward. Behind them rode Anne, who at eight, promised to become the image of her dead mother. He liked to take them with him when he rode round the estate; it was good for Edward to learn that with wealth and property came responsibility and Anne must learn the gracious demeanour which was the mark of a true lady.
Jay adored his children, nothing was too good for them, and he loved his home, but just lately he had begun to feel unsettled. It might have been the threat of war with Russia which had made the government increase the size of the navy and, as a naval man, he felt he ought to be involved instead of resting on his laurels in the quiet Norfolk countryside. Or it might have been the calamitous events in France, which had everyone worried whether such a thing could happen in England.
He handed his white stallion to the care of a groom and left the children looking after their own ponies and went indoors. The house was not large, but solidly built, with spacious lofty rooms downstairs and deep windows which let in the sun. The furniture was, like the house, solid and useful. The wide stairs were made of oak and led to half-a-dozen bedrooms on the first floor and servants’ quarters above them. The household was perfectly managed by his housekeeper, Mrs Armistead, and a small army of servants; he was not necessary for its smooth running.
The children were another matter. Since their mother’s death three years before, he had made a point of spending as much time as he could with them. It was a time he valued, but was it enough to keep his mind and body occupied?
He had hardly divested himself of his riding clothes and dressed in a plain suit of fawn silk when he heard
