snapped and he was eventually washed ashore. There was one other survivor—the youth Amir who had worked on the same oar every day for the past year. He lay close by on the sand. His body was hunched, the knees drawn up to his chin, arms bent, in the position babies are supposed to have within a mother’s womb. He looked small, vulnerable, helpless. A feeling of pity for the sad, lonely youth overwhelmed Ewen. His heart went out to him as it had many times. He wanted to hold him as he had never held a child. It was a totally new feeling for him.
Lying there with the wet sand beneath him, Ewen closed his eyes and prayed to God with all the fervour of his being that they would both survive. Slowly, strength began to flow into him. It surged within him, bringing the peace of determination. Picking himself up, he went to Amir. The youth stirred, and, supporting each other, they made their way inland.
After many days, as they toiled over the steep, difficult terrain, Ewen’s thoughts were not on his present discomfort. He kept imagining that he saw the face of Etta stepping out of the mist, with her treacherous smile and cat-like eyes, which held nothing but betrayal. His throat became tight with pain and anger and he had to close his eyes against the wetness. Dragged down with weariness, for a moment he suffered so cruelly that he was tempted to lay himself down and wait for death. Only Amir and the instinct of self-preservation—a force greater than his pain and suffering—urged him to keep going.
His hope of seeing his family again was powerful enough to have carried him through so many trials. The journey from Morocco to the towering peaks of the Spanish hills and the refuge of the monastery a traveller had directed them to was a Calvary for Ewen.
When Amir stumbled and fell, Ewen raised him to his feet and held him. ‘Come, Amir. Be strong,’ he urged while his own strength was failing. ‘The monastery can’t be far now.’
Just then, as if to lend weight to his words, the faint sound of a single bell reached him through the air and he gave a sigh of relief.
‘The bell for lost travellers! We are on the right path!’
At last they came in sight of the monastery, where the man had told them men of all faiths and creeds were given sanctuary. The moon shone clear of cloud and its cold light streamed down on the low-roofed buildings with thick walls huddled at the foot of a narrow pass. A square tower stood over them and the road passed under a stone archway into the ancient monastery.
From somewhere within those walls came the faint sound of religious chanting. It was so unexpected and so unfamiliar that Ewen stopped to listen. A faint hope awakened in him. He found himself believing that the old chant must be God’s answer to his fervent prayer. He had reached the limit of his strength. Incapable of taking another step, he collapsed on to his knees. He saw the dim glow of lanterns passing to and fro, carried by human hands. To the weary man, these lights signified life and warmth and hope.
1766
The swirling snow encircled the young woman, freezing her body and mind with a numbness that blocked her senses, but could do nothing to alleviate the pain in her heart. As she stumbled through the park she clutched her cloak tightly beneath her chin, the wide hood covering her hair. Blinded with snowflakes and buffeted by wind, she was unaware of the intense cold which numbed her hands and feet and turned her cheeks to ice. Her gait was that of a person in pain, but her pain was not physical. Her body was strong and youthful and healthy with the benefits of good living.
The whirling white flakes were coming down so thickly that she could not see more than a yard in front. She thought of her father, a man she could not remember, and was surprised to feel tears pricking her eyes. It had been so long. Since she had left Philippe, she had not been able to cry. She feared that if she gave way for a moment, she would shatter into a thousand pieces and never stop. So she kept her emotions wrapped tightly inside her. But now, the thought that her father was alive when she had thought him dead, that she would see him, pierced the barrier of her emotions and her cheeks were flooded with her tears.
Suddenly a dark form loomed up through the driving snow immediately ahead of her. She swerved wildly, but she was too late and cannoned into something solid. She would have fallen but for a hand that gripped her arm and held her upright. Panic struck her and she tried to wrench herself away, but the grip on her arm might have been a vice. A man’s voice said curtly, ‘What the devil are you doing out in this?’
Alice opened her mouth, but she was unable to speak. Her throat, along with the rest of her, seemed frozen and the wind drove thick snowflakes into her eyes, blinding her.
‘What’s the matter?’ the man demanded, his voice deep and rough. ‘Lost your voice?’
Her captor raised his gloved hand and brushed the snow roughly from her face, peering down at her in the hazy light. She had a fleeting impression, blurred by the driving snow, of height, and a pair of eyes, hard and flint grey and very angry, before her own were blinded with snow once more. The man muttered a low curse under his breath. She did not recognise the voice and she was suddenly very afraid.
The grip on her arm relaxed and in that moment, with a strength born of fear, she wrenched her arm free and fled as fast as she was able. Thankfully the ground beneath the trees was in her favour, being sheltered and only thinly covered with snow, and she was able to widen the gap between them. She heard him call out to her, but he did not follow as she vanished into a seemingly solid wall of snow.
* * *
Fifteen minutes later, blinded by snow and buffeted by wind, breathless and shaken by her encounter with the stranger, Alice reached Hislop House in the heart of Piccadilly. Hislop House was the grand residence of Lady Margaret Hislop, Countess of Marchington. At present it was all abustle as servants busied themselves preparing for the grand occasion Lady Marchington was hosting that very night, to announce the betrothal of her niece Roberta to Viscount Pemberton, the Earl of Winterworth’s eldest son. Alice barely had time to compose herself before Roberta came hurrying to her across the hall.
‘I’m relieved to see you back, Alice. Although why you had to go off like that with a blizzard screaming outside escapes me.’
‘You know why, Roberta,’ she replied, managing with a supreme effort of will to keep her emotions well hidden. ‘I can’t bear being cooped up all the time. It’s so stuffy in the house. I need to breathe the fresh air.’
‘I know and I’m not complaining, but you know Aunt Margaret doesn’t like you to go out on your own. You should have taken one of the servants.’
Alice heaved a rueful sigh. ‘I hoped she wouldn’t notice.’
Alice had ignored the stricture which required that she take someone with her, after receiving a letter the day before from a person by the name of Duncan Forbes. Forbes had informed her that he had information regarding her father, whom she had believed deceased these past twenty years. Deeply troubled and anxious to find out more, Alice had fled to nearby Green Park without a chaperone to meet him at the designated time and place.
‘Aunt Margaret misses nothing. She knows everyone’s secrets and nothing is hidden from her. You should know that by now.’ Roberta gave Alice a speculative look. ‘Did the letter you received yesterday have anything to do with you going out?’
Alice shook her head. There had been few secrets between them since Alice had come to live at Hislop House two months ago. She had confided in Roberta about her reason for not marrying Philippe—though not all of it, for some of the things she had done with Philippe were too sordid for Roberta’s gentle sensitivities.
