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approached from the opposite direction. Quickly I stepped aside and stood motionless against a hedge of willow and thorn, waiting for it to pass.
    As it went by a face stared at me from the window. In a shaft of pale sunlight the features were comparatively clear — hard and set, thin-lipped, with brilliant black eyes emphasised by the extreme deep-whiteness of her complexion. A regal figure, wearing something dark, either purple or black. For some reason I felt discomforted, but it was not until the carriage had passed that I realised why.
    The countenance affecting me so unpleasantly was the same I had noticed watching me from the stairs on my arrival at Kerrysmoor.
    She didn’t like me. There had been resentment, even contempt and a kind of hatred in that concentrated gaze.
    Rupert ’s wife. Yes, I knew intuitively without doubt it was she. Well, I had done nothing to deserve it, and if possible would avoid doing so.
    But I recognised for the first time there could be dangerous obstacles confronting me in my new life.

 
    Chapter Three
     
    The day was chill when Mr Verne and I set off in the chaise for Truro and my auspicious meeting with Signor Luigi. No sunlight swept the landscape; under the grey skies, the scattered grey hamlets appeared sombre as the smoky mine stacks standing back against the moorland hills. A thin wind blew through the almost naked branches of bushes and trees. A few gulls drifted overhead, and an occasional dead leaf brushed the window as we clattered along. I drew my cloak close under my chin, and tidied a stray, straggling curl from my cheek under the frivolous headgear, feeling suddenly out of place and uncharacteristically self-conscious.
    Mr Verne was so quiet. Any slight movement from him, any contact at all would have lifted my spirits, but he gave no indication at all of any pleasure in my company, and I wondered if I could have offended him in some way the day before, or if the ‘chatelaine’ — that is how I now thought of his lady wife — ‘the Chatelaine of Kerrysmoor’ — had somehow contrived to put a barrier between us. I couldn’t help remembering the cold contempt of that icy stare as she passed in the carriage the previous afternoon. It was probable, I thought, that she violently disagreed with her husband sponsoring me. She might even have some knowledge of the stage, and had made up her mind already I would be a failure and the venture a waste of money.
    Well, I would have to show her how wrong she was. The challenge gradually lifted depression to determination and a burst of anger. After all, I wasn’t just a nobody. Pierre, my father, had taught me from an early age how to have pride in myself, and when the occasion arose behave as his Princess. Because of this I’d gathered what education was possible during my colourful ‘vagabondish’ days in Falmouth, learning much from listening to conversation of all types of people, and secretly mastering the art of reading in both English and French.
    So I had nothing to fear from her ladyship, I told myself stubbornly, and for the rest of the journey felt better and in a more courageous mood to meet Signor Luigi.
    By the time we reached Truro the skies had slightly brightened, though no trace of sunlight caught rooftops or the imposing shape of the Cathedral. I was surprised when we left the town centre behind and travelled towards the outskirts.
    ‘ My friend owns a property that was once a small playhouse,’ Rupert told me. ‘It’s now only used on rare occasions and for individual cultural performances. Mostly it’s empty — but to Luigi it holds memories — his own dwelling is nearby — and the acoustics are good, especially for vocal requirements and rehearsing sometimes. You may find the interior somewhat gloomy and neglected, but I can assure you, you won’t have time to be depressed.’
    This proved to be true.
    The granite building was square and bleak-looking, of no particular period, looking more