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told no one, mon enfant ,’ Tante said quietly. ‘It was not news I ever wished to share. I have always believed that mistakes in one’s family circle should be kept private. And I had known for some time—long before his tragic accident—that you did not love this man. Your letters made it clear.’
    ‘But I hardly mentioned him.’
    Tante’s smile was kind. ‘Exactly, chérie. ’ She paused. ‘When I received the invitation to your wedding I wrote to your mother, begging her not to allow you to ruin your life. Saying that such a marriage would have profound difficulties, even if you adored each other.’
    She shrugged wryly. ‘Her reply was very angry. She said that I knew nothing about it. That you were devoted to your fiancé, that my interference was not needed, and it would be better for everyone if I stayed away.’
    ‘She said you’d decided the journey would be too much for you.’ Allie bit her lip. ‘Oh—I should have known…’
    ‘Well, that is all in the past now. It matters only that you are here now, ma chère. And if you wish to be Alys Colville again—then that is how it shall be.’
    She became brisk. ‘Now, go and change, and I will try to repair the damage the sea has done to those expensive clothes.’
    Allie turned obediently, then paused. She said in a low voice, ‘Am I crazy—to pretend like this?’
    ‘Not crazy,’ her great-aunt said slowly. ‘But perhaps—not very wise.’
    Allie’s smile was swift and bleak. ‘Then I’ll just have to be very careful, too,’ she said, and made her way to her room.

CHAPTER THREE
    T HE sun had gone behind a cloud, and Allie got up from the bench, shivering a little.
    She’d sat there long enough, she thought, tormenting herself with her memories. Now it was time to go back to the house and draft a letter to Tante, explaining why any return to Les Sables was impossible for her—now or in the future.
    I can’t do it, she told herself with anguish. Because, even now, the pain of that time is still too vivid and too raw.
    She entered the house through a side door, and went straight upstairs. After Hugo’s death, and in spite of Grace’s protests, she’d moved out of the master suite she’d reluctantly shared with him into this smaller room at the back of the house. It wasn’t as grand and formal as some of the others, and she liked its creamy-yellow walls, and the warm olivegreen curtains and bedcover. Over the months it had become her refuge.
    She sat down at the small writing table that she’d bought at an antique fair, and drew a sheet of paper towards her. She sat for a moment, tapping her pen against her teeth and staring out of the window in front of her, as she tried to come up with an excuse that her great-aunt would find even feasible, let alone acceptable.
    Her room overlooked the vegetable garden, and the nowdeserted stableyard. After the accident, Hugo’s hunters had been sold, along with his polo ponies. Except, of course, forpoor little Gimlet, who’d broken both forelegs in that terrible crashing fall in the final chukka, and had had to be put down on the field there and then.
    ‘He was the lucky one,’ Hugo had said with scalding bitterness when they’d told him. At that time he’d seemed to recognise the full extent of his injuries, Allie thought unhappily. It was later that he’d come to believe in his own self-will rather than the prognosis from the medical experts.
    Sighing, she wrote the date. Well, it was a start, she told herself wryly, then paused as there was a swift tap on her door. It opened instantly to admit her mother-in-law.
    ‘So there you are,’ she commented. ‘Mrs Windom has brought in the coffee. Are you coming down?’
    ‘Later, perhaps. I’m replying to Tante Madelon’s letter.’
    ‘Ah.’ Grace paused. ‘Did she have anything particular to say?’
    ‘She’s not well,’ Allie told her quietly. ‘She’d like me to visit her—and take Tom with me.’
    ‘No,’ Lady Marchington