Voices in a Haunted Room

I turned sharply away. He fascinated me and I had to overcome a desire to dismount and face him. I knew that would be dangerous. Beneath the light banter there was a ruthless determination. I was very much aware of it and it reminded me strongly of his father. It was said that men wanted sons because they liked to see themselves reproduced. Well, Dickon had reproduced himself in Jonathan.

I started to gallop across the field. Ahead of me was the sea. It was a muddy grey on that day with a tinge of brown where the frills of waves touched the sand. The tang of seaweed was strong in the air. It had been a stormy night. I felt a tremendous sense of excitement as I galloped forward and let my horse fly along by the edge of the water.

Jonathan pounded along beside me. He was laughing-as exhilarated as I was.

We must have gone a mile when I drew up. He was beside me. The spray made his eyebrows glisten; his eyes were alight with those blue flames which I was always looking for; and I thought suddenly of Venice and gondolas and Italian love songs. In that moment I would have said: “Yes, Jonathan. It is you. I know it will not be easy; there will be little peace ... but you are the one.”

After all, when one is seventeen one does not look for a comfortable way of life.

It is excitement, exhilaration, and uncertainty which seem appealing.

I turned my horse and said: “Home. I’ll race you.”

And there we were once more pounding along the beach. He kept beside me but I knew he was choosing the moment to go ahead. He had to show me that he must always win.

In the distance I saw riders and almost at once recognized Chariot and Louis Charles.

“Look who’s there,” I cried.

“We don’t need them. Let’s go back and do that gallop again.”

But I called: “Chariot.”

My brother waved to us. We cantered up to them and I saw at once that Chariot was deeply disturbed.

“Have you heard the news?” he said.

“News?” Jonathan and I spoke simultaneously.

“It’s clear that you haven’t. The murdering dogs ... Mon Dieu, I were there. I wish I were. I wish ...”

“What is it?” demanded Jonathan. “Who has murdered whom?”

“The King of France,” said Chariot. “France no longer has a King.”

I closed my eyes. I was remembering the tales my grandfather used to tell of the Court, of the King who was blamed for so much for which ie was not responsible. Most of all I thought of the mob looking on while he mounted the steps of the guillotine and placed his head beneath the axe.

Even Jonathan was sobered. He said: “It was expected ...”

“I never believed they would go so far,” said Chariot. “And now they have done it.

That vile mob ... They have changed the history of France.”

Chariot was deeply affected. He reminded me of my grandfather at that moment, of my father too. Patriots, both of them. Chariot’s heart was in France with the royalists.

He had always wanted to be there to fight the losing battle for the monarchy. Now that the King was dead murdered like a common felon on that cruel guillotine-he wanted it more than ever.

Louis Charles looked at Jonathan almost apologetically. “You see,” he said, as if he needed to explain, “France is our country ... he was our King.”

We all rode back together quietly, subdued, in mourning for a lost regime and the death of a man who had paid the price for the excesses of those who had gone before him.

The news had reached Eversleigh. As we sat at the table, the execution of the King of France was the only topic of conversation.

Dickon said he would have to leave for London and Jonathan must go with him. He guessed the Court would be in mourning.

“It is alarming to all rulers when one of their number is treated like a common criminal,”

commented David.

“Yet this death comes as no great surprise,” said Jonathan.

“I always believed that it could never happen,” added Chariot vehemently. “No matter how powerful the revolutionaries became.”

Dickon said: “It was inevitable. When the King failed to escape and join the émigrés, he was doomed. If he had been able to join them, the revolution might have come to an end. And he could so easily have escaped! What an example of idiotic ineptitude!

Travelling in style ... the grand carriage ... the Queen posing as a governess!

As if Marie Antoinette could ever be anything but Marie Antoinette! One could laugh if it were not so tragic. Imagine that cumbersome and very, very grand carriage riding into the little town of Varennes, and the inevitable questions. Who are these visitors?

Who is this lady calling herself a governess? No marks for guessing! What a charade!”

“It was a brave attempt,” said Chariot.

”Bravery counts for little when folly is its companion,” said Dickon grimly.

Chariot was sunk in gloom. Never had I realized how deeply his feelings were involved.