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Chapter 1
***1794 ***
The vessel groaned, rolling and pitching from side to side, protesting at the strain it was under, forced to ride out the rough seas of the English Channel.
Angele was unable to suppress her own moan of complaint—the turbulent crossing had her stomach roiling.
Small hands lovingly patted her fair hair back from her forehead.
“Maman, tu est malade?”
“Speak in English please,cherie. Fear not, I am simply feeling unwell due to the ship’s motion.”
“How much longer before we arrive in England, Maman?”
“Very shortly, I believe. A porter will attend to our luggage after we arrive. I am sorry to have brought you on such a long voyage and at this time of year, but it was unavoidable with my homeland in such a state of degeneration.”
“TanteMarie said it would have been quicker for us to cross the Channel from Calais, Maman.”
“I know, Christopher, but it would have been unsafe for us to travel through France right now, which is why we were forced to sail from the Netherlands.”
“When will the terror end, Maman?”
“I have no idea,cherie, perhaps when the madness that grips my people ceases, but fear not, for we shall be safeen Angleterre.”
“You said to speak in English, Maman!”
Angele repressed a smile at her son’s indignation.
“So I did. Come now, help me up. I must prepare for our arrival. Please hand me my veil.”
Her son screwed up his little face as she held out her hand for the thick, black garment.
“Honestly, Maman, you should not wear that horrid old thing. It makes you look like a witch!”
Angele shook her head with a long, drawn-out sigh at this familiar complaint. “Christopher, you are used to my face, but others are shocked when they see the scar. I think it best that I wear the veil,ma petit,”she chided gently.
Grudgingly, he hopped off the cot and fetched it for her, the hated black gauze which protected her from the condemning eyes of others.
* * *
His complaints about the freezing temperatures they’d experienced since their arrival in what was to him a very strange land, soon dissipated as a beautiful manor house came into view. Christopher gazed in awe at the large mansion. He’d thought his uncle’s villa in Italy was big, but this house with its many faceted windows was enormous. Finally the carriage halted at the bottom of a flight of stone steps.
“Is that my Aunt Mary, Maman?” he asked in excitement, pointing at a tall lady pushing past the liveried footmen and rushing down to greet them.
His mother froze at his side, and belatedly he recalled her plan to pretend she was his aunt—because Maman was fixated by her scarred face, and she did not want anyone in England to know she still lived.
“I am sorry, I- I forgot,” he whispered to her anxiously.
She squeezed his shoulder gently, reassuringly. “It is of no matter,ma petit chou. Mais oui, this lovely lady is indeed your Aunt Mary. She is your father’s sister.”
Aunt Mary looked extremely flustered. Did I hear you sayMaman?” she asked him in surprise, “as in, your mother?”
He nodded.
“Pshaw! Can it be...Is thatyouhidden under those hideous widow’s weeds,Angele?Surely not!”
Since his mother appeared to be pinned to the spot, Christopher answered in the affirmative.
