His expression as he looked at her was pure pride. Pride for himself, pride in her and a glowing pride at being home where he belonged.
Pride. Eva hung back as Philippe appeared in the gateway and walked steadily towards his nephew. Freddie started forward, almost at the run, then collected himself and walked up to his uncle.
‘Your Serene Highness, welcome home.’ The man bowed to the child and suddenly all the dignity was gone. Freddie threw his arms around his uncle’s neck.
‘Uncle Bruin! We’re back!’ He twisted round. ‘Mama, see, Uncle Bruin is well again.’
‘Yes, so he is.’ Eva came forward, both hands held out to Philippe. ‘Thank Heavens for it.’ But in the back of her mind the word lingered. Pride. Pride and honour. So important to men, so easily forgotten by women who loved them.
‘I am so sorry I left you,’ she murmured to her brother-in-law as he took her arm to take her into dinner, hours later.
‘It was the right thing. Your place was with Freddie, and by going you threw all Antoine’s calculations into disarray.’ The Regent patted her hand as he helped her to her seat next to him at the round table the family used when they dined informally alone. With Antoine gone, there was just the three of them now. Philippe’s wife had died many years before, leaving him childless.
‘You look well,’ Philippe observed as the soup was served and the footmen retired to give them privacy. ‘It may have been an odd holiday, but it has done you good to get away.’
‘For the first time in over nine years,’ Eva said. ‘Yes, it was a…change. And the long days in the open air were invigorating.’
‘I never understood why you did not go away before.’ Philippe passed her the bread.
‘Louis preferred that I did not travel,’ she began.
‘Louis has been dead almost two years,’ his brother reminded her gently. ‘You have been very obedient to all his wishes.’
Yes, she had, Eva realised. The rule that Freddie must stay in England, the rule that she did not travel. Yet Philippe was a more-than-competent Regent, it was hardly that she needed to be there all the time—only when Freddie was here in the holidays. And the rest of the time he was in England…
Compromise. Suddenly, in her mind’s eye, she could see a compromise, a plan she could lay before Jack. He might still reject it—and her. But she had to go to him, put things right somehow, even if all that meant was that he felt he could write now and again to Freddie.
‘Freddie. Philippe.’ They broke off in the middle of an intense discussion about Napoleon’s tactics at Waterloo that involved the salt cellars, a mustard pot and a bread roll, and turned to her politely. ‘Would you both mind very much if I go back to England?’
‘When?’ Philippe looked startled, but her son’s face was one big grin.
‘Tomorrow. There is something I need to do.’ She smiled back at Freddie. ‘Someone I need to see.’
Eva was apologetic to her escort. She could take Maubourg men with her on the journey back, she offered. Grimstone and his two companions must be travel weary and saddle sore.
‘No, ma’am.’ The butler-turned-bodyguard was adamant. ‘The guv’nor would expect us to stick with you, however long it takes. Where are we off to now, if I might ask, ma’am?’
‘England,’ Eva said firmly. ‘Straight back to London.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’ The butler managed an estimable straight face. It sat oddly with his battered pugilistic features. ‘Whatever you say, ma’am. Back to London it is, then.’
She did not leave until well on in the afternoon the next day. Partly it was because she wanted to enjoy the sight of Freddie rediscovering the castle, partly because she wanted to be completely sure that Philippe was well, but also because she was determined to retrace the route she and Jack had taken and to stay in the same inns. So, unless she was going to arrive ludicrously early at the first one, she needed to delay her departure. She was not certain what she would do when they reached the area where they had slept out under the stars, but she would deal with that when she came to it.
It was about six in the evening when the carriage, driven by a very bemused driver, deposited the Grand Duchess of Maubourg on the threshold of one of her more humble inns.
It was the same innkeeper who greeted them and he blinked a little at the sight of her again so soon, and with only servants at her back and no husband. But he did not recognise her true self this time, either, cheerfully ushering in Madame, lamenting that her esteemed husband was not travelling with her, and assuring her that the same bedchamber as last time was free. They had no other guests, he explained, directing her escort to a spacious attic room, although a hunting party was due in two days. What a fortunate occurrence that Madame could have the whole place to herself; he would light a fire in the parlour, for he was sure rain threatened and the temperature was dropping, did she not agree?
The promised rain came not as a shower but as a torrential downpour that made her think of the night before the battle. Then she had had only an open-sided hovel and straw to keep her dry and warm. And Jack’s long body curled around her. But now she was in a snug parlour, surrounded by the carved woodwork and brightly painted earthenware the Maubourg peasants excelled at producing.
On the wide wooden mantel there was even the commemorative tankard that had been produced to celebrate her wedding to Louis. A good thing the image of her was so unlike. It was good of Louis though, she had always thought so. The handsome aloof profile stared blankly at the insipid representation of the new bride. So young, so innocent and so easily moulded to the dutiful wife her husband had demanded. Eva got up and turned the vessel around so the portraits faced the wall and the Maubourg crest was towards the room. That was better. She was another woman now.
There was a fire in the hearth to send red light chasing across the whitewashed walls and the curtains were drawn cosily across the casements. Distantly from the taproom she could hear the men talking. Here she was alone, but not lonely, thankful for the peace and the privacy to think about Jack. She had to get it right this time. Then upstairs was the bed they had shared, the memories of their first night together to relive when she finally felt sleepy. That first night—with a bolster down the middle of the bed!
Eva smiled. What would Jack think if he could see her now, nostalgically retracing their steps across France? Would he think her foolish, or would he understand?
The rain lashed down harder; it almost felt as though the sturdy little inn was a ship in rough seas, the waves battering at its sides. If it was like this tomorrow, she would not move on. It was madness to risk men and horses on roads that could become mountain torrents. Strangely it did not disturb her, the prospect of delay. She had made up her mind—she was travelling back to Jack almost fatalistically. He would be there when she arrived, she knew it.
There was a bustle outside, doors banged and the innkeeper shouted for the ostler. Some chance traveller caught in the storm, perhaps. Eva put down the book she had not been attempting to read and went to twitch aside the curtain. In the erratic light of the wind-tossed lanterns she saw that the ostler, huddled under the inadequate shelter of a sack, was leading a big horse towards the stable. Its coat was black, streaming with water, the saddle already soaked. She caught a glimpse of the skirts of a many-caped greatcoat as the rider vanished into the shelter of the porch.
A lone man, then. It seemed, unless he was content with the common taproom, that she must lose her privacy. Eva shrugged. She did not mind. One of the footmen could come in, too, to cover the proprieties.
‘Such a surprise,