blame him. She had had so little opportunity to be with him these last six months, so much time had been taken up with lessons and with the business of preparing for France, that he had failed to see that she had grown up. She could hardly blame him for seeking company elsewhere. But they would be together during the journey and in Paris where she could enjoy his undivided attention. From then on things would be different. Sophie took a deep breath. She must be sensible and forgive and forget this incident and never allow it to trouble her again. It would be difficult to do so, but do it she must, and with good grace.
Heartened by her reflections, Sophie undressed. Throwing a shawl over her night-robe, she moved the candle to a table under the window, sat down, unlocked the drawer and drew out a bundle of papers. Then she removed the porcelain cover from the ink-stand to reveal an ink-pot and sand dredger underneath. Her quill was already trimmed and she regarded it thoughtfully before dipping it into the ink.
Normally, this was the time that Sophie loved best. Alone and free from surveillance however affectionate, she could indulge in what had become a necessity. It was something she never talked about, and trusted that nobody would ever discover, because what she wrote was too private and, sometimes, took even her by surprise.
Sophie could not remember when exactly she had begun to write her thoughts down, but hardly a day passed when she did not manage to find time to cover a sheet or so. Sometimes she was content merely to record the dayâs events, at other times she tried to make sense of feelings that muddied her thoughts and left her puzzled and exhausted. Trying to put them in to order very often proved beyond her powers and she would score out pages in despair when her writing abilities failed to match her ambitions. Sometimes she turned to her small supply of books for inspiration and tuition â
Robinson Crusoe,
and the daring philosophy of Rousseauâs
La Nouvelle Héloïse
â but she always returned to her own writing, driven by an urge to express herself better... and even better.
Tonight was different. Drawing the paper towards her, Sophie traced with her pen the words:
On Being a Wife.
To Obey My Husband in All Things...
To...
Nedâs image filled her vision. Her pen faltered and she swallowed a treacherous lump in her throat. He was so very dear to her. What did he see in Margaret? What was she missing? She pulled herself together. It did not matter what she felt. Together they would rule over High Mullions and it would be a place where peace and plenty reigned, and the estate would flourish under their dual care.
This time her pen was obedient. Lady Edward Luttrell, Lady Edward Luttrell, Lady Edward Luttrell. Sophie wrote it over and over again, and scrawled a determined black line under each word.
PARIS, July 13th-14th, 1789
Change was in the air. It had been there for decades, forced underground by the royal police. It had lain, quiescent, but waiting for a signal. Few had dared to acknowledge it â that was to court exile or imprisonment. But now, throughout France, an element had finally forced its way to the surface: a mixture of expectation, frustration and outrage. There it was, a small flame, burning at the bottom of a pyre, fuelled by the hunger and despair of a country organised to favour a few and to forget the rest.
It was unpredictable, and more than a little heady, this feeling, and the newly elected representatives of the Third Estate of the Estates-General â meeting for the first time in a hundred and fifty years â who had made their way to Versailles in May 1789 were not immune to its seduction.
Summoned by a reluctant king to help him make some sense of the financial crisis that threatened to swamp the country, the representatives were hastily billeted on the inhabitants of the town, bringing with them a flavour of provincial France and a