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said thoughtfully, then she took the plunge and came out with it. ‘That is why you would rather have handpicked a Guernsey wife for him than have someone unknown
like me turn up?’
    The old woman kept her surprise hidden. The girl’s perspicacity astounded her.
    Surely this Mary was not Duret’s type? So why exactly
was
she here?
    ‘Not far now,’ she said, changing the subject adroitly.
    Mary took the hint. Staring ahead, she fancied she saw the flash of the sea and the island’s strangeness charged her blood. Come what may, she would survive, she told herself firmly.
    ‘The house is down there on the right,’ Louise pointed with her light whip.
    Mary was astonished. What type of home Duret came from had never entered her head. He was a private soldier so she had presumed he came from a simple, fisherman’s cottage. Now she shot a
peep at the old woman’s clothing. It was cut with the simplicity which only comes from money. Then she turned to study the approaching house. It was large, detached and would have fitted
easily into the wealthy part of her home area. Her eyes shot back to Louise’s hand. She wore no jewellery, only a simple, very wide wedding band now thin from age. There were no pearls around
her neck nor brooch on her coat. There was nothing to indicate financial status but Mary could sense wealth with the instinct of one who has always been poor.
    ‘We have ten vergees and keep some cows,’ Louise stated, breaking into her thoughts.
    Mary made herself concentrate to learn. ‘What’s a vergee?’
    ‘It’s our land measurement,’ Louise explained quietly. The girl had been lost in a brown study as soon as she had pointed out her home. Why? What had that stupid boy Duret told
her? She made herself reply to the question. She had a lot of thinking to do later. ‘A vergee makes two and a half English acres and two and a quarter on Jersey,’ she added with a sniff
of disparagement. ‘They always have to be different, of course.’
    Mary did not miss the sarcasm and wondered again but decided to probe this another day. She was sharply conscious of her abysmal ignorance of this island.
    ‘I know little about the islands except they belong to England,’ she admitted.
    Louise bridled in a flash. ‘You know nothing at all then!’ she said acidly. ‘These islands do
not
belong to England. They never have! If anything, England belongs to
us. The Duke of Normandy, the one you call the Conqueror, came here first and
then
went to capture England so England is ours. Not the other way about. That’s why the British
monarch, whether King or Queen, comes here as the Duke of Normandy first and the English monarch very much second.’
    Mary was flabbergasted. ‘Oh!’ was all she could manage. There was such a ring of pride in Louise’s voice that she quickly realised it would pay her to tread gently.
    The cob turned up a sweeping gravel drive kept free from weeds, then the trap halted gracefully at the front door. Mary let Louise alight first before she followed more slowly, looking around
curiously, highly impressed and trying not to show it.
    The house had been built from cream, stone blocks. The upper floor had five separate windows all of which faced west. The paintwork was in excellent condition and overall lay a discreet air of
affluence. The house also exuded an aura of being a loved and cherished building. The front garden on the right and left of the drive held a variety of bulbs. To one side Mary noted stables and
more outbuildings, all in a good state of repair. In the other direction were small fields that held cows, now curious spectators of their arrival.
    She took a deep breath. It was a lovely, attractive house; it welcomed. This family equalled the gentry back in England. It was nearly dark and Mary’s nostrils flared as they took in the
tang of salt; the sea must be very near and she fancied she could hear waves ripple delicately. A cow lowed but, apart from that sound, it