palace?”
“Papa,” said William, “you must watch your time.”
The hands of the wall clock stood at twenty minutes before twelve. Our parents made their farewells and then William and I walked Papa up to the street. The carriages were back again, this time rolling in the opposite direction, downward.
“Can we come and see you tomorrow?” I asked.
“I shall try to come outside some time in the late afternoon but I cannot promise. My duties may prevent it. You might come after you finish your studies and see if I’m there. You must keep them up until my return.” Normally, he taught us. But these not being normal times, we would have to study byourselves.
Then I noticed the man. The messenger-at-arms with his ebony stick. He was waiting on the other side of the road.
“Look, Papa!” I cried.
“You’d better go!” urged William.
We quickly kissed him goodbye. As he moved off we saw that the messenger did too.
Papa was walking fast, going well ahead of his pursuer. With the going being downhill he should make it over the line, but with only a few minutes to spare. While we stood there another man with an ebony stick passed by in pursuit of his quarry.
“Do you think Papa really has a job in the palace?” asked William.
“Papa never lies.”
“That is true. So, in that case, he must have one.”
We resolved to go down to the palace the next day and look for him.
Maman was in a cheerful mood when we went back to her. “Is it not
merveilleuse
that your father is working for the Comte d’Artois? The
Comte
! Perhaps we shall now be able to buy some better meat.”
“Maman,” said William, “remember that the
comte
is living in the palace because he has no money. He owes millions of francs. I don’t know how much he’ll be able to pay Papa.”
“Ah, but Bessie tells me that the British government is to give him six thousand pounds a year for his living expenses.”
“Six thousand pounds,” we echoed.
“Why would our government give all that money to a citizen of
France
?” asked William.
“I do not like the tone of your voice, William. Let me remind you that I have come from France.”
“They don’t give you money.”
“They wouldn’t give any to Papa either, would they?” I put in. “And he pays taxes here.” Or he did, when he could.
“But, child, the
Comte
is a nobleman and brother of a former king of France, and possibly of the next king. He could not be allowed to starve.”
We let the subject drop because we know our mother is a great admirer of the French royal family. She’d been distraught when she’d heard of the execution of the king and queen; not that we were indifferent to it ourselves.
I am left thinking that if what Bessie says is true about the six thousand pounds then perhaps our father will earn enough money to pay off his debts. And then he would be able to come home.
I am about to go to bed, feeling more cheerful than I have since he entered Sanctuary.
Chapter 7
It was half past eleven on Sunday morning. They had been watching the clock since they’d got up. Only half an hour was left for their father to turn up before they went to report him missing. They wouldn’t have far to go; the police station was just down the road. Their mother had gone out to a café to have coffee with Jane.
“Pity we don’t have Sanctuary now,” said Lucy. “At least William and Louisa knew where their dad was.” As their mother kept saying, it was the not knowing that made it all so difficult. And William and Louisa had been able to spend Sundays with their dad. This was promising to be a very slow Sunday.
At midday their mother returned, with Jane.
“When you talk to the police don’t start straight in about your dad’s debts in case they jump to conclusions,” advised Jane. “After all, that might not be the reason he’s gone. It’s important to keep an open mind.”
But Will and Lucy, thinking of the other Ranald Cunningham, felt convinced that it