Page 129 of The Affairs of Ashmore Castle

‘That, I fear, is the truth. But, ma petite, that cannot go on for ever. Life lies in wait, like a wolf at the door.’

‘“The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold, and his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold,”’ Alice quoted.

‘Very pretty. Where do you have that?’

‘We used to have to recite poetry for Papa when we were very young. That’s the only bit I can remember now. I used to love the name Sennacherib – it sounds like crunching up chop bones.’ She sighed. ‘I wouldn’t mind so much if life was going to arrive gleaming in purple and gold, but I have a horrid feeling it’s going to be just an ordinary grey old wolf – probably with a mangy coat and dog’s breath.’

Her grandmother laughed. ‘Poor little one! I fear you are right. But your imagination will save you. There you shall romp in the green fields always.’

Alice was about to say she’d sooner do it in reality, when the door opened, and Richard came in, closely followed by the butler, Chaplin, who had wanted to announce him properly but could not beat him up the stairs.

‘Thank you, Chaplin. We shall have tea. And so,’ Grandmère turned up her face to receive Richard’s kiss, ‘tell me about your protégée.’

‘What is a protégée?’ Alice asked

‘Do they not teach you any French?’ Grandmère complained.

‘There is no “they”, Granny. I haven’t had a governess for years.’

‘Hmm. In general, I am not in favour of too much education for females – it takes off the natural bloom – but there are some things that are merely a matter of civilisation.’

‘Like sitting up straight,’ Alice said.

‘And speaking French,’ Richard added. ‘Or at least understanding it.’

‘You are both wicked creatures to tease your poor frail grandmère.’

‘You, frail?’ Richard exclaimed. ‘You’re made of pure steel, and you know it. You will outlive all of us.’

‘Oh, j’espère que non!’

‘But what is a protégée?’ Alice persisted. ‘Is it the same as a prodigy?’

‘In this case, yes,’ Richard said.

‘Like the infant phenomenon in Nicholas Nickleby?’

‘She’s no infant. But she has astonishing talent for a young woman. And protégée is from the French, as you ought to know, my ignorant little savage, and means “protected person”. But she’s not my protégée, she’s Grandmère’s. And Sir Thomas Burton’s.’

‘Oh. She’s musical, then,’ Alice said.

‘She plays the piano like – like – well, you have to hear her to understand.’

‘But who is she?’ Alice demanded.

‘Her name is Chloë Sands. Remember that, because she’ll be famous one day.’

‘And how do you know her?’

Grandmère stepped in. ‘It is not comme il faut to ask so many questions, cherie.’ She turned to Richard. ‘All is well for the first recital? I have not seen Sir Thomas for a day or two. Il n’y a pas de problèmes?’

‘Only some severe pre-performance nerves when I visited this morning.’

Grandmère frowned. ‘She has always struck me as a supremely confident young woman. But once she begins to play, she will forget all but the music.’

‘Not the prodigy’s nerves, ma chère, the mother’s,’ said Richard. ‘Miss Chloë already thinks about nothing but the music. It is her mother who is in shreds. I recommended a glass of Wincarnis and a cold flannel to the head.’

‘You are a very wicked boy. Some nervousness is natural in a mother at such a time. But it will all go splendidly. When Sir Thomas puts on a concert, tout le monde fait attention. There will be no empty seat.’