Eighteen months had gone by, when Lady Joan Satinwood told her French maid that it was her determined intention to winter in France.
“We shall go down by car, Madeleine—the Major and I, and you and the chauffeur. It’ll be great fun, and I expect you’ll be thrilled to see your country again.”
“Yes, madame.”
“I suppose you’ve—you’ve no news?”
“Of my husband? No, madame.”
“I’m sorry. But don’t despair. Remember my cousin, Sir George. And he was reported ‘killed.’ Two and a half years afterwards, Madeleine, he came walking in. . . .”
“Yes, madame.”
When Madeleine learned in mid-Channel, some three weeks later, that they were to go by Poitiers she felt very faint. . . .
Poitiers lies north of Ruffec, just forty-one miles.
“Et de Poitiers? . . . . After we ’ave lef’ Poitiers? . . .”