Anne had to chaperone the young ladies when they were not accompanied by their mother, and still had her extra duties of sewing, writing, fetching and carrying, but there were no lessons, so on most days she had leisure to go out and explore the city. The first thing she had done was to find her way to the river, and the walk to the Île de la Cité remained her favourite. To the side of Notre-Dame was a newly laid out garden, with a stretch of grass and a gravelled walk along the bank of the island, from which, over a low parapet, one could look across the southern arm of the Seine towards the Quai St Michel. Here, Anne liked to stand and stare at the river moving peacefully by, the strong, ever-changing pattern of its flow broken now and then by a piece of flotsam, a flotilla of ducks, or a passing boat.
She had discovered a circulating library, newly set up in the rue St Roch for the benefit of the English visitors, which contained books in both English and French. In an access of boldness she had enrolled herself, and since then had been reading steadily through Voltaire, Racine, Diderot, Fontenelle and even Rousseau. She had a book in her reticule at this moment – one of the volumes of Candide – intending to find a sheltered spot under the walls of the cathedral and sit and read for a little. But the sunlight on the river was so pleasant that she stopped to gaze at it, as it flowed past her busily, on the way to its appointment with the sea.
She tried to visualise the map of Europe and work out exactly where that would be. All rivers run into the sea; yet the sea is not full. Her mind idly threw up the quotation, and she spent a moment tracking it to its source, and decided hesitantly that it must be Ecclesiastes. Then she wondered whether a sailor would see the world the other way round from a landsman, and would think of the seas as being bounded by land, and the estuaries as little inlets into the coast, rather than outlets into the sea. The associations of the word ‘sailor’ inevitably produced a sigh.
At once a voice beside her said in French: ‘What a sigh! But I think the thoughts were not sad ones, though they were so deep.’
Anne started and looked round to find a gentleman standing beside her and looking down at her with interest. He was tall, perhaps about thirty-five, with a long, mobile face – not handsome, but pleasant and intelligent. He was wearing a very fine grey pelisse with black silk frogging and a deep collar of some black fur which looked very soft and expensive, such as she had seen no gentleman in Paris wear before. This and a certain strangeness to his accent made her think he was not French, though certainly not English.
He looked at her quizzically. ‘So, mademoiselle? You have been a long way away, I think. Rivers have the same effect on me. I gaze at them and think of them bearing me away to some other place – always to some other place,’ he added, laughing suddenly, ‘even when I like the one I am in!’
Anne was confused. It was a very odd thing for a young woman to be addressed so familiarly by a stranger; and yet there was no impertinence in his expression, nothing of impropriety in his voice or his manner. His clothes were expensive, his air distinguished, and he did look faintly familiar to her. Yet she was sure she had never met him: if she had, she could never have forgotten those eyes, large and shining and such an unusual gold-green in colour. They looked at her with interest, as if they really saw her, as no eyes had looked at her since she had left Miss Oliver’s school; and the long, flexible lips were curved in a curious, closed smile, as if they liked what they saw.
But what could he mean by speaking to her? Puzzled rather than affronted, she replied in French, ‘I beg your pardon, sir. I do not think we have been introduced.’
‘I have offended custom by addressing you,’ he nodded, ‘but I have been watching the expressions flit across your face this quarter-hour, and I feel now as though we are old friends. Pray excuse me, mademoiselle, and allow me to present myself, and then we may continue this delightful conversation with complete propriety.’ He swept off his hat, revealing straight, silky, light- brown hair. ‘Count Nikolai Sergeyevitch Kirov of the Russian Embassy, entirely at your service! I have had the pleasure of seeing you many times in the company of Lady Murray. The two Miss Murrays I have met – perhaps Lady Murray may be your aunt?’
Anne was dismayed. She must tell him what she was, and then she would see the withdrawal in his eyes. Most people looked at a governess in the same way they would look at a door. He might even be affronted and blame her for the civilities he had wasted on a menial. She lowered her gaze to her feet and, stammering a little in her embarrassment, said, ‘I’m sorry, but I’m afraid you are mistaken, sir. I am Miss Peters, the Miss Murrays’ governess.’
A movement caught her attention and made her look up. At the moment of introduction, of course, it was for the lady to offer her hand to the gentleman, and never vice versa; but there was a tiny gesture of intended reciprocation a gentleman sometimes made, to suggest that if the hand were offered he would be more than glad to take it. It was a movement so small it was almost non-existent, and yet to a lady it was quite unmistakable. Anne, brought up as a gentlewoman, responded before she knew it. Her slim, gloved hand came forward, and the Count placed his fingertips under hers, and bowed over it, his lips brushing the air most correctly a fraction of an inch above her glove.
‘Enchanted to make your acquaintance, mademoiselle,’ he said, and as he straightened, his eyes danced as though he and she were in a delightful conspiracy to mock the forms of polite society.
‘Et le votre, monsieur,’ Anne murmured automatically, thinking wildly that perhaps he did not know what a governess was.
But his next words dispelled the doubt. ‘The credit must go to you, then, mademoiselle, that the Miss Murrays speak French with such an attractive accent, for I see that you speak the language à merveille.’
Anne could not help smiling. ‘A pleasing fiction, monsieur!’ she said. ‘You have heard me speak only two sentences – far too little to judge by.’
‘If you will forgive me for so directly contradicting you,’ he said, ‘it is quite enough when coupled with a face so expressive as yours, mademoiselle.’ He frowned suddenly in thought, surveying the face with renewed interest and said, ‘Miss Peters! Forgive me, but are you by any chance related to Admiral Peters, Admiral James Peters of His Britannic Majesty’s navy?’
It was one astonishing thing too much. Anne passed into a state of euphoria where nothing could surprise her any longer. ‘I am his daughter, sir,’ she said. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘I thought so!’ the Count exclaimed, evidently gratified. ‘You have such a look of him, now I think of it, that it is no wonder I felt I knew you! I had the pleasure of meeting your father in Rugen in ’97 when we were both visiting the Prussian Ambassador there. We drank schnapps together one memorable night! He is well I hope?’
‘He died, sir, at Riga that autumn,’ Anne said flatly, and then, feeling she had spoken too brusquely, added in a lighter voice a quotation from Candide which she supposed he would know. ‘Dans ce pays-ci il est bon de tuer de temps en temps un amiral, pour encourager les autres.’
The Count did not react, and she felt a little foolish. His expression was grave as he said, ‘I am very sorry, mademoiselle. In time of war one becomes reluctant to ask after old friends for just that reason. You have family, perhaps? Brothers and sisters?’
‘None, sir.’
He smiled faintly. ‘You are all the daughters of your father’s house, and all the brothers too,’ he said in English.