The House with Blue Shutters by Lisa Hilton Page A

up? Doctor told you to rest. Look, we’ve got visitors.’
    ‘I had seen that,’ muttered Mademoiselle, turning to look at Claudia. ‘There you are. Thank you for coming last night. Is
     Madame Harvey your mother?’
    ‘No, my sister-in-law, at least she will be.’ Claudia smiled her bride-like smile and gestured at Alex.
    ‘I see. When?’ Mademoiselle nodded to her.
    ‘Well, we haven’t really decided on a date for the wedding yet.’
    ‘No, the baby,’ the old woman smiled kindly, ‘when are you due?’
    Claudia fainted, for the first time in her life.
    Giles Froggett was attacked by the Marquis d’Esceyrac’s Alsatians at the same moment that Claudia’s head made abrupt contact
     with Oriane Aucordier’s turquoise lino. He had heard them first, the quick bounding patter of paws on dry leaves, but the
     sound meant so little to him that the dogs were upon him before its identity was clear to his thoughts. They hurtled from
     the woods at the side of the path, not barking, two of them, ears pressed back against the long narrow heads, black lips snarling.
     The first brought him down in a leap of nightmare, its weight barrelling against his chest, he knew he would fall only as
     his back painfully struck the ground. He curled over on his side, tucking in his chin and squeezing his arms to his sides,
     a gesture unlearned, the body reacting swiftly as the brain struggled still with the shattering of his holiday afternoon.
     The second dog nipped his bare ankle, too quickly still for fear, the other was upon him, hot and fetid, snouting at his neck.
     He rolled foetus-like, eyes closed, heart hammering now but aiming at motionlessness, dogs could smell fear couldn’t they,
     hoping passivity would keep their evil yellow teeth from his veins. They circled him as he scrabbled in the desiccated leaf
     mould, barking triumphantly. If he moved they would kill him. He could not cry out.
    ‘You’re stupid.’ An English voice, a child’s voice. Giles opened his eyes. A little boy, six or seven, stood on the path in
     blueshorts and long blue socks, a white shirt. The dogs abased themselves, jaws to the ground, one of them licked amiably at Giles’s
     face as though it had just been joking. Warily, Giles sat up.
    ‘I am the Comte d’Esceyrac,’ said the little boy, adding conversationally, ‘my father had a cancer.’
    There were leaves sticking to Giles’s knees, his polo shirt was torn. He wanted to brush at himself, but was afraid the movement
     might bring on the dogs.
    ‘You’re bleeding,’ said the Comte d’Esceyrac.
    ‘Are you French?’ asked Giles. The scene was beyond him.
    ‘Yes, but my nanny is English. She is called Sarah Ashworth.’
    ‘Do you think I should get up?’
    ‘Well, you can now.’
    The child held on to the dogs by their collars, their shoulders well above his waist. A voice called through the trees, ‘Charles-Henri?’
    Giles stood, his back smarting. There was blood in his sandal, quite a lot of blood. He felt dizzy. Charles-Henri answered
     in a rapid staccato, then looked contemptuously at Giles. ‘You had better come up.’
    Tea was being served on the oval lawn before the chateau, white cane chairs, white cloth dappled with leaf-light beneath a
     huge tree. A smaller boy, neatly identical to his brother, sat quietly to one side with a picture book, a couple, oldish man
     and younger, fair-haired woman in a dark blue dress, talked quietly. Like a painting, Giles thought. The tree was probably
     an oak. He scrambled after Charles-Henri through a rhododendron bush. A young woman in large shorts, hair inan Alice band, ran forward. ‘Sarah Ashworth, I presume?’ said Giles, attempting to recover himself.
    ‘Oh, you’re English. I’m so sorry, what has Charles-Henri done to you?’ She had a clear, ringing voice, ‘Plummy’, Giles said
     later to his wife.
    ‘Actually,’ asserted Charles-Henri, ‘I probably actually saved his life. Zola and Balzac were eating him,