Good Company

La Presidente de Tourvel flinched as she nearly pricked herself for the umpteenth time as the carriage hit an uneven patch of road. It was really very silly for her to attempt embroidery in a jouncing carriage, but it gave her something to do with her hands during the long drive to Rosamonde's. Emilie, her young lady's maid (everyone warning against picking one so young � but her mother was loyal soul who'd been in Tourval's employ for years. It was a pity she hadn't survived the boat trip to England), was gaping out the window at every new sight they passed. This was probably the furthest Emilie ever been from home, the lady considered, but then they were both, in a way, far from home. Emilie would have weeks to get use to the idea of being so far from the town where she was born and raised, while Tourvel wondered if she ever would.

Madame de Rosamonde had been very generous in her invitation and the Lord knew how grateful the lady was for it. While she was growing accustomed to her husband's frequent long trips, even the solace of doing the Lord's works did little to relieve her of her solitude. It was wrong of her to despair so at her husband's absence, after all he was working with the Austrians to restore their homeland, but there was so little for her to cling onto here. It was all foreign. Her dearest friends, those who had managed to flee, were spread out across the country so far that a day's visit was somewhat impractical. Still she longed to hear the melodic accents of her native tongue and to look upon familiar faces. Dear Rosamonde had promised to change that.

Beside her, Emilie gasped. "Is that it, Madame?" she asked, staring out the coach window.

"It is indeed," Tourvel smiled as she recognized the white stone border and tall gates from Rosamonde's descriptions. Rosamonde. It was a miracle that the older woman had fared so well in the transit from France to England, it was feared at her age she would perish in the trip over the Channel. But there she was even now coming out to meet them on the front steps.

Tourvel embraced her dear friend joyfully and kissed both of the old woman�s flushed cheeks. �I should gladly bear the poor roads to see you again, Madame,� Tourvel replied. �I had been sick with worry over you until I received the letter that you were in England. Now that I see with my own eyes that you are in good health I am greatly relieved. If I may be so bold, Madame, however did you manage?�

"Ah," smiled Rosamonde knowingly, "my late husband and I travelled a great deal and made the acquaintance of a great many people. I am lucky that, at such a time as this, they remember me fondly. Is this house not beautiful?" she gestured to the elegant white building behind, "Its owner has given me leave to reside here until it is safe to return to France and I may invite whomsoever I choose to share my exile with me... which is why you are here. Now come..." she motioned for a footman to collect Tourvel's baggage, "I must show you to your room."

Tourvel linked her arm through Rosamonde�s and allowed the woman to lead the way. �So many of us are in exile... I will be far more grateful when the madness is over and we can return home.�

Tourvel gasped at the idea that the revolutionaries might have destroyed Rosamonde's home � a house far more beautiful and impressive than the one in which she was spending her exile. It felt like losing home. Tourvel remembered spending time there in her youth and later when she returned from the convent to marry Tourvel. Of all the places she'd been, it felt the most like home because it was the place she felt the most welcomed in.

But it was foolish to think it was immunity to the terrors that gripped their homeland. Her own home was not immune to the destructive forces that would rather destroy the visages of the old regiment than create a better society.

"Buildings can be recreated," she replied, trying to sound more optimistic than she felt.

"That is true. It is the memories that cannot." She thought briefly of the late M de Rosamonde... how his imprint had been on everything in the house he had left. It had made losing him easier to bear somehow, but could she return if his ghost were erased? It wouldn't be the same. "But come," she continued, shaking herself from her torpor as they climbed the stairs, "your room is first on the right and commands a very pretty view of the river Itchen."

�Have you been in contact with any other members of your family?� Tourvel asked, as they finally reached the top and turned left. �I know of some who managed to evacuate here and into Austria, but so many lines of communication have broken down that it is difficult to know where people are.� They stopped at the first door on the right and Rosamonde opened the door to a lovely room decorated in rich earthy tone with a commanding view of the river. �Madame, it is too perfect for words.�