Page 97 of The Ringmaster’s Daughter

In the daylight, the farmhouse was more than that. It had been refurbished, the roof re-tiled in red slate, the stone cleaned. To Michel, the house spread far and wide, corridors leading off to rooms filled with secrets. Box hedges lined the drive and a car sat waiting at the front door.

They were ushered in by a servant who did not introduce himself. ‘He asked you to wait here.’ He directed them to the left, into an opulent living room, a fire burning in the grate, a chandelier winking overhead.

‘I cannot believe we are in the home of a count.’ Giordano grinned and plonked himself onto one of the sofas, the thick cushions enveloping him.

‘He is many things and nothing,’ Serge said. ‘He is an artist, that I know. He is famous for his paintings all over Europe. They say that even the Führer has one.’

‘If by “they say” you mean “Henri says”,’ Frieda reminded him.

They all found seats, Michel balancing himself awkwardly on a spindly chair that he was sure had once belonged in a palace – its legs were gilded, the cushions a rich plum. Every available wall space was filled with paintings: women in profile, scenes of Paris and London. One portrait stood out more than the others – a young man staring at the painter, a sad smile on his lips, his heavy chocolate eyes following the viewer around the room.

‘That one’s Henri’s,’ Frieda said.

The painting was titled Pedro, a bronze plaque affixed to the frame so that no one would ever need to ask.

‘He is like the Count of Monte Cristo,’ Jean said. ‘A count yet at the same time not a count. But perhaps not out for revenge like our fictional friend.’

‘Perhaps he is?’ Madame Rosie said.

‘So what if he is not a count?’ Michel was tired, confused, his hands still cold from the night-time journey. Jean lit a cigarette and passed it to him. Michel was thankful for the small warmth it afforded.

‘He is Papa’s oldest friend,’ Frieda began. ‘They met years ago, the same night he met my mother.’

Michel smiled. It was the first time she had called Werner ‘Papa’ in front of everyone, almost as though Henri had reminded her of her past – that she was Werner’s little girl. ‘The summer solstice, in Hungary,’ Michel remembered. ‘He was the guest of a count.’

Frieda nodded. ‘Henri – one and the same. He says he is a count of some noble family. A noble family that has bloodlines in all the major countries. He once showed me a family tree – it looked old, crinkled. When I was younger, I always thought that perhaps he was actually Count Dracula. It makes sense: he does not age and leaps about from city to city! Anyway, where was I?’

‘Hungary,’ Giordano said. ‘And I am. Hungry.’

Jean barked a laugh and Frieda shook her head wearily at him.

‘Henri so admired the acts at the show that he made sure Papa was able to keep the tradition going. He gave him money, helped with permits, and when things were sometimes difficult, perhaps with the police, he made sure we were fine. He travelled with us and would return to Paris, or Milan, when he needed a break. One night, perhaps just after I first met him, he himself got into trouble. Papa did not tell me what had happened, only that the police, this time, needed to speak with Henri. Papa hid him in our spare room and told me I was not to go in there.

‘Of course, I disobeyed. I was fifteen; I could not help myself. When Papa and Serge left the apartment, I knocked gently on the door and Henri told me to enter. His face was battered, much like Papa’s is now, and he was crying.

‘I held him in my arms as he wept and he told me, “You should be careful who you love. Who you trust.” I did not know what he meant.’

‘But Werner got him out of whatever trouble he was in?’ Michel asked.

‘He did,’ Serge said.

‘What was it, the trouble?’ Giordano was ever alert to gossip.

‘I was in love, that is all. Unfortunately, it was with the wrong person.’ Henri’s voice broke in from the open door.

‘Monsieur Count, I do apologise—’ Giordano began.

‘No need.’ He waved the apology away. ‘Come, breakfast is ready. Let us dine together as friends.’

Henri had had his servant lay the table with fresh bread, jams, fruit, steaming pots of coffee and cream, pastries, and even bowls of chocolat chaud that the triplets eagerly helped themselves to. Odélie appeared as everyone sat down, still yawning.

‘Still too early for you, my dear?’ Henri asked.

‘I need coffee.’

‘Too early for me too,’ Hugo said. ‘But I made the effort.’

‘It’s because there is food,’ Odélie said.