That was certainly what her father and mother were, Amalita felt and she could never recall them quarrelling or even arguing with each other.
Arguing was what she enjoyed when she grew older and her father found it most amusing that she had the same sharp brain that he had.
She also had an intuition that made them duel often with each other in words.
“When you do marry, my darling,” he had said to her once, “I hope you will find a man who will not only adore you but also stimulate your mind in the same way that you stimulate mine.”
Just a year ago, however, disaster had struck them.
It was an extremely cold winter.
However strong the fires blazed away in the house and timber was cut up to provide warmth, Elizabeth Maulpin succumbed to the freezing atmosphere and retired to bed.
It was unlike her not to be at her husband’s side.
Sir Frederick, for the very first time, seemed to be at a loose end.
So it was Amalita who had ridden out with him at the strangest hours just because he could not think of anything else to do.
“Mama will soon be better, Papa,” she would say to cheer him up.
Lying in the comfortable bed with its silk curtains and gold corola above it, Elizabeth Maulpin seemed to shrink away day by day.
Finally one sunny morning when her husband woke, he found her dead beside him.
His two daughters found it as difficult to believe as he did.
He was at once in such a frantic state of despair that they spent every moment of their time trying to comfort him.
“We must not leave him alone,” Amalita had said to Carolyn.
They took it in turns always to be at his side.
When the funeral was over and he could no longer see the wife he had adored, he announced that he must go away.
“I shall go to Paris,” he replied when Amalita asked him where he would go.
He had been away for many months.
Although the girls wrote long letters to him almost daily, they received only a few scanty replies from him.
Then, after a long empty interval, a letter arrived just as they were returning from riding.
“A letter from Papa!” Amalita exclaimed as she came into the hall. “Thank Goodness. I was just wondering what could have happened to him.”
“Maybe he is coming back home at last,” Carolyn said cheerfully.
Amalita opened the letter and began to read what her father had written.
“Read me the letter to me,” Carolyn begged, coming up beside her.
As Amalita was silent, Carolyn took the letter from her and read it.
Then she exclaimed,
“I don’t believe it! How could Papa be in love with anyone so – soon after Mama – ?”
Her voice broke and she burst into tears.
“Papa has – forgotten – Mama,” she sobbed.
Amalita put her arms around her.
“He could never forget Mama” she said. “It is just that he cannot bear to be alone.”
Her father returned a month later.
He brought with him his new wife, and the two girls stared at her feeling that they must be dreaming.
Yvette was in every way a complete contrast to their mother.
For one thing she was French.
Although Amalita did not say so, she was sure that she was a Bourgeoise.
She was certainly not an aristocrat by any means.
She did have, however, all the enticement, allure and charm for which Frenchwomen are renowned.
She walked into the house wearing high-heeled shoes and dressed in a fashion Amalita had never seen before.
It was so obvious that her father found her irresistible as he could not take his eyes from her.
She flirted with him in a way that kept the two girls gazing at her in astonishment.
She was witty and amusing and she looked at him in a way that brought the fire into his eyes.
Amalita was old enough to understand why her father could forget everything he had lost.
In fact he was no longer the father she knew, the man she had adored ever since he had first lifted her out of the cradle.
For their father’s sake, Amalita and Carolyn tried to understand and to like their stepmother. But it was quite obvious that Yvette had no use for them.
She was concerned with one thing only and that was keeping their father madly and wildly in love with her.
She accepted the presents he bought for her to express his affection.
Furs, jewels, clothes of every description came down from London day after day.
Always she wanted more and still more.
Sir Frederick produced all his gifts as if he was paying her for the pleasure she gave him.
That, Amalita thought secretly when she was alone at night, was the truth.
It was very obvious that Sir Frederick did not want his friends or neighbours to meet Yvette.
That was the reason why when he returned to England he had not taken her to London.
When he came to the country, he made every excuse not to invite any of the friends who lived near them to a meal.
He refused every invitation as soon as it arrived.
It was obvious after two of three weeks that Yvette was growing restless.
“Let’s go to London, mon chéri,” Amalita heard her say to her father.
“Why London?” Sir Frederick enquired.
“It is dull here, except, of course, that I am so happy with you,” Yvette replied caressingly. “But I want to go to the theatre, I want to dance with you and feel you hold me close in your arms.”
“I can do that without having to dance,” Sir Frederick told her.
“But I want the music. It is so romantic and, when I am with you, I feel very, very romantic, mon brave.”
There was a note in her voice, Amalita just knew, that made Sir Frederick reach out for her.
Because it made her embarrassed when she saw her father kissing the Frenchwoman, she left the room.
But she had not forgotten what had been said.
It was therefore no surprise when only a week later her father declared that they were going back to France.
It was November and, to his daughters’ surprise, he had made no effort to join any of the shooting parties to which he was invited, as he had every year previously.
He had not even hunted as he always had enjoyed.
Nor had he taken part in the Steeplechases in which he had invariably been the winner.
He just stayed at home with Yvette. More often than not they remained in their bedroom for most of the day.
The idea that they were to go to France made Yvette more animated than ever.
She talked very quickly, using her hands to express what she was saying.
She flattered Sir Frederick in such a manner that made Amalita feel embarrassed.
Before