I had learned a little about architecture because of our house at Marchlands, which was quite old, and the Denvers’ place had always interested me. Robert had unearthed a number of books for me in the library at Caddington Manor, because he knew of my interest.

So now I recognized the conventionally Gothic style, and later I delighted in details such as the finials molded in the granite.

“It’s ancient!” I cried. “It’s wonderful…!”

The others were too concerned with our arrival to listen to me. We alighted and mounted the six stone steps to a door.

There was a huge knocker on the iron-studded door, held in place by the head of a fierce-looking warrior.

Aunt Celeste knocked, and after a pause a shutter was drawn back.

“It is Madame Lansdon with the girls,” said Aunt Celeste.

The door was slowly opened. A man stood there. He surveyed us and nodded, gabbled something which I could not understand and stood aside for us to enter. When we were inside, Celeste spoke to him; he nodded and disappeared.

It was then that I had my first encounter with Madame Rochère. She had come to meet us personally. I had a notion later that this was due to the presence of the Princesse, whom she greeted with respectful formality; and after a gracious acknowledgement of Celeste, who, as the sister of Jean Pascal, was worthy of some consideration also, she turned to us.

“And these are to be my girls,” she said.

“That is so,” answered Celeste.

Madame Rochère was silent for a few seconds, nodding her head as she assessed us. I was aware of Annabelinda’s attempt to look nonchalant, but even she could not quite manage this in the presence of Madame Rochère.

She turned to Celeste and the Princesse.

“Madame la Princesse, Madame Lansdon, you will take a little wine to refresh yourselves after the journey while the girls shall go straight to their dormitory and settle in?”

The Princesse bowed her head graciously and Aunt Celeste said it sounded like an excellent idea.

Madame Rochère lifted a hand and, as though by magic, a woman appeared on the stairs.

“Ah, Mademoiselle Artois.” Madame Rochère turned to the Princesse and Celeste. “Mademoiselle Artois is my house mistress. She will take the girls. They may settle into their quarters and later be brought down to say good-bye to you before you leave. If that is what you wish, of course….”

“That would be very acceptable,” said Celeste.

Mademoiselle Artois was a woman in her mid-forties, I imagined. She might have seemed very severe, but after our meeting with Madame Rochère, she appeared to be comparatively mild.

She spoke to us in English, for which we were thankful, but although she had a fair command of the language, her accent and intonation now and then left us grappling for understanding.

She led us past the gray stone walls of the gallery, which were hung with axes and murderous-looking weapons, to the wide staircase. We followed her up to the first floor and came to a long hall in which I should have liked to pause to study the tapestry (which looked very ancient) and portraits that lined the walls.

There were more stairs and more rooms to be passed through, for the dormitories were at the very top.

Mademoiselle Artois addressed Annabelinda. “You should have a room of your own because you are fifteen years of age. Most girls have their own room when they are fifteen.” She turned to me. “You have thirteen years only. You will therefore share with three others…all of your age.”

I was rather glad. There was an eeriness about the place and I felt I should be more comfortable in the company of others.

We were in a corridor with a row of doors. As we passed, I saw one half open and I fancied there was someone behind trying to peep out—one of the pupils, I thought, anxious to take a look at the newcomers.

Mademoiselle Artois looked at Annabelinda. “I know that you are fifteen, but unfortunately, there is not a room vacant until the end of term, so you must share. Yours will be a room for two. It may well be that the girl with whom you will share is there now waiting to greet you.”

We went past more doors and paused before one. Mademoiselle opened it, and as she did so a girl who had been sitting on the bed rose. She was plumpish with long, dark hair which was tied back with a red ribbon. I noticed her sparkling dark eyes.

“Ah, Lucia,” said Mademoiselle Artois. “This is Annabelinda Denver, who will share with you until the end of term, or till another single room is available.” She turned back to Annabelinda. “This is Lucia Durotti. Lucia is Italian. You will help each other with your languages.”

Lucia and Annabelinda surveyed each other with interest.

“You must tell Annabelinda which wardrobe is yours…and explain to her what she will want to know,” said Mademoiselle Artois. “She will want to wash, I am sure, and unpack. Show her, Lucia.”

“Yes, mademoiselle,” said Lucia, turning to Annabelinda with a smile.

“And now it is your turn,” said Mademoiselle Artois to me, and we moved into the corridor.

She paused before another door and opened it.

A girl was in the room.

“You are here, Caroline,” said Mademoiselle Artois. “Good. This is Lucinda Greenham, who will be in your dormitory. You will show her where things are and help her when need be.” She turned to me. “There will be four of you in this room: Caroline Egerton, yourself, Yvonne Castelle, who is French, and Helga Spiegel, who is Austrian. We like to mix our nationalities, you see. It is helpful for languages. We cannot always do this, because there are more French and English girls than any others. But it is Madame Rochère’s wish that we mix you as much as possible.”

“I understand, Mademoiselle Artois,” I said.

“Caroline is here to meet you because she is English and that will make it easier for you at first I shall leave you now. Caroline will show you your wardrobe, and before your family leaves you may come down to say good-bye to them. I shall send someone to bring you down…” she looked at the watch pinned on her blouse “…in, say…fifteen minutes. That should be about right.”

When she left us, Caroline Egerton and I stood surveying each other for a few minutes. She had brown eyes, brown hair and a pleasant smile, so I felt it would not be difficult to be friends with her. Then she showed me where to put my clothes and helped me to unpack. She asked me where I came from and what my father did and why I had come with another girl. I answered all these questions and asked a few of my own. She told me that it was “all right” at the school. She had been here two years. The older girls were given a fair amount of freedom, and there was a great deal of attention given to the social side.

“Very French,” she said. “Very formal. Madame Rochère is an old tyrant. Arty’s all right. A bit soft, but not bad, because you can get away with things.”

I asked about Yvonne Castelle and Helga Spiegel.

“Oh, they’re all right. We have some fun…talking after lights out and that sort of thing. Sometimes girls come in from other rooms. That’s forbidden. There would be trouble if we were caught.”

“Have you ever been?”

“Once. The fuss! We were kept in from recreation for a week…and had to write masses of lines. But it was worth it.”

“What do you do when the girls come in?”

“Talk.”

“What about?”

“School matters,” said Caroline mysteriously.

I was beginning to get intrigued, and by the time I was taken down to say good-bye to Aunt Celeste and the Princesse, I felt I knew Caroline very well.

When I made the acquaintance of Yvonne Castelle and Helga Spiegel I discovered that Yvonne had been at the school for a year, Helga a little longer. They were all eager to instruct me in procedure, and Caroline, who had a streak of motherliness in her nature and had been instructed by Mademoiselle Artois to “keep an eye on the newcomer,” watched over me with assiduous care, which in those early days was comforting. Within a week, I felt I had been there for much longer, and because I shared a dormitory with these three girls, they became my special friends.