Julia and the Master of Morancourt

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The noise of the wheels of the old carriage rumbling along the uneven track almost drowned out the sound of the shoes tapping on the floor.

Almost, but not quite.

“Julia, why do you keep tapping your shoes?”

There was no answer. Her sister was intent on looking out of the window, at the rather grey day, at the bare green fields and the low stone walls that divided them into a green patchwork quilt. Beside her, on the worn leather seat, was the old tapestry bag containing their riding boots, waiting ready for the treat to come.

“Julia,” persisted Sophie, “why are you tapping your shoes?”

Their father stirred from dozing on the seat opposite them and opened his eyes. “What did you say, Sophie?”

“Why is Julia tapping her feet, Papa?”

Lewis Maitland looked down at the worn old red shoes.

She had insisted on wearing them. Perhaps they were familiar, comforting, in a situation he knew that Julia would have preferred to avoid. Her face seemed paler than usual, and she had drawn her hair back from her face this morning in a rather severe style, the golden-brown curls more disciplined than usual above her brown riding skirt and short yellow jacket.

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