Page 96 of The Ringmaster’s Daughter

‘Tall, thin. He went to get his doctor.’

‘Henri,’ Serge said. ‘I told you he knew we were here. Michel, get that fire going. I am going for a piss.’

Serge left and a bemused Michel added more fuel, then checked on Werner, waking him gently so that he could drink some water before collapsing back into a fitful sleep.

Serge returned with Frieda in tow.

‘You scared Madame Rosie,’ she scolded Serge. ‘She opened the curtain, and there you were!’

Serge shrugged.

Frieda went straight to her father and stroked back his damp hair from his forehead. ‘Papa?’

Werner’s eyes moved under the lids, but he did not wake.

‘He’s coming!’ The door was flung open once more and the tall thin man called Henri was back, his cheeks flushed with exertion.

‘Henri!’ Frieda walked towards him, and he kissed her on both cheeks. ‘It is good to see you.’

‘And you, my dear, and you. And of course, dear Serge.’

‘This is Michel,’ Frieda introduced him.

‘Michel, of course. How do you do?’ The man doffed his hat flamboyantly, then laughed at Michel’s confused expression. ‘I am a little over the top – it is my lineage, you see.’

‘Henri is a count,’ Frieda proudly said.

‘Or so he would have people believe,’ Serge grunted.

‘I am a count. A sir. A prince amongst paupers. And, I am at your service, Serge, as always.’

‘He lives in the house we passed; this is his land,’ Serge said. ‘Not that it always was his.’

‘It is mine. In name, on the title and in my heart. A gracious widow, God bless her soul, left everything to me. Can you imagine, Michel – a whole house and this land, just for the likes of me?’

Michel felt himself instantly warm to Henri: a natural entertainer, a comic and clown yet no one’s fool, all rolled into one.

‘Now, we must get Werner back to my house. There he can rest.’ Henri sat down by the fire. ‘Serge, coffee, perhaps? Even these days it is still proper to offer a guest a drink,’ he twinkled.

Michel watched as the burly bulk of Serge moved awkwardly around the small caravan, finding the kettle to put over the stove, cups, coffee. Henri, it seemed, was a magician as well, to be able to tame the wild sword swallower.

‘Where are the others? I see only four caravans.’

‘They left, one by one. Money was tight,’ Serge said.

‘Money? No, I think more likely they were scared by our German friends, no? When Werner wired me that the train had to be sold, I wept, my dears, I did! I knew what would happen. It is good you have come to me. You will be safe here.’

‘For how long?’ Serge passed Henri his coffee.

‘For as long as I can keep you safe.’ He threw up his hands. ‘You know, Serge, you do doubt me. When have I ever let you down before?’

As he spoke another knock at the door disturbed them; this time two of Henri’s servants with a car they had managed to drive over the wet grass.

‘Ah, yes. Let’s get Werner into more comfortable surroundings, then bring in the troupe for breakfast. By then the doctor will have been and we will know where we are.’

Henri instructed the servants to carry the deadweight of Werner to the car, and they set off towards the house, leaving Michel and Frieda standing in the cold damp field watching the smoke of the exhaust cloud the wintery air.

An hour later, the troupe had woken and walked the half-mile to Henri’s home.