He saw her yellow dress before he saw her, glowing in the fading light; a beacon at the far end of the stables. He stopped for a moment, unsure that he could trust his eyes. Then her pale arm reached up, Gerontius’s elegant head dipping over the door to take whatever treat she offered, and he was walking briskly, half running, the metal tips of his boots clicking on the wet cobbles.
‘You are here!’
‘Henri!’
His arms were around her as she turned; he kissed her, dipped his head to inhale the glorious scent of her hair. The breath that escaped him seemed to come from somewhere in his boots.
‘We got here this afternoon,’ she said, into his shoulder. ‘I’ve barely had time to change. I must look awful . . . but I was in the audience and glimpsed you through the curtain. I had to come to wish you luck.’
Her words had become jumbled, but he could barely hear her anyway. He was shocked by the girl’s sheer presence; the feel of her in his arms after so many months’ absence. ‘And just look at you!’ She took a step back, allowing her gaze to travel from his black peaked cap all the way down his immaculate uniform, then reached up to brush an imaginary fleck from one of his gold epaulettes. He noted, with gratitude, the reluctance with which she withdrew her fingers. There was no awkwardness, he marvelled, even after so many months. No coquettishness. She was utterly guileless; the girl of his imagination made flesh again.
‘You look wonderful,’ she said.
‘I . . . cannot stay,’ he said. ‘We ride in ten minutes.’
‘I know . . . Le Carrousel is so exciting. We’ve been watching the motorcyclists, and the parade of tanks,’ she said. ‘But you, Henri, you and the horses are definitely the big draw.’ She glanced behind her towards the arena. ‘I think the whole of France is here to see you.’
‘You . . . get les billets?’
They frowned at each other. Language was still a problem, despite their best efforts.
‘Billets . . .’ He shook his head, irritated with himself. ‘Ticket. Tickets. Best tickets.’
She beamed, and his brief dissatisfaction evaporated. ‘Oh, yes. Edith, her mother and I are in the front row. They simply can’t wait to see you ride. I’ve told them everything about you. We’re staying at the Château de Verrières.’ Her voice dropped to a whisper, even though no one was near. ‘It’s very grand. The Wilkinsons have an awful lot of money. Much more than we have. It was very kind of them to bring me.’
He watched her talk – distracted by the Cupid’s bow of her upper lip. She was here. His hands, in their white kid gloves, cradled her face. ‘Florence . . .’ He breathed, kissing her again. The scent of the sun infused her skin, even though dusk had fallen. It was intoxicating, as if she had been created to radiate warmth. ‘Every day I miss you. Before, there is nothing but Le Cadre Noir. Now . . . nothing is good without you.’
‘Henri . . .’ She stroked his cheek, her body against his. He felt almost giddy.
‘Lachapelle!’
He whipped round. Didier Picart stood at the head of his horse, a groom at his side preparing his saddle. He was pulling on his gloves. ‘Perhaps if you think about your riding as much as your English whore we can achieve something, eh?’
Florence did not know enough French to understand but she caught the look that flickered across Picart’s face, and Henri saw she had guessed that whatever the other Frenchman had said it was not complimentary.