CHAPTER SIXTwo days later, Rosilda was standing in the vast ornate entrance hall of the Montdeaves Palace, her battered leather travelling bag at her feet.
She was there waiting for the carriage that would transport her to the little railway station to catch the first train of many on her long journey home to England.
She would be arriving at the station by the road that ran directly out of the valley, over a high pass between two great mountains and then down the slope in a series of long zigzags.
This was the official route into Montdeaves and it very different to the tortuous mountain climb on muleback that she had endured on the inward journey.
Rosilda sighed.
She was still bitterly upset at being sent home so soon by Sir Andrew, but she had to admit that there was nothing else fo
