It was then that Agathe thought again of approaching Madame St Clair. She had not done so for her own benefit, but this was for someone else, a child whom over the past few years she had come to love and who now was in desperate need of help. Perhaps the St Clairs could find a place for Annette somewhere in their household. Not in Paris, but out at their country home in St Etienne. No one would know the girl there and she could be passed off as a very young widow, whose husband had fallen victim to the influenza that was rife in the city. Rosalie St Clair was a woman of the world. Her own daughter had once been subjected to abuse by a man, so surely she would have compassion on a girl of the same age, now in a dreadful situation, but not one of her own making.
She made a decision and rose to her feet. ‘Come with me now,’ she said, ‘and let’s see what we can do for you.’
‘Where are we going?’ Annette picked up her bag and together they walked back across the market square.
‘I’m taking you back to where I’m staying,’ Agathe explained as they threaded their way through the narrow streets. ‘Just now I live with my sister, and I’m hoping she’ll let you stay with us while I visit a friend and try to get you some help. When we get home I shall open the front door and you must go inside straight away. Go down the hallway and into my room… the door straight ahead of you. Stay there and stay quiet, while I talk to my sister and explain to her what I’m hoping to arrange.’
‘But what if she won’t let me in?’ muttered Annette.
‘She won’t know you’re there if you stay in my room,’ Agathe said reassuringly. ‘She seldom comes out of the salon except to her own bedroom. I will go in and talk to her, and once she understands the situation, I’m sure she’ll let you stay for a short while.’ Agathe was sure of no such thing, but she was determined to do her best for the child, and would stand up to Fleur if necessary.
‘I shall tell her you are the daughter of an old friend and as she is now no longer with us, you’ve come to me in your hour of need. We shall say that you were married last year and your husband has recently died in the flu epidemic, leaving you expecting his child with nowhere to go. There is no reason to doubt such a story – lots of people have died of this dreadful flu, and there must be other women truly in the situation I’m describing. Why should my sister not believe us?’
Annette still looked at her anxiously and Agathe gave her a shake. ‘It’s the best we can do for now, Annette. That’s the story we’ll stick to and my sister will hear nothing of Father Thomas or the Clergy House. Now, give a name to your dead husband, because he has to seem real for you to be able to pull this off!’
‘Marc,’ replied Annette after a moment’s thought. ‘Marc Dubois.’
‘Good. A very common name,’ said Agathe. ‘Marc Dubois it is – which makes you Annette Dubois, so remember it if someone asks.’
When they reached Fleur’s apartment and Agathe opened its front door, she gave Annette a silent push down the corridor towards her own room before going to find Fleur in her salon.
As soon as the bedroom door closed behind her, Annette crossed to the narrow bed in the tiny box room where Agathe slept. She had scrounged food, drunk from fountains and slept in doorways and under waggons for the past three weeks, flotsam in the bustle of the city, invisible, tossed aside and disregarded. The quiet of this room, where the noise of the streets outside was only a distant hum, claimed her, and the moment she lay down on Agathe’s bed, she descended into a deep and dreamless slumber. She was still fast asleep when, hours later, Agathe finally came to the room at the end of her working day. She had changed her mind about explaining Annette’s presence to her sister. So far she had not told Fleur that she had an extra lodger in her apartment; time enough for that in the morning when she had worked out her plan in detail.
Annette slept until morning and by the time she awoke, Agathe, who had slept only fitfully in her armchair, had finalised her plan. She would go to see Madame St Clair in Avenue Ste Anne, the St Clairs’ Paris home, and ask her for help. After all, Agathe thought, it’s worth a try, and she can only say no. Neither way would Annette be any the worse off.
She explained her idea to Annette as the girl ate the food Agathe had purloined from the kitchen.
‘Hélène’s mother? Why should she help?’
‘Why should she not?’ replied Agathe. ‘They have first-hand evidence of what can happen to a young girl forced to live on the streets. Hélène is safe now, but you are in need of help.’
Annette shook her head. ‘They’ll say it’s my fault,’ she said, ‘call me a slut and turn me away.’
‘We don’t know that,’ said Agathe firmly, though she knew in her heart that it could well be the case. ‘Indeed, we shan’t know unless we ask, so it’s worth asking.’
Reluctantly Annette had agreed, and leaving her still hidden in her bedroom, that afternoon Agathe had sallied forth to the Avenue Ste Anne to renew her acquaintance with Rosalie St Clair.
Chapter 5
Rupert Chalfont, younger son of Sir Philip Chalfont, baronet, took the train to Dover and then the steam packet across the English Channel to Calais. He had been advised by his twin brother, Justin, that he should beat a hasty retreat from his father’s London house in Eaton Place and for once he’d taken Justin’s advice.
Justin had travelled up especially from Pilgrim’s Oak, the family home in Somerset, to warn Rupert of the scandal of Mary Dawson, the gamekeeper’s daughter.
‘The governor’s absolutely furious with you,’ Justin warned him. ‘Dawson says you’ve put young Mary in the family way and he’s kicking up one hell of a stink about it.’ He looked quizzically at his younger brother. ‘Did you?’
‘I might have,’ Rupert admitted cautiously, ‘but so might have plenty of others! Puts herself about a bit, does young Mary.’
‘Well, Dawson has sworn to the governor that Mary was white as the driven snow until you had your wicked way with her!’
Rupert laughed. ‘The driven snow must be pretty grey round the Dawsons’ cottage then!’ he said.
‘No laughing matter, Rupe,’ Justin said with mock severity. ‘Dawson is saying that she should be paid off.’
‘Can’t see the governor wearing that one,’ scoffed Rupert.
‘No more can I,’ agreed Justin. ‘Even so, it wouldn’t hurt to make yourself scarce till it all blows over.’
Rupert nodded. ‘Probably a good idea,’ he said. ‘I was thinking of going over to France anyway. Met a chap from somewhere outside Paris at Maud Berrow’s coming-out last month. Handsome in a sort of French way, all bowing and kissing hands. The mamas were enchanté’ – Rupert kissed his own hand with an exaggerated flourish – ‘and enquiring as to his heritage, but turned out he was already spoken for, back home in France. Invited me to his wedding.’
‘He what?’ Justin sounded incredulous. ‘Why would he do that?’
Rupert shrugged. ‘Took to me, I suppose,’ he replied before adding with a grin, ‘People do, you know.’
Justin knew that this was no idle boast. Rupert, with an easy charm, had the knack of making himself agreeable to all sorts of unlikely people, dowagers to scullery maids, grooms to girls still in the schoolroom. The dark good looks he’d inherited from his grandmother were just the sort that appealed to those with a romantic mind: dark hair worn a little too long, deep-set dark brown eyes above an aquiline nose, a wide mouth and determined chin. It was only because he was a younger son that the mamas with eligible daughters did not flock about him. Charming and good-looking he might be, but with no title and no fortune he was not on the list of suitable husbands.
‘Well,’ remarked Justin, ‘I suggest you take him up on his offer. The governor’s coming up to town at the beginning of next week and I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes when he does.’
Justin had taken the train back to the West Country, feeling he had done all he could for the moment to rescue Rupert. He was the elder of the twins by two hours, but those two hours we
re the difference between him being his father’s heir, the future Sir Justin Chalfont, and Rupert being a younger son with a mere competence and his way to make in the world. Far from being identical, the brothers couldn’t have been more different, both in looks and character, but they had always been close and watched each other’s backs as they had grown up on the family estate, Pilgrim’s Oak. Justin had warned Rupert of his father’s wrath and in doing so had probably brought it down on his own head.
Rupert, grateful for the warning, had treated himself to one more night of gaming at Brooks’s in St James’s Street before he left. It had been more successful than his last few evenings at the tables, and when he set off the next morning he was considerably better off than he had been for some time. It seemed as if the gods were smiling on him, and Rupert crossed over to France with a high heart. He decided that he would spend a week or so in Paris enjoying himself – perhaps renewing old acquaintances to be found in the gaming clubs and certain ladies’ boudoirs – before heading to this place, Montmichel at St Etienne, where his acquaintance, Lucas Barrineau, had invited him to stay and attend his wedding.
When he arrived at the Gare du Nord, he took a cab from the rank outside and had himself driven to the Hotel Montreux in a side street off the Boulevard St Germain. It was not a large hotel, but it was comfortable and convenient for the centre of the city. He had stayed there before and it would welcome him back without too much strain on his pocket. The proprietor, Jacques Rocher, recognised him at once and greeted him with a welcoming smile and an outstretched hand.
‘Ah, Monsieur Chalfont, it is a pleasure to see you back in Paris. Welcome to the Hotel Montreux. Will you be making a lengthy stay?’
‘No, Monsieur Rocher, only a week or so and then I shall be moving out into the country.’
‘Indeed, monsieur,’ agreed Rocher with a sigh, ‘I think you will find many people are leaving early this year for the cooler air of the countryside, it has been so hot these past weeks.’ He summoned a lad to carry Rupert’s travelling trunk and led the way upstairs.
‘For you, Monsieur Chalfont, the best room, in the hotel.’ He waved a hand expansively at the room, which was indeed large and looked down on the narrow street below. ‘I will leave you to unpack, monsieur,’ he said. ‘No doubt your man will be following with the rest of your luggage.’
‘Probably,’ Rupert replied vaguely. ‘I will send for him in due course. In the meantime, Monsieur Rocher, no doubt your man Robert will be able to look after me when I require him.’
‘Of course, monsieur, you have only to ring.’
‘Thank you. I think that is all for now.’
‘Of course, monsieur.’ Rocher took the hint and, shooing the lad out of the room, followed him downstairs.
Once Rupert had settled into his room, he decided to take a stroll along the river, enjoying the warmth of the late spring evening and feeling content with the world. He took his dinner in a cheerful brasserie, enjoying the hubbub around him as he ate a dish of bouillabaisse followed by a filet de boeuf washed down with a bottle of Burgundy. Paris, he decided, as he walked back through the still-busy streets to the hotel, was definitely a more welcoming city than the grey London he’d left behind.
He slept particularly well that night and after breakfast he went to nearest telegraph office to send a wire to Lucas Barrineau, announcing his arrival in Paris and accepting the invitation to his wedding.
The telegram caused some consternation at the Barrineau home, Montmichel.
‘But who is this man, Lucas?’ demanded his mother, Suzanne. ‘Why is he coming to your wedding? I have never heard of him!’ At that moment her husband came into the room and immediately Suzanne turned to him. ‘Louis,’ she cried in agitation, ‘Lucas has invited some complete stranger to stay here at Montmichel for his wedding and the man has not only accepted but has already arrived in Paris from London. What are we going to do?’
‘We are going to tell the St Clairs that we’ve had a late acceptance,’ replied Louis calmly, ‘and ask them to lay another place on the family table.’
‘But he’s not family!’ wailed his wife.
‘No, chérie, but if Lucas has invited him, we must make him welcome. He won’t know anyone else, so he must sit with us. I am sure Madame Rosalie will understand when you explain the situation to her.’
‘I believe she has taken her daughters to Paris,’ protested Suzanne. ‘She is not at home.’
‘She will be back well before the wedding, Maman,’ remarked Lucas. ‘I’m sure it will not be a problem. Rupert Chalfont is charming, I know you will all like him as much as I do.’ He gave his mother his most dazzling smile. ‘Surely you’re able to do this for me. We cannot retract the invitation now, and indeed I have no wish to do so.’
Suzanne was less than pleased with him, but she did as her son asked and promised that when Rosalie St Clair was back from Paris she would pay her a visit and explain.
Chapter 6
‘What do you mean, Rupert’s gone to a wedding in France?’ demanded Sir Philip Chalfont. ‘I thought he was in London.’
‘He was, sir,’ replied Justin. ‘I saw him two days ago, and that’s when he told me he’d been invited to a wedding in France and that he’d decided to go.’
‘A wedding in France? Whose wedding?’
‘I don’t know, sir, someone he met at Maud Berrow’s come-out recently.’
‘Very sudden decision,’ said Sir Philip suspiciously. ‘He hasn’t even taken Parker with him.’ He gave Justin a wry smile. ‘You mentioned young Mary’s situation, I suppose.’ It wasn’t a question and Justin didn’t treat it as such.
‘Yes, sir, I thought he should be given a chance to defend himself.’
‘And did he?’
‘Not exactly, sir.’ Justin hesitated.
‘Well, come on, spit it out,’ said his father irritably. ‘What did he say?’
‘He said he wasn’t really surprised to hear of her present condition, and as far as he knew there could be several possible fathers.’
‘Did he indeed?’ grunted Sir Philip. ‘What were his exact words?’
‘His exact words? I think he said something like, “puts herself about a bit, does young Mary”.’
Sir Philip grimaced at the vulgarity. ‘I see. Better not to pursue that any further, I think. I just wanted to know when he might be back here at home. At present neither your mother nor your sister knows anything about Dawson’s accusations about Rupert, and I would prefer it stayed that way, but it won’t be long before Mary’s situation becomes obvious, and I may have to deal with Dawson if he becomes difficult.’
‘Surely, sir,’ Justin said, ‘it is not in his own interest to maintain this story.’
He looked across the desk at his father seated behind it and suddenly thought, The old man is getting older.
Though never a large man, Philip Chalfont had a certain presence that made one prefer to remain on the right side of him. He still had a full head of hair, though there were definite strands of silver in its darkness, and his eyes, deep-set and dark as those he had passed on to his younger son, had always been compelling. They narrowed now as he considered the question of Mary Dawson.
‘It certainly won’t be if he does,’ he agreed. Then, changing the subject, he said, ‘Enough of all that. What about you, Justin? Isn’t it time you engaged yourself to marry Katharine Blake?’
Justin’s expression hardened. ‘I know that is what you and my mother wish,’ he began.
‘And Katharine herself, I would think,’ put in his father.
‘Kitty and I are extremely good friends, sir, but that is very different from being married.’
‘There’d be nothing wrong with being married to that girl,’ said Sir Philip briskly. ‘It would be a perfect match for both of you and friendship is the ideal basis for marriage – not to mention that as her father has no male heir, the estate will come to Katharine on his death. Much of it marches with our own land and will
make a great inheritance for your son.’
‘I understand what you are thinking, sir,’ replied Justin evenly, ‘but I do think an inheritance for any children I might have is a long way into the future.’
‘Well, in such matters one must think ahead,’ said his father. ‘One can never tell what fate has waiting for us around the corner.’ He got to his feet. ‘It isn’t as if you’ve got anyone else in mind, is it?’ It was a rhetorical question and he didn’t wait for an answer but went on, ‘Now I must go to the estate office and have a word with Foxton before I join you all for luncheon.’ With that he went out of the room, leaving his son and heir to follow him outside.
There was still another half hour before the midday bell would summon them to luncheon, and Justin decided to take a turn in the rose garden and give serious consideration to his father’s question. When, if ever, was he going to propose to Kitty Blake?
Justin knew that both sets of parents wanted him and Kitty to get married and, he supposed, they probably would. There would be small chance of escape. It wasn’t that he didn’t like Kitty, he did and always had, but marrying her would feel a bit like marrying his sister, Frances.
All right for Rupert to sow his oats and then walk away, he thought bitterly as he felt a stab of envy. As the younger son he’s got no responsibilities. It’s not up to him to increase the family estates, nor to provide an heir to inherit them! Lucky Rupert – within reason he can marry whom he likes, when he likes, and live where he likes. This last thought brought a smile to Justin’s face as he tried to imagine his brother ever settling down with a wife. Rupert had always enjoyed the company of women, but had always worked on the principle that there was safety in numbers. Rupert, Justin had long ago decided, would end up a crusty old bachelor, perhaps an indulgent uncle to his brother and sister’s children, but never marry and have any of his own – or none, Justin thought wryly, that he could bring home to Pilgrim’s Oak. Whereas Justin had always known that he was to become the next Chalfont baronet. He’d been brought up as the heir and certain things were expected of him, like producing an heir himself. When his father died he would be Sir Justin Chalfont, and with this in prospect, he was extremely eligible in the marriage market. Well and good in some ways, he thought wryly, but it limited his own choice of bride, and though several hopeful mamas had edged their daughters in his direction, none of them had taken his fancy. He knew he would have to propose to Kitty soon, or make it abundantly clear that he had no intention of doing so. After such a long ‘family understanding’, quite apart from being a huge blow to her pride, it would hurt Kitty deeply, and that he had no wish to do.
The French Wife Page 4