The French Wife

by Diney Costeloe

  Rupert, having come down from his second-storey bedroom early at Lucas’s request, was standing half concealed by one of the marble pillars that lined the room. Behind him on a raised dais, a string quartet was playing softly as a gentle background to the increasing flow of conversation. He watched each arrival, waiting for the moment when Hélène St Clair would enter the room with her mother and father. He had thought as the parents of the bride they might also be in the receiving line, but clearly Suzanne Barrineau, having been denied hosting the wedding breakfast, had no intention of sharing the celebration ball. Having understood this, Emile and Rosalie did not arrive promptly; rather they entered the ballroom among the last of the guests, making an entrance of which an earlier arrival would have deprived them. In their wake came their son Georges and his wife Sylvie, Rosalie’s sister and husband, and Hélène. Hélène, a girl recently freed from the schoolroom, at her first ball, her eyes glowing with excitement. She was dressed in a simple white gown, the square cut of the neck showing off her delicate shoulders to perfection. A narrow gold belt defined her slim waist, and the fullness of the skirt was gathered behind into a modest bustle. As decorum in a young girl required, the gown had little cap sleeves, and Hélène’s slender arms were encased in mid-length white gloves. Her hair had been dressed high on her head with ringlets allowed to escape about her ears to frame the oval of her face. She stood poised in the doorway, on the brink of entering adult society, waiting to be received by her hostess, and for a moment Rupert’s heart seemed to stop. She was so beautiful, but she was so young, too young by far to be interested in an old man of almost thirty. Old man of thirty! He gave a sardonic smile: this old man of thirty was behaving like a lovesick schoolboy! He feasted his eyes on her as she made her courtesies to the Barrineaux. He ached to take her in his arms, feel her heart beating in time with his own. He longed to release her beautiful dark hair from its confining pins and let it tumble about her shoulders so he could bury his face in its shining softness.

  Now you really are behaving like a lovesick booby, he told himself. How was he, Rupert Chalfont, a man well practised in amorous flirtation, a connoisseur of feminine beauty while remaining carefully unentangled, how could he be struck dumb by a girl of seventeen attending her first ball?

  The St Clair party moved easily into the body of the room, greeting friends and acquaintances with nods and smiles, moving to a furnished alcove between pillars on the far side. There they took their seats and watched as their eldest daughter and her new husband stepped onto the floor to open the ball.

  From her place in the alcove, Hélène scanned the ballroom in search of Lucas’s English friend. Surely he must still be here. She had just seen him standing across the room and speaking with Lucie Barrineau, her heart plummeting as she did so, when Simon Barnier appeared in their alcove and made his compliments to her mother.

  ‘Madame,’ he said, bowing, ‘may I have the honour of asking Miss Hélène for a dance?’

  Rosalie greeted him with a smile. The Barniers, like the Barrineaux, were local landowners and she had known them all her married life. She did not know Simon well, but he came of an impeccable family and there had been a time when she’d thought he might ask for Clarice. Lucas Barrineau had put paid to that idea, but she would not object if he transferred his affections to Hélène. Not immediately, of course – she was still too young to become engaged – but maybe, in a year or so, Emile might consider his suit and there could be an understanding. After all, she had become engaged to Emile at eighteen and married as she turned nineteen.

  ‘Of course,’ she replied. ‘I’m sure her card is not yet full.’

  Other couples had now entered the dance floor and when Simon made his bow to Hélène, she took his extended hand and was led out among those already dancing. The band was playing a waltz and she was soon whirled away, Simon’s arm encircling her waist.

  Rupert, who had decided to wait a little before presenting himself to Madame St Clair, saw her held in Simon’s arms as they waltzed past him. He could have kicked himself for letting one of the local beaux steal a march on him and get to her first. Immediately he made his way across to where Rosalie, sitting with her family, was talking with her sister. Determined not to miss another opportunity, he reintroduced himself and engaged both ladies in conversation until Simon returned Hélène to her mother’s side.

  ‘Monsieur Chalfont,’ Rosalie said, ‘I don’t know if you have met Monsieur Barnier, another friend of my son-in-law’s?’

  Rupert bowed in the direction of Simon Barnier, who still had Hélène’s hand on his arm. ‘I believe I had the honour of being introduced to Monsieur Barnier yesterday, madame,’ he replied, adding with a smile, ‘and to Miss St Clair, of course.’

  Hélène, feeling the colour rising in her cheeks, kept her eyes demurely downcast, but her heart skipped a beat when he went on, ‘Indeed, madame, I came to ask your permission to invite Miss St Clair to dance, if she still has a dance left on her card.’

  Rosalie returned his smile. ‘I’m sure she has, monsieur. Please feel free to ask.’

  Simon, having danced with her once, would now have to wait. It would be considered improper to ask Hélène to dance again until, perhaps, much later in the evening.

  ‘Perhaps I might ask for the supper dance, Miss St Clair,’ Rupert said, ‘and then take you in to supper?’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ Hélène whispered. ‘I should be delighted.’

  ‘Thank you, mademoiselle,’ he replied, and taking her dance card, he wrote his name.

  At that moment Lucas appeared at her side and said, ‘I hope you’ve saved me at least one dance, Hélène. I have to have a dance with my sister-in-law.’

  From then on Hélène’s card filled up rapidly. Young men she had known as children came to demand dances, and she discovered how much she enjoyed dancing with someone other than her sisters or the dancing master.

  Hélène was not the only one enjoying her first ball. Despite her youth, Lucie Barrineau’s parents had allowed her presence at the ball celebrating her brother’s marriage, and her dance card filled remarkably quickly. Young as she was, she was an heiress, and as such she would be courted by many hopeful suitors. Rupert claimed his dance, and was amused to see the look of anxiety on her mother’s face. It was the look he had seen on the faces of other mamas over the years as he paid attention to their daughters. As he and Lucie danced an energetic polka they were watched by two sets of anxious eyes: Suzanne Barrineau’s and Hélène’s. He was enjoying the dance and saw neither.

  Later, Rupert invited Sylvie St Clair to dance, but she refused him with a gentle smile.

  ‘You’re very kind, sir, but I do not dance these days.’ Her eyes flicked sideways to her husband, seated across the alcove talking to his aunt, and Rupert remembered that he had lost part of his leg during the siege of Paris. Dancing must be impossible for him.

  ‘Of course, madame, but perhaps I may sit with you for a while. I have danced with all the ladies with whom I am acquainted, except for Miss Hélène, but she has promised me the supper dance.’

  Sylvie gestured to the chair beside her. ‘Please, monsieur, do sit down.’ She glanced round the room, which had become increasingly hot from the hundreds of candles and the press of people. ‘It is a delightful evening, is it not? Such a wonderful celebration of Clarice’s marriage.’

  ‘An extremely good match, I must say,’ put in her husband as he turned back to his wife. He reached forward, extending his hand to Rupert. ‘Good to see you, sir.’

  They passed a comfortable quarter of an hour until it was time for Rupert to claim Hélène for himself, to dance and to escort her to the supper table. As they moved out onto the dance floor, Sylvie smiled.

  ‘I’m glad she’s not going in to supper with that Simon Barnier,’ she said. ‘I don’t warm to the man, do you?’

  ‘Hardly know the fellow,’ replied Georges. ‘Knew him as a child, but he’s younger than I am and we were never friends.�
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  ‘I could see he was disappointed that Monsieur Chalfont had taken the supper dance.’

  ‘You’re probably right, my dear,’ returned her husband. ‘Makes no difference really – Chalfont will be gone tomorrow. Lucas’s mother was telling me that he’ll be leaving Montmichel in the morning.’

  Rupert and Hélène did not speak for the first few moments of their first dance together, Rupert because he was enjoying the feel of Hélène light as thistledown in his arms, and Hélène because she did not know what to say. With her previous partners, including Simon Barnier, the conversation had flowed once the man had instigated it with a compliment or some innocuous comment about the evening, the ballroom or the band. She had been able to look up into their faces and answers came easily enough, but when Rupert remained silent, Hélène found that all genteel conversation deserted her.

  After a moment or two, Rupert said, ‘What a lovely evening. A wonderful celebration for your sister’s marriage.’

  ‘Yes, monsieur,’ was all Hélène found she could manage in reply, but it made Rupert smile and he tried another tack.

  ‘You’re looking very beautiful tonight, mademoiselle, definitely the belle of the ball.’ Even as spoke he thought how trite the compliment sounded and wished he hadn’t said it. However, he was rewarded with a shy smile as Hélène replied, ‘Oh no, monsieur, that accolade must be reserved for my sister. She is the true beauty.’

  Rupert did not agree. He had thought Clarice beautiful as she had walked down the aisle, but the more he saw of her the more insipid he found her. She was like a beautiful doll, whereas his love, his Hélène, had a dark beauty that must draw the eye of any man. A man like Simon Barnier, perhaps.

  ‘Have you know Monsieur Barnier for a long time?’ he asked.

  Hélène gave a small shrug. ‘All my life, I suppose, though he is older than I am so we had little to do with each other as children.’

  ‘He has been watching you all evening,’ Rupert couldn’t resist saying. ‘I can see he admires you.’

  Hélène looked a little flustered and she missed her step in the dance, almost treading on Rupert’s toe. For a second he held her more firmly to steady her, but then she pulled away and said, ‘I don’t think that is the kind of thing you should be saying to me, monsieur.’

  Rupert knew she was right, but he laughed. ‘I’m sure you’re right, but you must have noticed it yourself. Whenever you see him, he’s looking at you.’ Why don’t I keep my mouth shut? Rupert thought even as the words escaped. But it was like touching a sore tooth with the tip of his tongue and he could not. However, Hélène’s answer surprised him.

  ‘Then I wish he would not,’ she said fiercely. ‘I don’t like to be looked at!’

  ‘And you don’t like Simon,’ Rupert said, not knowing why it was true, but knowing it was so.

  ‘I hardly know him,’ came the reply. ‘He dangled after Clarice for a while, but luckily Lucas came home in time to save her.’

  ‘Save her!’ Rupert was startled. ‘Save her from what?’

  ‘Well, from Simon, of course. Anyway, she’s always loved Lucas. One should always marry for love, don’t you think?’

  Rupert, who had never thought so in the past, said fervently, ‘Yes, I do. It’s what I intend to do.’

  ‘I don’t think it’s seemly to be talking like this,’ Hélène said suddenly. ‘I know my mother wouldn’t approve. Perhaps we should go in to supper now.’

  Though the music was still playing, they broke apart, and Rupert led her, her fingers resting on his arm, into the supper room. From the corner of his eye he saw Simon Barnier watching them and knew a stab of guilty pleasure at his sour expression.

  When they were seated at a table in the supper room, Rupert said casually, ‘I’m leaving Montmichel tomorrow.’ Hélène looked up, suddenly stricken, and he went on, ‘I mustn’t outstay my welcome. The Barrineaux have been very hospitable, but it’s time I moved on.’

  ‘Oh.’ Hélène’s voice was hardly more than a whisper.

  ‘I think Madame Barrineau is afraid I will try to make Lucie have a tendre for me. She need not worry, of course; I have no intention of trying to do such a thing, for my heart is already given.’

  ‘I see.’ Hélène raised her chin. ‘How delightful. And will you be married soon?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Rupert replied quite truthfully. ‘I don’t know if my feelings are reciprocated, and if by any lucky chance they are, I still have to convince her father to allow me to pay my addresses.’

  ‘So’ – Hélène worked hard at keeping her voice steady – ‘you’ll be leaving us to return to England.’

  ‘Oh no, not yet,’ Rupert said cheerfully. ‘I’ve taken rooms at Le Coq d’Argent. I shall send for my man to come to me and pass some time in this beautiful part of the country.’

  Hélène felt the colour rise in her cheeks as she took in the import of his words. ‘So, you aren’t going far after all.’ She gave a sudden laugh. ‘Poor Madame Barrineau will think you’re staying to pay court to Lucie.’

  Rupert grinned at this and said, ‘Well, she’ll discover that I am not. Though before I go tomorrow I’m invited to take coffee with her mother-in-law. She wants to hear all about the ball.’

  ‘Surely Lucie will tell her,’ Hélène said.

  ‘I’m sure she will,’ Rupert agreed, ‘but perhaps from a slightly different perspective.’

  After supper, Rupert returned Hélène to her parents; he knew that he would not dance with her again, though he longed to do so.

  ‘Monsieur Chalfont.’ Rosalie greeted their return with a smile. ‘I hear from Suzanne that you’re leaving tomorrow. It has been such a pleasure to meet you.’

  ‘Indeed, madame, I am leaving Montmichel tomorrow, but I’m not going far. I’ve taken rooms at Le Coq d’Argent and plan to make an extended stay in the area.’

  ‘Indeed?’ Rosalie raised a polite eyebrow. ‘How delightful!’ And how Suzanne will hate it! ‘You must come to dine with us when we’ve got over all the excitement of Clarice’s wedding. I will send you a card.’

  ‘How kind of you,’ Rupert said with a smile. ‘I shall await the invitation with anticipation.’

  Chapter 18

  The morning after the ball Rupert asked Aristide to pack his valise and arrange to have it conveyed to Le Coq d’Argent.

  ‘I have taken a room there,’ he said to the footman, who had been acting as his valet during his stay at Montmichel. ‘They are expecting me.’

  Aristide, now well aware of the Englishman’s generosity, said, ‘Would you like me to unpack it when I get there for you, sir?’

  Rupert smiled. He didn’t blame him. If he had to rely on the generosity of someone like himself, he would offer any assistance which might tap into that generosity.

  ‘Provided Madame Barrineau can spare you,’ he said. ‘I’ve trespassed on her hospitality long enough. In the meantime,’ he went on, ‘I have been invited to drink a cup of coffee with Madame Barrineau, Monsieur’s mother.’

  He went downstairs and, finding Gaspard in his pantry, asked him to take his card up to Madame Barrineau senior and enquire if she was receiving visitors. Aristide wasn’t the only one who had been charmed by Rupert’s engaging manner – even Gaspard unbent enough to say, ‘Certainly, Monsieur Chalfont. I know Madame is expecting you.’

  Sure enough, within minutes the butler returned to say that Madame would be delighted to receive him. ‘If you would follow me, monsieur,’ Gaspard said, ‘I will show you to Madame’s apartments.’ He led the way into another wing of the house, where Monsieur Barrineau’s mother lived separately with her own household.

  Opening the outer door, Gaspard led Rupert into a lofty hall and, having knocked on one of the panelled doors that led off it, announced Rupert, standing aside to let him into the room beyond. It was a spacious apartment with cream-painted walls and a gilded ceiling. Wide windows gave out onto the rose garden immediately below with a more distant prospect a
cross parklands and a vineyard, all resting peacefully in the morning sun.

  Madame Barrineau was seated in a gilded armchair upholstered in deep red silk. She made no effort to stand, nor did Rupert expect her to, but she smiled at him and extended her hand in greeting.

  ‘Monsieur Chalfont.’

  ‘Madame Barrineau.’ Rupert crossed the room to her and took the hand, lifting it to his lips. ‘I hope I find you well this morning and not too fatigued after the wedding.’

  ‘Well, I have to admit I am a trifle tired, even though I didn’t go to the ball.’ She waved him to another chair set at an angle to her own so that she could both see and hear him. ‘You danced the night away, I suppose.’

  ‘Much of it, madame,’ he agreed with a smile. ‘I knew so few ladies that I must admit I did not stand up for every dance, but it was an extremely pleasant evening.’

  ‘And did you dance with my granddaughter?’ she demanded with a sly twinkle.

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ he replied with an answering grin. ‘A very beautiful young lady, if I may say so.’

  Madame Barrineau gave a chuckle. ‘My daughter-in-law must have known a few moments’ worry,’ she said. ‘She wishes a brilliant match for Lucie, as indeed we all do, and you, I believe, are a younger son.’

  Rupert inclined his head. ‘Only by two hours, madame.’

  ‘Might as well be two years,’ pointed out the old lady.

  ‘So it might,’ Rupert said cheerfully, ‘but I don’t let that fact spoil my life. Indeed, I am extremely fond of my brother Justin and I’m sure that having spent an extra two hours in the world makes him a much wiser man than I.’