The French Wife

by Diney Costeloe

  Madame Barrineau laughed. ‘You’ll do, monsieur, you’ll do!’ She turned to the table beside her chair where there was a tray with delicate china cups and a pot of coffee waiting to be poured. ‘Perhaps you would pour the coffee for us,’ she said. ‘I find the pot too heavy to lift these days. Usually my maid Véronique pours for me, but I sent her away.’ Her eyes twinkled. ‘I didn’t think I’d need a chaperone this morning.’

  Rupert moved to the table and filled the coffee cups, adding, at her request, cream and sugar to hers. He carried his back to his chair. ‘Perhaps not, madame, but maybe I do.’

  ‘You are disgraceful, young man,’ she said with a smile. ‘Charmingly disgraceful!’

  ‘You must allay your daughter-in-law’s fears for Mademoiselle Lucie, madame,’ Rupert said with a smile. ‘I promise you I have no designs on her, and I am far too old!’ And for Hélène too, he thought, but did not say. ‘And as I think I told you the other night, my heart is already engaged elsewhere.’

  They passed the next half hour in comfortable conversation, and when Rupert saw that the old lady was flagging a little, he rose to his feet.

  ‘If you’ll excuse me, madame, I must leave you now. I am removing to Le Coq d’Argent today.’

  ‘Not, I trust, because Suzanne has made you unwelcome at Montmichel,’ said the old lady.

  ‘No, indeed, madame, Madame Barrineau has been most hospitable. It was an honour to be included in Lucas’s wedding celebrations, but I would not wish to presume upon her hospitality any further.’

  ‘Le Coq d’Argent, is it? How long do you plan to stay?’

  ‘That I have not yet decided, madame,’ Rupert replied. ‘But this is an attractive part of the country and I thought I would take the opportunity to explore it a little.’

  ‘Then we may still have the pleasure of your company from time to time,’ she said as she pulled the bell ribbon that hung at her side. ‘I hope you will find time to visit me again.’

  Rupert bowed to her. ‘Without a doubt, madame.’

  A footman answered her call. ‘Monsieur Chalfont is leaving, Albert,’ she said. ‘Please show him out.’

  When the door had closed behind him, Madame Barrineau sat back in her chair and closed her eyes. She liked Monsieur Chalfont, she liked him very much. He was charming, yes, but something more. Something in the way he jousted with words reminded her of her own beloved Xavier, dead and gone these twenty years. Too long ago – his voice had already deserted her and now, unless she looked at the miniature she’d always had at her bedside, his face was also slipping away. Was Rupert Chalfont really like Xavier, or was she confusing the two?

  ‘I’ve lived for too long,’ she said to the empty room. ‘Far too long.’

  *

  Rupert made his farewells to his host and hostess and left Montmichel as he had arrived, in the chaise driven by the taciturn Lucien. Rupert had been going to walk into the village, little more than two miles away, but Suzanne Barrineau had been horrified at the idea.

  ‘Certainly not, Monsieur Chalfont. I will not hear of it.’ She immediately rang for Aristide to order the chaise to be brought to the door. Rupert grinned inwardly as he considered the possible reasons for this rush of enthusiasm to get rid of him. Perhaps she wanted to be sure he was off the premises and not coming back. If that were the case she was out of luck, as her mother-in-law had already invited him to call again. Or maybe it was the relief of knowing he was no longer under the same roof as Lucie, or maybe she had already counted the spoons!

  ‘Do you plan to remain in the area for long, Monsieur Chalfont?’ Louis had asked him as they walked out to the waiting chaise.

  ‘For some time yet, I think,’ Rupert answered. ‘I have telegraphed my man, Parker, who is at home on a family matter, and he will come to meet me at St Etienne before I travel further afield.’

  ‘Capital,’ cried Louis. ‘You must come to dinner again before you leave. I know Lucas and Clarice will be away on their wedding journey for several weeks, but Suzanne and Lucie and I will look forward to welcoming you back.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ Rupert said with a smile as he wondered what Suzanne would think of the invitation, ‘you’re all more than kind.’

  The room at Le Coq d’Argent was large and pleasantly appointed, with a dressing room off it and an indoor bathroom a little further down the corridor. It boasted a comfortable saloon downstairs as well as a dining room and a taproom for the local men. Rupert found that Aristide had been as good as his word and had unpacked and hung up most of Rupert’s clothes. A few, needing the attentions of a laundress, he had set aside to be brushed or washed and then returned.

  Rupert crossed to the window that looked out over the lane at the back of the inn. It was a narrow street, bounded by the high walls of the inn’s yard below him and a line of cottages along the far side. Not a particularly interesting view, he thought, but perhaps quieter than one of the front rooms that looked out onto the bustle of the village square.

  He was about to turn away when a movement below caught his eye. Someone was entering the lane, moving furtively along the wall beneath his window. It was a woman with a cloak thrown over her shoulders, its hood shading her hair and face. He stared down, intrigued, and watched as she edged along the lane. Why on earth was she wearing such a heavy cloak on such a hot day? It was only just after noon and the sun was splitting stones. Whoever it was must have been trying to hide her identity.

  And yet, Rupert thought, by wearing such unusual clothes on this hot summer’s day she was more likely to draw attention to herself.

  Halfway along the lane she paused and looked at one of the cottages. It was in better condition than most of the others, its windows clean and glinting in the sun, its front door freshly painted green. The woman glanced about her and then moved swiftly to the green door and knocked. As she waited to be admitted, she glanced round again and her hood slipped sideways, revealing her face. It was then that Rupert recognised her, and he could hardly believe his eyes as he watched the front door open and Hélène St Clair be admitted to the house.

  Hélène? What was she doing, creeping down a back lane to visit a house on her own? Surely her mother did not allow her to visit the village alone, with no maid to attend her. No, he thought. She’s not supposed to be there, in that house in that backstreet. She had been trying to conceal her face with the hood of her cloak, and it was only when the hood had fallen back from her hair that he’d been able to recognise her. He decided to wait for her to come out again, and settled down on a chair by his window to keep watch. Then, he thought, when she reappears I shall run downstairs and meet her casually in the street. Would she be pleased to see him? Did he mind the fact that she was out and about on her own? He thought about his sister Fran. She was allowed some licence at home, allowed to ride out over the hills with just a groom for company, a precaution in case she fell. However, she sometimes walked unaccompanied, so perhaps Hélène was allowed to as well. He didn’t know what was customary for young ladies of good families here in France. But Hélène hadn’t simply been walking to take the air; she had come to visit someone in a slightly shabby house in a back lane and she was clearly anxious not to be recognised.

  Rupert waited for what seemed an age and was actually considering whether he should go down and knock on the door of the cottage when it was opened by a middle-aged woman who looked quickly up and down the lane before standing aside to let Hélène slip out. Rupert was immediately on his feet, down the stairs and out into the street. Even so, Hélène had disappeared. She was not in the square, and when he followed the lane that led to the church, she wasn’t there either. Where on earth had she gone? Rupert looked round him, bewildered. Where could she be? He’d only taken half a minute to get downstairs and yet he’d missed her. He walked up through the churchyard, wondering if she had gone into the church for some reason, and it was as he reached the hillock on which the church stood that he caught sight of her. She taken the footpath across the
fields and was even now hurrying along the line of the hedge as if she did not wish to be seen. Rupert hurried after her, half running, half walking in his effort to catch up with her before she reached the field gate that led into the garden of Belair.

  When he was only about fifty yards behind her, he called out, ‘Hélène! Hélène! Wait! Wait for me!’

  At first he thought she was ignoring him, or that she couldn’t hear him for some reason, but after a moment or two she looked back over her shoulder and paused, still edging along the path like an animal about to take flight. He slowed his steps and, speaking more quietly, said, ‘Hélène, don’t run away, it’s me, Rupert.’

  It was the first time he had used her unadorned Christian name, the first time he had named himself to her. Carefully, as if approaching a spooked horse, he walked towards her, his hands at his side, unthreatening.

  ‘Hélène, don’t run, it’s only me. I thought we could walk together, if you would care to?’

  The girl didn’t move, but as he came up beside her and he could see her face, Rupert realised that she had been crying. Her cheeks were tear-streaked, her eyes bright with unshed tears.

  ‘What is it?’ he whispered as he saw another tear course down her cheek. ‘What is it, my darling girl? Why are you crying? What can I do to help?’

  Hélène shook her head wordlessly, and so Rupert simply pulled a linen handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to her to wipe her eyes.

  ‘My dearest girl,’ he began again, ‘what is the matter? Why are you so distressed? Who has upset you?’ He held out his hand to her, and after a moment’s hesitation she took it and he led her to a grassy knoll beside the hedge where they would not be easily seen. Taking her heavy cloak from her shoulders, he spread it on the ground and gently eased her down to sit upon it. Not wanting to tower over her, he sat down beside her.

  ‘Now tell me,’ he said gently.

  For a moment Hélène seemed unable to form words, her throat constricted with the effort of controlling her tears, and then she managed, ‘The baby is dead.’

  Rupert stared at her. ‘The baby? What baby?’

  Gradually Hélène explained how she had known Annette when they were children, that they had met again when her mother had employed Annette and her aunt to help over the wedding. ‘Her husband died in the flu epidemic in Paris before her baby was born and she came to work for us until then.’ She lapsed into silence and sat twisting the now-damp handkerchief round and round her fingers. ‘The night… the night of Clarice’s wedding the baby started to be born, but there… there was something wrong with him. He was upside down or something. I don’t know.’ Her voice broke on a sob. ‘The midwife was there, but she couldn’t do anything. He was born dead. Poor Annette has no husband and no baby and is like to die herself.’ She scrubbed her eyes again. ‘My mother knew… about the baby being born that night and made Annette move to the midwife’s house. I saw them take her in a cart, but I thought she was going there to have the baby. I thought she’d be happy. Maman did not tell anyone about the baby being born dead on Clarice’s wedding night. She didn’t tell us the next day either. She still hasn’t told anyone what has happened. I asked Henri the stable lad where he had taken Annette. I wanted to see the baby. I’ve never seen a newborn baby, so when Maman was having her afternoon rest, I slipped out and went to the house. The woman who lives there is called Madame Leclerc and she is the midwife. She couldn’t save the baby, but now she’s trying to save Annette. I think she’s dying. She’s lying in bed. Just lying there, her eyes all blank as if she’s gone blind, only I don’t think she has because she knew who I was all right. But she didn’t speak and her baby’s dead. He’s dead. He was never alive except inside her. I felt him kicking inside her. She let me put my hand on her… on her stomach and through her clothes I felt him kicking. He was alive then, but he came out dead. And Maman knew and she didn’t tell me. Annette’s my friend and Maman didn’t tell me.’

  ‘She probably didn’t want to upset you,’ suggested Rupert gently when she finally came to a stop. ‘She probably wanted to give your friend Annette time to recover from what sounds like a difficult birth before anyone went to see her.’

  ‘Madame Sauze went,’ Hélène said bitterly, ‘and she didn’t tell me either.’

  ‘Who is Madame Sauze?’

  ‘She is Annette’s aunt. She has come to work at Belair as well. She must know that the baby is dead.’

  ‘Perhaps your mother asked her not to tell you.’

  ‘Well, she shouldn’t have!’

  Rupert looked at her, the girl he’d fallen in love with, and felt completely at a loss. Even in her distress she was beautiful and he longed to gather her into his arms, to comfort her and kiss away her tears, but there could be no possibility of that. Just sitting here with her in a field could compromise her reputation, and they were discussing things that no gentleman should discuss with an innocent young lady. No one should be talking of babies inside their mothers, or the way you could feel them kick before they were born. Even after marriage, if discussed at all, such matters were kept strictly to the bedchamber.

  ‘What will you do now?’ Rupert asked.

  Hélène sighed. ‘Go home again, I suppose. Pretend that I was sitting in the garden and fell asleep in the sun. But when I get the chance I shall ask Madame Sauze about Annette and what she will do now.’

  ‘Why this Madame Sauze? Why not your mother?’

  ‘Madame Sauze looked after me for a while when I was a child. That’s how I know Annette.’

  ‘I see,’ replied Rupert. But he didn’t. He didn’t see at all. All he knew was that Hélène was extremely upset that this Annette had lost her baby, and that she should not be wandering through the fields on her own.

  He got to his feet and held out his hand. ‘Come,’ he said. ‘If you’re to have been asleep in the garden, we’d better get you back there before they start looking for you.’ He reached into his pocket and brought out a second handkerchief and, silently blessing his mother for always insisting that a man should carry two, he handed it to her.

  ‘Dry your eyes,’ he said gently, ‘and blow your nose. Then remember, chins are being worn very high this year!’

  This brought a weak smile to her lips and she did as he told her, including, as she turned to face him, raising her chin.

  Together they continued along the footpath towards the gate in the wall that led back into the garden. As they opened it and entered, the first person they saw was Simon Barnier. He stared at them in amazement.

  ‘Good afternoon, monsieur,’ Rupert said smoothly. ‘I hope I see you well.’

  ‘Where have you been?’ Barnier demanded, ignoring the greeting.

  ‘I beg your pardon, sir,’ replied Rupert, ‘but if it’s any business of yours, Miss Hélène has kindly been pointing out the convenient shortcut across the fields to the village.’

  ‘They said she was in the garden,’ snapped Barnier. ‘I came to find her.’

  ‘As did I, monsieur,’ answered Rupert.

  ‘Why was she?’

  ‘Why was she what, monsieur?’

  ‘Showing you the footpath to the village?’

  ‘Because that is where I am staying.’ Rupert smiled, but his smile did not reach his eyes. Nor did he offer any further explanation.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Barnier said, noticing for the first time Hélène’s tear-stained cheeks. ‘Has this man been pestering you?’ He took a step towards Rupert, who stood his ground, his whole stance a challenge.

  ‘No, of course not,’ she snapped. ‘I was simply showing him the footpath to the village. What do you want?’

  ‘Your mother wants you,’ Simon told her. ‘I said I would look for you in the garden.’

  ‘Then I shall go and find her.’ Hélène spoke briskly. ‘Good afternoon, gentlemen.’ With that, she turned on her heel and, raising her chin, marched off towards the house.

  Rupert watched her go, smiling slightly at the
tilt of her head.

  ‘As for you, Chalfont,’ Simon said, turning on Rupert, ‘you can stay away from my fiancée.’

  Rupert turned his head and, lifting one eyebrow, remarked, ‘I was not aware that you were engaged to Miss St Clair.’

  Simon reddened. ‘There is an understanding between us,’ he said stiffly.

  ‘I see,’ Rupert said lightly. ‘Thank you for telling me. Have you told Miss Hélène yet?’

  When Simon made no answer, Rupert said, ‘I see. Well, I’ll bid you good afternoon, monsieur.’ And with a languid lift of his hand in farewell, he set off along the footpath to the village.

  Simon Barnier watched him go, anger burning inside him – anger that Hélène, whom he already regarded as his future wife, had been alone with the upstart Englishman, a nobody who had invaded their local society, and more at the invidious thought that somehow the Englishman had just bested him in their exchange.

  Chapter 19

  When Hélène reached the house she went straight to her mother’s private parlour, rapped on the door and without waiting for an answer walked in. Rosalie was sitting at her little writing desk in the window, and she looked up, startled.

  ‘Hélène!’ she exclaimed. ‘Whatever is the matter?’ Seeing at once from her daughter’s tear-streaked cheeks and reddened eyes that she had been crying, she got to her feet and reached for her hand, repeating more gently, ‘Hélène, whatever is the matter? What has happened?’

  ‘Annette’s baby is dead,’ she cried. ‘Her baby is dead. He was born dead, but you didn’t tell me.’

  ‘Darling girl,’ began her mother, ‘there was nothing you could do. There was nothing any of us could do. It is very sad, of course, but really Annette’s baby is nothing to do with us.’

  ‘Of course it’s to do with us,’ snapped Hélène. ‘She works for us. She had her baby in this house and it died.’

  Rosalie stared at her. ‘Who told you that?’ she demanded. ‘Who says the baby was born here at Belair?’