The French Wife

by Diney Costeloe

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Why not? Because as you so rightly said, we hardly know the man. How do we know he’s not after her inheritance? How do we know he can provide for her as she should be? He’s a younger son…’

  ‘Yes, I know.’

  ‘You know? How do you know?’

  ‘Somebody told me; Suzanne Barrineau, probably. Does it really matter if he isn’t going to inherit a title? You haven’t got a title!’

  ‘That’s neither here nor there,’ retorted Emile.

  ‘So, what did you say?’

  ‘I said I’d think about it and tell him tomorrow. He maintains he’s not asking for an engagement, not yet, but that’s what he has in mind. He actually told me he’d fallen in love with her. Ridiculous! He’s only seen the girl about twice!’

  Rosalie looked across at her husband and gently shook her head. ‘Oh, Emile,’ she sighed. ‘Are we getting old? It only took me one dance with you.’

  Emile stared at her. ‘What d’you mean?’ he said.

  ‘I only danced with you once before I knew you were the man I wanted. Remember the evening of Madame d’Aramitz’s Christmas ball?’

  Emile coughed, trying to hide his emotion. He remembered the Christmas ball only too well. Rosalie had come escorted by her mother, young, only eighteen, in a white ballgown with pearls threaded through her hair. It had only taken him one look before he too was lost.

  ‘My mother didn’t approve of you because you weren’t from a landed family. You had to make your own living. It didn’t stop us, though, did it?’ She reached for his hand and held it against her cheek. It was longer than she could remember since they had been as close as this and she didn’t want the moment to pass.

  Emile looked at her as if seeing her again for the first time in years. ‘You’re still beautiful,’ he murmured before pulling his hand away.

  ‘So,’ Rosalie continued as if there had been no emotional interlude between them, ‘what are you going to say when he comes again tomorrow?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he admitted. ‘He’s English!’

  ‘He is, and we can’t change that, though if they married they might choose to live here in France.’

  ‘Married! You run ahead of yourself, madame.’

  ‘You’re right, I do,’ admitted Rosalie. ‘Perhaps we should speak to Hélène.’

  ‘Hélène? Why? It’s not her decision to make.’

  ‘No,’ agreed Rosalie, ‘but if she dislikes the idea, then that makes the decision for you.’

  ‘And what if she wants to encourage him? What then?’

  ‘Then perhaps we let them have the chance to get to know each other. Make it clear there is no commitment on either side, but let them meet, walk and talk. She can always take Annette with her for propriety. You never know, either one might change their mind. If you forbid it, then perhaps all will be driven underground. They may meet secretly, and if that were discovered Hélène’s reputation would be ruined.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ sighed Emile.

  ‘If Hélène wants to get to know him, better to let it run its course. Throw them together and they may tire of each other, or find they don’t suit.’

  Rosalie could see that she had won her argument, and it was one she really believed worth winning. Apart from the fact that she had taken a liking to Rupert Chalfont, she knew that the more such a friendship was opposed, the more likely it was to survive in spite of the opposition. She had been lucky; she had met Emile at the age of eighteen and had never wanted to look at another man. They had married on her nineteenth birthday. Hélène might only be seventeen, but youth wasn’t a true reason to refuse an engagement, for youth would cease to be an issue if the couple were prepared to wait.

  ‘If you say so,’ Emile conceded with a sigh. ‘Where is she?’

  ‘In the garden, I believe. Shall I ring and ask Didier to send her in to us?’

  ‘Now?’ Emile was always uncomfortable with emotional situations and was tempted to put it off.

  ‘We should see her together, talk to her and then make our decision.’

  ‘If you think that’s best,’ Emile replied reluctantly.

  Rosalie smiled at him affectionately. ‘I do,’ she said, and she rang the bell for the butler.

  Five minutes later there was a tap on the door and Hélène came into the room. She was surprised to see both her parents sitting waiting for her. Her mind raced as she wondered what she had done to cause them to send for her like this. Had they discovered somehow that she knew Annette’s secret? She certainly hadn’t spoken of it to anyone else, and surely Annette had not. She’d only been back in the house for a day.

  ‘You wanted me, Maman? Papa?’

  ‘Come and sit down, chérie,’ said her mother, patting the seat beside her. ‘Papa and I want to tell you something.’

  Hélène sat down as directed, wondering as she did so if they were going to tell her about Annette themselves. She must pretend amazement if they did. She arranged her expression into one of interest, ready to hear whatever it was and react accordingly. When her mother actually spoke, Hélène couldn’t have been more surprised.

  ‘Your papa had a visitor this morning,’ Rosalie said. ‘Can you guess who it was?’

  ‘Simon Barnier?’ hazarded Hélène.

  ‘No, not him,’ said Rosalie, surprised that he should have been the one Hélène had first thought of. Then she saw the look of relief on her daughter’s face and realised that she had been suggesting the person she least wanted to see.

  ‘It was Monsieur Chalfont,’ said her father.

  Rosalie saw the tide of pink spread across Hélène’s cheeks and gave an inward smile. So, Monsieur Chalfont had already made an impression.

  ‘I find him charming, don’t you?’ asked Rosalie.

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ whispered Hélène.

  Emile, who had not noticed Hélène’s blush, said, ‘Has he always behaved with propriety, Hélène?’

  ‘Propriety?’ echoed Hélène. ‘How could he not?’

  ‘But he has been attentive to you?’

  ‘No more than anyone else. I danced with him at the ball and you saw me sitting next to him at dinner last night.’ She turned to her mother. ‘And that was because you put me there, Maman!’

  ‘Please don’t speak to your mother in that tone of voice, Hélène,’ snapped her father.

  ‘Sorry, Maman,’ she muttered, and Rosalie smiled to show that this time it didn’t matter. After all, it was a fair comment.

  ‘The thing is, chérie,’ Rosalie said, taking the initiative and turning the conversation back in the direction she wanted, ‘Monsieur Chalfont has visited your father this morning to ask if he may pay his addresses to you. Not to become engaged or anything like that, simply to have the chance to build a friendship. All good marriages are founded on friendship.’

  ‘Though there is no question of marriage at this time,’ stated her father. ‘You’re far too young to be thinking that far ahead.’

  ‘Of course your father is quite right,’ Rosalie put in quickly, ‘but should you object to him coming to visit you, perhaps taking a walk or carriage ride? With Annette as well, of course. The proprieties must be observed.’

  ‘No, Maman, I should not object. I should like to get to know him better.’ Hélène spoke calmly, but inside her heart was racing. Rupert had come to Papa to ask for her. She understood that they must move slowly to please her parents, for the sake of decorum, but she also knew that if he asked her, she would go with him tomorrow.

  She caught her father looking at her and hoped that he couldn’t see into her heart and know the jolt of joy that had set it thudding so fast and so loudly that she was surprised neither of her parents seemed to hear it.

  ‘If you are alone with him beyond the walls of this house, you must take that girl with you,’ said her father. ‘I will not have your reputation compromised.’

  ‘I understand, Papa,’ Hélène replied demurely.

  ‘Then
if you will excuse me, my dear,’ he said to Rosalie, ‘I will leave you to it. I shall see you both at dinner.’

  When he had left the room, Rosalie smiled at her daughter. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘I told you that we should be looking for a husband for you next, and now you already have a beau. But you do understand, don’t you, that when you are out anywhere with him you must have Annette in attendance.’

  Hélène was very happy to comply with this dictum. It accorded very well with the plan she and Annette had in mind for the future. Indeed, this might be the right moment to make the suggestion to her mother.

  She drew a deep breath and said, ‘I was wondering, Maman, if Yvette might train Annette as a lady’s maid – then when I get married, I shall be able to take her with me into my new home,’ adding as an afterthought, ‘wherever that happens to be.’

  ‘Maybe,’ replied her mother. ‘I’ll think about it. It would mean employing another housemaid in her place. Your sister didn’t have a maid until she was married. And you know,’ she went on, ‘Annette might not want to become a lady’s maid.’

  ‘No, maybe not,’ Hélène said, ‘but we could ask her, couldn’t we?’

  ‘I’ll think about it,’ repeated her mother.

  And think about it she did. When she had left home to marry Emile she had brought her beloved Marie-Jeanne with her and knew how much she had helped her in the transition from young, blushing bride to mistress of a household. Even now, after nearly seven years, the thought of Marie-Jeanne could bring tears to her eyes, her brave and loyal nurse who had been killed trying to protect Hélène during the war in Paris. She had no idea if Hélène was going to marry this charming Englishman, but if she did, how much easier it would be to have an old friend and companion with her, particularly if Rupert decided that they should live across the Channel.

  *

  Rupert did not sleep well that night. He kept going over and over his interview with Emile St Clair, wondering if there had been anything further he could have said or done to tip the balance in his favour. For he realised that Emile’s answer was, indeed, very much in the balance. What was he going to do if his suit was turned down and he was not allowed to see Hélène? It didn’t bear thinking about and yet he could think of nothing else. As the dawn light crept between the curtains, he finally drifted off into an uneasy doze, only to wake an hour or so later with the same question terrorising his mind. He had breakfast sent up to his room and then he allowed Parker to shave him, afraid his own hand might shake. He dressed with care and in a hired chaise had himself driven out to Belair.

  This time he was shown into the drawing room, where he found both Hélène’s parents waiting for him. Rosalie greeted him with a smile, and when he had shaken her hand, he turned to her husband.

  ‘Good day, m’sieur,’ he said.

  Emile returned his greeting and then wasted no time in coming to the point. ‘Monsieur Chalfont,’ he said, ‘I have given great thought to what you proposed to me yesterday, and with certain caveats, I am prepared to allow you to visit my daughter as a suitor, but I must emphasise that this will not lead to a formal engagement for some time.’

  Rupert, filled with elation, wondered if his happiness showed on his face. Hélène was going to be his. He forced his attention back to Emile St Clair, who was still speaking.

  ‘Hélène is very young,’ he was saying, ‘and though she is happy to receive your visits, we want no pressure put upon her to further your friendship, unless and until she is certain of her own mind. Whenever you meet, decorum must be preserved; I will not have her reputation put at risk by any dishonourable behaviour.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ Rupert answered. ‘I thank you for your trust and I can make a solemn promise to you that I will do nothing that could be regarded as a slur on her honour… or my own.’ He could feel the smile spreading across his face as he added, ‘I swear I shall do everything within my power to make her happy.’

  Chapter 24

  Justin Chalfont collected his fly rod from the fishing closet and picked up his waders. He had been confined to the house all morning by thunder and lightning, but now the storm had passed and the persistent rain of the last few days had finally stopped, the air was less humid and he couldn’t wait to get out of the house. A couple of hours on the river bank was exactly what he needed to relax and calm his mind.

  Since Kitty had accepted his proposal there had been talk of little but the wedding and their future together. One important question had been where the newly-weds should live. It had been suggested that they might move into a wing of Marwick House, but to Justin’s relief, Kitty had been as much against the idea as he had, and gracefully they had turned it down. There was no separate wing at Pilgrim’s Oak, but after much discussion, it had been decided that Sir Philip and Lady Chalfont must remain in their home and Justin and Kitty should move into the Dower House where his grandmother had ended her days. Together he and Kitty had inspected the house, which had been left empty since his grandmother’s death. It required some refurbishment and modernisation, and work had already begun so that they would be able to move in when they returned from an extended honeymoon. Justin had spent a great deal of time with the architect discussing the plans and making regular visits to the house to be sure that the work was progressing as it should. He didn’t mind, he wanted everything to be just so, but it was yet one more thing requiring his attention.

  The day of his wedding was only four weeks away, and though he found he was looking forward to being married to Kitty, he was becoming fed up with all the palaver of the preparations. It would have suited him, and possibly Kitty too, to have had a simple ceremony in the church and a family gathering afterwards before they set off on their planned wedding journey. But his mother and Lady Blake had had their heads together for weeks, and there seemed always something to be considered.

  He said as much to his father, who laughed and said, ‘It’s always the way with the women. They want to make a splash of everything. Just let them get on with it, my boy, that’s what I do.’

  So, this afternoon Justin was doing exactly that. His mother had said she wanted to discuss the wine with him and he had replied, ‘I’m afraid I have an appointment, Mama,’ not bothering to explain that it was an appointment with the river. ‘Surely the wine is the province of Sir James. I wouldn’t dream of interfering.’ He added gently, ‘And nor should you.’

  His mother’s lips had tightened at the reprimand, but she had said no more, simply sighed and returned to her parlour to look over her lists.

  As he crossed the yard, fishing gear in hand, Fran emerged from the house.

  ‘You’re escaping!’ she accused when she saw what he was carrying.

  Justin grinned. ‘Afraid so,’ he admitted. ‘Why don’t you come too… provided you don’t mention the word “wedding”.’

  ‘I can’t,’ answered Fran ruefully. ‘I’ve got another fitting for my bridesmaid’s dress. The dressmaker is coming to fit both Mama and me. I daren’t miss that appointment.’

  ‘Well, come and find me afterwards,’ suggested Justin. ‘I shall be tired of my own company by then, and who knows, I might even have caught a fish.’

  Fran promised to join him as soon as she was released by the dressmaker and went indoors to await her arrival.

  Justin left the garden and took the footpath across the fields to where the River Chubb ran through their land, gliding between its banks into sleepy pools before chuckling over the stones in the shallows and on towards the weir. He stepped down from the bank onto a tiny pebble beach from which he could wade into the water and cast his line. The sun had come out and he knew it was really too bright for serious fishing, but he cast anyway. He felt himself relax as he stared down into the water. The river was running a little faster than normal after the last few days of rain and the water was not as clear as usual, but he could see the occasional quicksilver flash of a fish amid the weed.

  Dawson had said he’d seen salmon recently and Ju
stin hoped he was right. He had seen them leaping up the weir a little way downstream before now, struggling upriver to spawn, but not so far this year. It was a long time since he had landed a salmon from the Chubb, but he knew they made delicious eating and was ever optimistic.

  It was peaceful, standing in the water, casting a fly in the hope of tempting a hungry fish, but on this beautiful summer’s afternoon it didn’t really matter whether he caught anything or not. He glanced back along the footpath to see if Fran had escaped and was on her way to join him, but there was no sign of her yet. The meadows shone green after the rain, poppies gleaming like rubies amid the grass, and beyond them, sheltered by the stand of the oaks that gave the house its name, the house itself drowsed in the afternoon sun – the house where he, Rupert and Fran had been born and which would one day belong to him.

  Life was good, he thought as he sat down on the bank to change his fly for another, and when he and Kitty were married it would be even better. He thought of Rupert and wondered where he was now. He had answered Justin’s letter with a brief note saying that for the present he was putting up at Le Coq d’Argent in St Etienne, but promised to come home in plenty of time to take up his best man duties. His parents and Fran had each had a letter from him, but none of those told them anything further.

  ‘Why does he stay in this St Etienne place, do you think?’ asked his mother. ‘Why doesn’t he come home? Mary Dawson is married now, there would be no scandal.’

  ‘I doubt if it is Mary Dawson keeping him away, Mama,’ Fran had laughed. ‘But it’s probably some other lady, don’t you think?’

  ‘No, Frances, I do not,’ her mother had replied firmly and the matter received no further discussion, but Justin agreed with Fran that there must be a woman involved somehow – there always was with Rupert.

  Just then he saw something that made him leap to his feet: a splash as a fish jumped before falling back into the river in the midst of ever-widening ripples. It was big. Though he hadn’t actually seen the fish, the disturbance in the water told him that. Justin was at the water’s lip at once, edging out into the river again. He cast his fly, but nothing moved. Reeling in, he cast again, the line flying out from his rod, the fly settling gently on the water close to where the ripples had been. If the fish had been there it would have darted away again by now. Slowly Justin waded through the water, pausing from time to time to cast again. He reached a pool a little further downstream, no more than a bend in the river where the water slowed on one side but flooded past on the other, running fast and strong towards the weir. A flash of silver caught his eye and he stepped forward to cast again, and as he did so there was suddenly nothing beneath his feet. He had stepped off a ledge and was pitched forward into the water. For a moment he floundered, letting go of his rod in his efforts to right himself, but his feet gained no purchase, and water poured inside his waders, weighing him down. He could feel himself being dragged through the water, and the river in spate from a day of heavy rain carried him inexorably in its flood. As it narrowed between rocky banks, Justin made a grab for the trailing branches of an overhanging willow tree, but they came away in his hand and the river pulled him under, the water closing over his head. He struggled to keep afloat, forcing his head upwards to gulp air. Justin could swim, but his clothes and waterlogged waders tugged him down and then, suddenly, he was at the weir. Here the water tumbled across shelves of rock, breaking into spray flung high in the air before pouring over the next ledge. Justin felt himself tumbling too, unable to pull himself clear, and then, as his head was pounded against a jutting rock, he knew no more.