The French Wife

by Diney Costeloe

  ‘Calm, dignified, determined.’

  ‘Determined?’ Fran looked at him sharply. ‘Determined about what?’

  ‘Determined to come to the funeral. Well, to the church, anyway. Her parents don’t approve.’

  ‘She usually gets what she wants,’ remarked Fran. ‘So I’m sure she’ll be there.’

  The following day Lord and Lady Devenish arrived and the house was in a flurry of welcome. Lady Chalfont, encouraged by Rupert and Fran, made the effort at last to get dressed and come downstairs. It was the first time she had left her chamber and she walked unsteadily down to the drawing room, leaning on her son’s arm.

  ‘Amabel!’ cried Lady Devenish. ‘How do you do? You look very pale, my dear sister.’

  ‘I’m very tired, Grace. I haven’t slept in days. There’s been so much coming and going in the house and poor Justin lying in his coffin in the morning room.’ She let go of Rupert’s arm and sank into an armchair as if her legs would no longer hold her.

  Dinner was a quiet affair, with little conversation from either side of the table. Sir Philip had always found his sister-in-law difficult and tonight was no exception. The men did not linger in the dining room and the ladies retired to bed soon after the tea tray was brought in.

  Rupert went to his room and, having dismissed Parker, closed the door behind him and sat down at the table to write a letter to Hélène. It was the first chance he had had to put pen to paper since he’d left France. How he missed her. He summoned a picture of her face, remembered the feel of her warmth in his arms with an almost physical ache. He longed to talk to her, to hear her voice, to explain the loss he felt at Justin’s death and be comforted by her presence. He couldn’t speak to her, so writing to her was the next best thing, and hoping she would reply at once, he picked up his pen.

  Chapter 29

  The morning after Rupert’s departure Hélène felt completely bereft. How could this strange yet charming Englishman have invaded her being to such an extent that she felt only half herself without him? He had promised to write as soon as he got home and had given his own direction at Pilgrim’s Oak so that she could write back to him. This correspondence had received the consent of her parents, though when Rupert had made his final farewell Rosalie had insisted that Hélène should not be the instigator of this exchange of letters.

  ‘It would be unbecoming and forward to write first,’ Rosalie explained when Hélène announced next morning she would write immediately. ‘You must wait to hear from him, and then, if he does write, you may answer.’

  During the following week Hélène waited eagerly, checking the postbag for his letter, for she had no doubts that he would write as soon as he was able. In the meantime she began writing to him so that when the longed-for letter from England arrived, she would have the beginnings of a reply ready to send. She knew she must be patient and that Rupert would not fail her.

  Indeed, he did not, and ten days after he had set out for England the letter arrived. Didier had brought the post in to her mother, who, seeing the letter with an English stamp, had summoned Hélène into her parlour.

  ‘I think the letter you’ve been waiting for has arrived, Hélène,’ she said with a smile. ‘I shall not insist on reading it,’ she went on, ‘as I trust Monsieur Chalfont to write only what is proper, but should you find anything improper, I must rely on you to tell me so that I can deal with the matter.’

  She fixed Hélène with an assessing eye and Hélène held her gaze. ‘Of course, Maman,’ she said, and then, at a nod from her mother, she took the envelope and carried it away to her own room.

  As she watched her leave, Rosalie wondered if she had been too lenient. Would she, she thought, have been allowed to receive uninspected letters from Emile before they were formally betrothed? Almost certainly not but, she decided with a sigh, the modern young lady seemed to be allowed far more licence than had been accorded to her, and she had no wish to read her daughter’s love letters, for love letters they were sure to be. She turned her attention to the rest of the post, while laying aside a letter addressed to Agathe Sauze.

  Agathe had, indeed, been a great success. Rosalie found herself relying on her more and more. The running of the house had become much smoother and more efficient since the departure of Madame Choux. Annette was now being trained by Yvette to be Hélène’s personal maid. Lizette had blossomed under Agathe’s strict but fair tutelage and, less afraid of her own shadow, worked hard in her new capacity as housemaid.

  Rosalie rang the bell and Agathe Sauze was soon knocking on the parlour door.

  ‘You wanted me, madame?’

  ‘I just wanted to go over the arrangements for tomorrow evening, our welcome dinner for young Monsieur and Madame Barrineau.’ She said the names with a smile, as describing Clarice and Lucas in these terms still pleased her. Briefly Rosalie ran through the guest list: Clarice and Lucas, of course, and Lucas’s parents and sister. Louise could not be left out of her sister’s homecoming celebrations, but she and Lucie, much of an age, would be surely be glad of each other’s company. After some thought she’d added Simon Barnier to the list to balance her table, and now she passed the seating plan to Agathe.

  ‘Oh, and there’s a letter for you in this morning’s post, Madame Sauze.’ She held out the envelope, which Agathe took and pushed into her pocket, wondering who might be writing to her here. Fleur? But at first glance the script on the envelope was not familiar.

  Having been thus dismissed by Madame St Clair, Agathe retired to the kitchen, where Lizette was just making the staff’s mid-morning coffee. As the gardener, the stable lad and Pierre came in from the outside, she picked up her own coffee and went into her little sitting room to drink it in peace as she opened her unexpected letter. It clearly wasn’t from Fleur – it was not her handwriting, and anyway, over the last few weeks her brief letters had arrived less frequently. Agathe had been planning to travel to Paris on her next free day to see how her sister was, but somehow the time to spend a day away from Belair had never been right, and while she was new to the post Agathe had no intention of jeopardising her position.

  She set her cup down and withdrew the letter from her pocket. The envelope gave no clue as to who had sent it. She slit it open and pulled out the single sheet of paper it contained. There was a name and address across the top – a firm of lawyers in Paris – written in black ink and a letter in the same ink.

  Dear Madame Sauze

  It is with regret we have to inform you of the sudden death of your sister Fleur Bastien on 23rd August. At her written request, in case of her death, we have contacted you as next of kin and have to tell you that you are the sole legatee named in her will, which was signed and witnessed in our offices on 1st August 1877.

  We request that you visit us at our offices at the above address at your earliest convenience, to arrange the funeral and sign the various documents required.

  I remain, madame, yours faithfully…

  The signature was undecipherable, but below it the name R. J. Colet was printed.

  Tears sprang to Agathe’s eyes at the unexpected suddenness of Fleur’s demise. Why hadn’t she made the effort to go and see her? And now it was too late. Fleur was dead. Her sister was dead and Agathe hadn’t even known that she was ill. Why hadn’t Fleur told her? The letter gave no clue to the cause of death. Perhaps she hadn’t been ill at all; perhaps there’d been an accident. Agathe felt stunned by a mixture of grief and regret. They had never been really close, but Fleur had taken her in when she’d had nowhere else to go. Now she was gone and Agathe hadn’t even had the chance to say goodbye.

  She continued to sit, silent, the letter clutched in her hand, while her coffee cooled unregarded beside her. She must go to the lawyer’s office as soon as possible. She would have to ask Madame St Clair for several days’ leave of absence to deal with all the necessary arrangements. When would she be able to go? Tomorrow was the family dinner for the returning married couple. Everything was in place for
that. Madame St Clair had agreed the menu with Cook and Didier was in overall charge; surely they could manage without her.

  Well, she decided, it was no use sitting wondering. She must explain the situation to her mistress and obtain the necessary time off to go to Paris. Reluctantly she got to her feet and went back to knock on Madame St Clair’s parlour door.

  Rosalie listened to her request and sighed. ‘Of course, you must go,’ she agreed. ‘And the sooner the better. Where will you stay in Paris?’

  ‘My sister lived in an apartment in Batignolles. I think I may be able to stay there.’

  ‘Better you stay in the Avenue Ste Anne,’ said Rosalie. ‘I’m planning to go to Paris myself next week and you can advise Madame Vernier of my arrival. I shall take Hélène with me; she needs a change of scene. You must be back here before I go, as I will need to leave everything here in your capable hands.’

  So it was agreed. Agathe was to leave the same afternoon and present herself at the lawyer’s office first thing next day.

  *

  Unaware of anything else going on in the house, Hélène opened her letter from Rupert. It wasn’t as long as she’d hoped, obviously written in some haste, but began with the decidedly welcome words:

  My darling girl,

  Warmth flooded through her and she went on to read,

  How I miss you! After a tiresome journey I’m here at home and find the house full of understandable melancholy. My mother is distraught at Justin’s death and my father, though stoical in the extreme, seems suddenly very much older. My sister Frances has coped wonderfully, but obviously she too is desperately sad. I’m doing what I can to support them all, but there has to be an inquest, now set for this coming Thursday, before we can have the funeral on Friday. These things make it even harder to deal with.

  I think of you all the time, my darling, and wish you were here at my side, but since that can’t be just now, believe me when I tell you how much I love and miss you. A letter from you would cheer me greatly, for I too am struggling to come to terms with Justin’s death. I could not have wanted a better brother.

  I will write again soon. Though from the look of things I shan’t be able to return to you as soon as I would wish, I remain now and always, Your Rupert.

  Hélène read the letter through several times, dwelling with pleasure on his endearments and promised love. The letter contained nothing to which her parents might take exception, and Hélène decided if Maman spoke of it again to offer her the chance to read it for herself. For, thought Hélène, once her mother had satisfied herself that Rupert’s letters were entirely proper, she would not concern herself with them again, when perhaps their content might have altered.

  It was later that she heard from Annette about Madame Sauze’s unexpected departure for Paris.

  ‘We stayed in her sister’s apartment before we came here,’ Annette explained. ‘Aunt Agathe lived with her when Father Thomas threw her out, and she took me there when I left.’

  ‘Do you think she’ll leave us,’ asked Hélène, ‘and go back to live in Paris?’

  ‘Doubt it,’ replied Annette. ‘She loves working here. It’s the sort of job she’s always dreamed of.’

  ‘Didn’t she like working for the priests?’

  ‘Oh, she was happy enough when Father Lenoir was alive, but when he died everything changed,’ answered Annette. ‘With Father Thomas… well, I told you about Father Thomas. But I’m sure she doesn’t want to go back to the city.’

  Annette was right. When Agathe had left for Paris the previous day, she had had every intention of returning to Belair as soon as possible. She spent the night in the Avenue Ste Anne, where she had been welcomed by Madame Vernier, the housekeeper who, with the aid of a housemaid, looked after the house when the family were in the country. Agathe passed an anxious night, but the following morning she presented herself a little nervously at Monsieur Colet’s office.

  The lawyer rose to greet her with an outstretched hand, invited her to sit down and offered her coffee. She took a seat on the chair opposite his desk but declined the refreshment, surprised that it had been offered. She looked across at him expectantly. He was a dapper little man who looked surprisingly small behind his large desk. He was younger than Agathe had expected, too, no more than thirty-five, with a fine head of hair coming to a widow’s peak on his forehead and beetling black brows from beneath which a pair of shrewd brown eyes assessed her. Agathe raised her chin a little and he smiled.

  ‘It’s a pleasure to meet you, madame,’ he said, ‘despite the sad circumstances that bring you here. May I offer you my condolences on the loss of your sister.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Agathe replied gravely. ‘Please can you tell me what happened to her? Was she ill? I haven’t seen her for some time and though we’ve had occasional contact by letter she never mentioned that she was ill, and I’ve no idea how she died.’

  ‘She was indeed ill,’ replied Monsieur Colet, ‘but I don’t think even she knew quite how bad she was. She must have had some idea, as she came to me so recently to remake her will.’ He looked enquiringly at Agathe. ‘Were you aware that she had done so?’

  Agathe shook her head. ‘No,’ she answered, ‘as I said we’d had little contact since I took up a position outside Paris.’

  ‘Well, in her new will she left everything she had to you. That is, her apartment…’

  ‘Her apartment?’ echoed Agathe faintly.

  ‘Certainly,’ replied Monsieur Colet. ‘And also the money she had in her bank account.’

  ‘Bank account?’ murmured Agathe. ‘But she didn’t hold with banks.’

  ‘That may have been her stance, but she certainly had one with a reasonable balance.’ He tilted his head a little as he went on, ‘I believe her late husband was a man of some substance?’

  ‘He was a butcher with his own business,’ Agathe agreed, ‘but…’

  ‘There you are, then. She had money and as far as I can see she used it shrewdly. She owned the other two apartments in the building, which she rented out, and the butcher’s shop on the ground floor.’

  ‘She owned all that?’ Agathe stared at him, stupefied.

  ‘Her husband acquired those some years before he died. When he was killed in a road accident, he died intestate and everything automatically came to your sister.’ Monsieur Colet paused for a moment and then added, ‘And now it all comes to you.’

  Agathe was silenced by this explanation. She’d not even known for sure that Fleur actually owned the apartment in which she had lived, let alone any others.

  ‘She never told me any of this,’ she said at last. ‘When Yves was killed I thought she was left with very little.’

  ‘Apparently not,’ said the lawyer with a smile. ‘So, I must congratulate you, madame, you are now a woman of some substance. You will have no need to work, and could, if you wished, employ a servant of your own.’

  The silence that followed these remarks lengthened until Monsieur Colet broke it by saying, ‘The first thing that must be considered is the funeral. Afraid that we might not be able to contact you in time, I, as Madame Bastien’s executor, have made arrangements for her funeral, which will take place tomorrow at the Church of the Holy Virgin in the Rue du Boiselles. As you will understand, such things cannot be delayed.’

  ‘I see,’ murmured Agathe.

  She did understand that the funeral must take place sooner rather than later, but everything else? How on earth was she going to cope with everything else? She had no head for business, as Fleur had apparently had. How was she going to manage? She had no wish to come back to live in Paris, she was entirely settled where she was. Her confusion showed in her expression and Monsieur Colet saw it.

  ‘If I or my firm can be of assistance to you,’ he suggested, ‘in any capacity, we would be happy to continue to act for you on the same terms as for Madame Bastien. But now is not the time to come to such decisions. There will be plenty of time to make those when the will is proved. H
owever,’ he went on, ‘I’m sure you’ll want the keys to the building and to your own apartment, so that you can come and go as you choose. I can see no problem with the will – it is a simple one – and very soon everything will be legally yours.’ He opened a drawer in his desk and took out a set of keys. ‘You have tenants in the other two apartments and there is no reason for them to move. Their rent will eventually be paid to you.’

  Agathe left Monsieur Colet’s office in a daze. She had been with him for less than an hour and in that time her whole world had been turned upside down. She would attend the funeral Mass tomorrow and thus make her farewells to her sister, the sister she now felt she’d hardly known. With her mind still in a blur, she made her way back to the Avenue Ste Anne; the apartment could wait until the following day.

  After Fleur’s funeral, attended only by herself and Monsieur Colet, Agathe paid a visit to the apartment. When she opened the door and stepped inside, the place had the musty smell of emptiness and neglect. As Agathe walked slowly through the rooms she was struck by how much smaller it seemed than she remembered. Pale sunlight, dust motes dancing in its brightness, shafted through the grubby windows, illuminating the general tiredness of the decor. Old-fashioned, uncomfortable furniture still crowded the rooms, and when she opened the wardrobe in Fleur’s bedroom she found it full of her sister’s clothes. She paused for a moment in the kitchen where she had cooked meals for the two of them, but there was no resonance of her time there and she knew that she would never return here to live. She would come back once more to clear the place out and then ask Monsieur Colet to arrange for it to be let. With a feeling of relief, she left the apartment and closed the front door behind her.

  When she arrived at Belair, Agathe simply thanked Rosalie for allowing her the few days she’d been away and returned to work in the normal manner. To no one did she mention her sister’s will or the change it could bring to her life. Monsieur Colet had said the process of proving the will would take a while, and Agathe was perfectly happy to relegate future changes to the back of her mind.