The French Wife

by Diney Costeloe

  ‘I shall be very grateful for your advice, sir,’ he began. ‘I know that Foxton is an experienced man, but you have been living here at Pilgrim’s Oak all your life. There’s no one with a greater knowledge of the place than you. However, there is one piece of news that I need to share with you, and I hope you will be pleased when you hear it…’ Rupert paused, seeking the right words to tell his father about Hélène. In the end it seemed that simply to tell him would be the easiest way for them both.

  ‘I am engaged to be married, sir.’

  Sir Philip stared at him for a long moment and then asked, ‘To whom?’

  ‘To a young lady in France, Hélène St Clair. Her father is an architect in Paris.’

  ‘And when did this engagement take place? Why were your mother and I not immediately informed of this?’

  ‘With her father’s permission I have been paying my addresses to her for the last month. She was the reason that I stayed on in France. When I heard about Justin and I was going to come home, I proposed to her and she accepted my proposal.’

  ‘I see.’ Sir Philip’s tone was chilly. ‘And what did her father say to this sudden proposal?’

  ‘He said there must be nothing formal until the spring as Hélène is still quite young, not yet eighteen, but if we were still of the same mind in the spring, he would give his consent.’

  ‘Did he now? Of course by this time they will have realised that Justin’s death meant that you will one day have the title.’

  ‘I doubt if that was a factor in his consent,’ Rupert said.

  ‘Do you? Then you’re a bigger fool than I took you for.’ His tone softened as he went on, ‘Put her out of your mind, Rupert. The daughter of a French architect has no place in your future. You will be the tenth Baronet Chalfont, and your wife must be a lady of your own class, so that the bloodline of good English stock will continue in your children as it would have in Justin’s.’

  ‘I shan’t desert her,’ Rupert said quietly. ‘Hélène is the love of my life and I would find no other love like her.’

  ‘What has love to do with it?’ Sir Philip demanded petulantly. ‘People of our class don’t marry simply for love; there are other considerations that are more important.’

  ‘Not to me, sir.’

  ‘Well, there should be,’ retorted his father. ‘Love comes later, when you grow together in marriage. Look at your mother and me.’

  ‘But you love my mother,’ asserted Rupert.

  ‘Of course I do, but that wasn’t why I married her. I liked her, certainly, and she was a suitable bride, but the love came later. The marriage was proposed by your grandparents. Everyone could see that it was a good match and we’ve been very happy together. If I’d married the first young woman I’d fallen in love with, it would have been a disaster. No, Rupert, you must put this young French girl out of your mind and settle down and start a family with an English girl of good family.’

  For a long moment Rupert said nothing. He was still shocked by his father’s revelation about his illness. He should have realised, and perhaps he would have if he’d seen his father before Justin died, but as he hadn’t he had put down Sir Philip’s frailty to the suddenness of Justin’s death. He knew he should say nothing further about Hélène and their understanding – he must let his father get used to the idea. There was nothing wrong with marrying a French girl; she came of a respectable family with an independence of her own upon her marriage, and once his family met her, he was certain they would understand his love for her and learn to love her too.

  ‘So,’ Sir Philip took up his theme again, ‘no more of this French girl. You must write to her and tell her that you will not be returning to France and it is with regret that you must release her from any understanding that was between you.’

  ‘And break her heart.’

  ‘My dear boy, if she’s as young as you say – seventeen, was it? – she will soon recover from her broken heart and go on to lose it again to someone else.’ He shifted in his chair as if to get more comfortable and said, ‘You need someone like Kitty Blake.’

  ‘Kitty?’ Rupert couldn’t hide his astonishment. ‘But she was engaged to Justin and has only just lost him. She’s hardly likely to be looking for another husband yet!’

  ‘There were good reasons for her engagement to Justin,’ said Sir Philip. ‘It was an excellent match, with advantages to both families. Those advantages still remain, Rupert. Worth thinking about.’

  Rupert could hardly believe his ears. He stared at his father in stupefaction, but Sir Philip had picked up his newspaper again, indicating that he considered the interview to be over. As Rupert got to his feet and moved to the door, he lowered the paper again and said, ‘I trust you haven’t spoken to your mother about this girl?’

  ‘No, sir, I have not.’

  ‘Glad to hear it,’ grunted his father. ‘Don’t want her getting any silly romantic notions in her head. What about Frances?’

  ‘She’s of the same opinion as you,’ Rupert replied.

  ‘Good. She’s a sensible girl. Got her head screwed on properly.’

  Rupert went back to his own room, his mind in a turmoil. Was his father really suggesting that he should take his brother’s place in everything, including the marriage bed? Justin was hardly in his grave and such a suggestion sickened him. What on earth would Kitty think if she knew she was being touted about as a prize to be seized? Then he remembered Sir James’s comments at the funeral. Surely his thoughts weren’t running parallel with Rupert’s father’s, were they? Was one of the ‘duties’ Sir James had mentioned to marry his daughter now that his brother was dead and it was he who had the title and the land?

  His thoughts were interrupted by Mitchell knocking on his door and handing him a letter. ‘Your post, Mr Rupert.’

  Rupert almost snatched it from his hand and the moment the butler had closed the door he tore open the envelope.

  Hélène’s letter was the only bright spot that day. When Rupert had read it through several times, he was almost word perfect. He placed it in a drawer by his bed and, fortified by her words, went down to have lunch with his family.

  No mention was made of the conversation between him and his father that morning, and as soon as the meal was over Rupert went out to meet the steward, Jack Foxton.

  ‘Things need looking at, Mr Rupert,’ Foxton said. ‘I don’t want to say nothing against Sir Philip, mind, but things have slid a bit, if you get my drift. I explained it all to Mr Justin and he realised that we needed to take stock of exactly how things were. Reckon you’ll be taking over from Sir Philip, now, sir. Him being not well.’

  Rupert felt a stab of guilt at this comment. How had everyone noticed the decline in his father’s health when he had not? Because he’d stayed away too long; because he’d assumed it was due to Justin’s death. Why hadn’t Justin told him? Or Fran? Then he thought back to the letters he had received from them while he was in St Etienne and he remembered Fran had mentioned something about Papa not being well. He found her letter again now and reread it. Yes, there it was;

  Papa has not been well lately and Mama is relying on me more and more about household matters. They’re suddenly older, Rupert. Don’t leave it too long before you come home again.

  Fran had mentioned that her father was not well and suggested that he come home, but there had seemed no urgency in this. He read the letter again. He should have understood that she was worried. He should have come home, if only for a visit, and seen for himself, but he hadn’t wanted to. He hadn’t wanted to leave Hélène, leave her to the likes of Simon Barnier. He had put his own wishes before those of his family. He’d thought there was plenty of time, that he and Hélène had their whole lives before them, and now everything had changed. Now he was needed at Pilgrim’s Oak.

  That evening he sat down and wrote back to Hélène. She was probably already in Paris and so as she had suggested he would send the letter there. He was pleased that she and her mother were going t
here – it removed Hélène from St Etienne and from Simon Barnier.

  My darling girl…

  Chapter 32

  Hélène and Annette accompanied Rosalie to Paris the following day. They were both pleased to be going, Hélène because she was missing Rupert too much at Belair and Annette because she wanted Hélène safely away from Simon Barnier. They travelled up by train, but Emile had sent Pierre with them so that he could drive them in the light chaise that they kept in town, and the first few days were spent shopping and visiting friends.

  Pierre was delighted to be able to spend time back in his loft above the stables. Over the ten years he had worked for the St Clairs it had become entirely his place, and he felt far more at home there than in a similar loft above the stables at Belair. It was there that the street urchin, Jeannot, would visit him whenever he heard that Pierre was back in the city. Pierre never knew how Jeannot learned of his arrival so quickly, but he clearly had his sources, as Pierre could be sure of seeing his grinning face looking round the stable door within a day or two of his arrival.

  Jeannot had prospered after the Communard siege. Having removed fifteen francs from Emile’s desk when the house had been left empty for a while, he’d used his new-found capital to start his own business. He employed street boys like his former self and had a booming trade in pickpocketed goods and, even more lucrative, information. Jeannot was now a main man, respected in the Paris underworld, a man to be reckoned with.

  Together, two children alone, he and Hélène had survived the siege and the bloody civil war that ended it. With the arrival of peace, their lives had taken very different paths and though he seldom had the opportunity to see Hélène, Jeannot continued to feel protective of her. It was for this reason that one of his scouts kept an eye on the house in the Avenue Ste Anne, how Jeannot always knew when the family was in residence. The last time he had seen Hélène was at her sister’s wedding. He had travelled down to St Etienne and joined those lining the street to watch the bride and groom ride home after the ceremony, and in the second carriage he had seen her, Hélène, dressed in pale yellow with flowers in her hair, her sister’s bridesmaid. He had risked a visit to Pierre in the Belair stables the next day, but had caught no glimpse of her.

  Pierre had always had a soft spot for the boy and was not surprised when Jeannot put his head round the door the day after they’d arrived in Paris this time.

  ‘Well, Jeannot,’ he said. ‘Thought we might see you.’ The two men sat together on the bales of straw, sharing a beer and chatting as comfortably as they always had.

  ‘Who’s here?’ Jeannot asked casually.

  ‘Madame St Clair, with Miss Hélène and her maid, Annette.’

  ‘She has her own maid now, does she?’ Jeannot said, raising his eyebrows.

  ‘I thought it was you!’ The voice from the doorway broke in on their conversation and the two men turned to see Hélène standing on the threshold. Both stood up as she walked into the stable to join them, saying, ‘I saw you from my bedroom window, Jeannot, creeping into the yard.’

  ‘I didn’t creep, Hélène, I walked in like a Christian.’

  ‘Miss Hélène,’ murmured Pierre, ‘you shouldn’t be in here with us.’

  ‘Why not?’ Hélène shot back. ‘I always was before.’

  ‘And remember the trouble it got you into? Madame would not be pleased.’

  ‘My mother is out,’ replied Hélène. ‘She took a fiacre to visit her dressmaker.’

  ‘It still isn’t proper for you to be out here,’ Pierre maintained, ‘without even your maid.’

  ‘Oh, if that’s the problem,’ Hélène said cheerfully, ‘I’ll call Annette, shall I?’

  Jeannot looked at her and realised she’d changed. Last time they had sat together in this stable had been just before Clarice’s wedding. Hélène had been a young girl, full of excitement about the wedding, telling Jeannot of all the important people who would be attending, the latter information interesting him very much. Now, however, she was different. That girl was gone and in her place was a young woman, an adult, relaxed and confident.

  At that moment Annette appeared at the door. ‘Miss Hélène,’ she said breathlessly, ‘your mother has returned, she’s paying off the fiacre.’

  ‘Then I suppose I’d better go indoors,’ replied Hélène, ‘but I shan’t need you for a while, Annette.’ She gave Pierre a grin and disappeared, leaving the other three staring after her.

  ‘She’s changed,’ Jeannot said.

  ‘She’s in love,’ replied Annette as she sat down beside Pierre on his straw bale.

  ‘In love?’ laughed Jeannot. ‘Is that all?’

  ‘With an Englishman.’

  ‘An Englishman!’ Jeannot was horrified. ‘What’s wrong with someone French?’

  ‘He’s a good man,’ Annette said. ‘He’ll look after her.’

  ‘What about you two, then?’ asked Jeannot with a grin as he saw Pierre with his arm round Annette’s waist. ‘You look pretty close an’ all.’

  ‘None of your business!’ retorted Pierre, though he grinned back as he said it.

  ‘The coachman and the lady’s maid,’ Jeannot said. ‘Sounds like a bar room song to me!’

  ‘Does it?’ growled Pierre. ‘Well, you can keep such thoughts to yourself, my lad!’

  ‘All right, all right, keep your hair on. I’m going anyway.’ He stood up and turned to Annette. ‘Nice to meet you, miss. Hope you know what you’re taking on.’ He nodded in Pierre’s direction. ‘Bit of a reprobate this one, yer know!’

  ‘Who on earth is he?’ demanded Annette when he’d gone, and she settled herself more comfortably against Pierre.

  ‘He’s a lad who used to work for the St Clairs,’ answered Pierre. ‘Then he and Hélène got trapped in the city during the siege. As you see they both survived, but it made them close despite their different backgrounds. The St Clairs were grateful he’d helped her, but they didn’t want to continue the association, so Hélène sometimes sneaks out here to see him.’

  ‘And you let her?’

  ‘I can’t stop her. There was no real harm in it,’ insisted Pierre. ‘I don’t encourage them, but I don’t give them away either.’ He tightened his arm round Annette and added, ‘I can tell you one thing, though, she has nothing to fear from Jeannot. He wouldn’t harm a hair of her head.’

  Annette heard voices out in the yard and wriggled free of his arm. ‘I must go in,’ she muttered. ‘That Madame Vernier will be after me.’ And with that she was gone, leaving Pierre wishing he’d kissed her. He hadn’t yet, but found himself increasingly longing to do so. His instinct was to hold back, to take things slowly. She had lost a husband, she’d lost a baby, but the more he saw of her, the better he got to know her, the more he wanted her; he had never wanted anyone more.

  When Hélène got back inside, she found her mother standing in the hallway, looking at the post that lay on the table.

  Rosalie looked up and smiled. ‘One for you, chérie,’ she said and passed Hélène the envelope.

  Hélène took the letter and hurried up to the privacy of her room to open it.

  My darling girl,

  Hélène smiled. She loved the way he called her his darling girl.

  In the first part of the letter he told her about the funeral and the difficult days that followed, preparing her, she thought as she read the rest of the letter, for the disappointing news it also contained.

  I shall be needed here for some while yet, my darling. There is much to do, as my father is not well and I have to take over the running of the estate. Justin had already begun to take my father’s place and now I must do the same. As I feared, it does mean that I shan’t be able to come back to St Etienne for a while yet, but I know you’ll understand why. Darling Hélène, remember how much I love you, how I long to hold you in my arms. You are my beloved and one day I shall bring you here as my bride; in the meantime I shall live for your letters. Believe me, I’m forever yours, Rupert.<
br />
  Well, she thought with a sigh, I am disappointed. I really hoped he might be back soon, even if only for a short visit, but I suppose I do understand that his family must come first for the time being.

  She read the letter again, several times, hearing his voice, cherishing his endearments, before she slipped it back in its envelope and put it into the cherrywood box she had bought especially as a repository for his letters. Two rested now beneath its smooth polished lid, and she turned the key to keep them safe.

  I shall live for your letters, Rupert had said, and so after dinner that evening, Hélène sat down to write to him again.

  *

  What made Fran do it she wasn’t sure. It was simply an impulse and she followed it. The postbag from the village lay on the hall table. Mitchell had not yet sorted its contents and Fran, expecting there to be more letters of condolence to be answered, flipped it open and pulled out the letters it contained. There she saw it, a letter addressed to Rupert in flowery foreign script. It had a French stamp and a name on the back of the envelope. Hélène St Clair.

  Fran glanced round, but there was no one to see her. Hurriedly she stuffed the letter into the pocket of her skirt and, pushing the rest of the post back into the bag, left it as she had found it, lying on the hall table. With another guilty glance over her shoulder, she hurried upstairs to her bedroom and closed the door behind her. She flopped onto the bed, almost unable to believe what she had done. She had stolen Rupert’s letter. She took it out of her pocket and looked at it. The envelope beckoned, as if urging her to tear it open, but with sudden resolution she resisted the temptation. She had the letter in her possession, but she wasn’t quite sure what she was going to do with it. Perhaps, after some thought, she could replace it in the postbag another day. No one would know when it had actually arrived, so if she decided to do that there was nothing to stop her and no one would suspect. In the meantime, she certainly wasn’t going to open it. It was clearly from the girl in France and Fran had no desire to know what she’d written to Rupert. It was one thing to divert the mail for a couple of days and quite another to read her brother’s private correspondence.