by Leah Hope
Helen had been translating the evening’s conversation for Béatrice but the old woman’s response to Tony’s announcement took no translating. “Un bébé?” she said excitedly.
“Sadly nothing as exciting as that, but maybe one day, who knows eh darling?” Tony said to his, now blushing, wife.
At that moment, Bridget returned from the kitchen. The guests looked up as she stepped through the French doors, followed closely from the shadows by another woman.
“Everyone,” said Bridget, beaming proudly as she looked around the table at her guests, “I am absolutely delighted to introduce you all to Madame Agnès Dubreuil.”
There was an audible gasp from around the table. What on earth was the correct response to a woman whose son had just been charged with murder and her kidnap and who, by all accounts, had left her for dead? Thankfully, Agnès’ warm smile as she took her seat helped to relieve the tangible unease.
“I too am delighted to be here to meet all of Gil and Bridget’s wonderful friends that she has told me so much about. I can understand very well that you may find meeting me a little awkward, in the circumstances, but I would like to reassure you that I have come to terms with what has happened. After dinner, with Gil and Bridget’s permission, I would like to speak about my family and my son. I think there are many questions that need answering.”
“Time to eat I think,” said Bridget as she dashed into the kitchen to fetch the first course.
She soon returned with a large tureen and eight white bowls. “I have designed tonight’s menu with Madame Blanchard in mind,” said Bridget, ladling out a creamy watercress soup. “I know how much she enjoys an English tea, and I very much hope that she will enjoy an English dinner just as much.”
Béatrice was clearly delighted to be honoured in such a way and tucked into her soup with relish.
“This is delicious Bridget,” said Heather, “you’ll have to give me the recipe, it’s got so much flavour, what’s your secret?”
“It’s all down to you in fact Heather, it’s your watercress, well it’s from your shop anyway!” Bridget replied, laughing.
Béatrice was the first to finish. “Delicieux,” she said quietly, wiping her mouth with the corner of her napkin.
“Yes that was lovely Bridget, thank you,” said Tony.
Gil helped Bridget to clear away the empty bowls before returning to the table to fill everyone’s glass up with an excellent St Emillion he had been saving for some time. Bridget returned to the table with a serving dish on which sat a roast rib of beef surrounded by roast potatoes, parsnips and miniature Yorkshire puddings, and a dish of carrots and green beans.
“I know it’s not really a summer dish, but I couldn’t think of anything more British!”
“It looks delicious,” said Agnès, “I have always wanted to try the famous pudding of Yorkshire!”
“Ah le rosbif,” said Béatrice, accepting a third pudding from Gil.
“There’s mustard, English of course,” said Bridget, “and horseradish sauce too, but be warned, it’s quite fiery!”
The silence which descended as the gathered throng savoured the perfectly roasted beef was broken only by an occasional, “Mmm,” from each of the guests.
“Well I think that was a success,” Gil whispered afterwards to Bridget as he helped her gather up eight empty plates.
“I do hope so,” said Bridget, “I wanted it to be special for both Béatrice and Agnès.”
“I hope everyone’s got room for pudding,” said Bridget but on hearing the collective groans which echoed around the table she added, “ok, we’ll wait a few minutes.”
After allowing a decent interval of fifteen minutes to pass, Gil couldn’t wait any longer.
“Everyone ready for dessert now?” he said hopeful of a reply, in the affirmative.
“Oh, go then,” said Doug and Tony, secretly pleased that Gil had made the first move.
Bridget went into the kitchen and returned carrying a huge bowl of raspberry trifle.
“Oh I haven’t had trifle in years!” gasped Helen as she looked longingly at the layers of sponge, raspberries, custard and whipped cream through the sides of the glass dish.
“It always reminds me of a celebration when I was young, you know, Christmas or birthdays,” said Bridget. “It’s not exactly dinner party food but I think it’s so typically British.”
“It’s a perfect choice Bridget,” said Helen as she devoured another enormous spoonful.
Later, when everyone had finished, Gil cleared up and took orders for coffee and liqueurs.
“Béatrice has asked me to pass on her compliments to you Bridget,” said Helen. “She says that she has heard that English food is not so good but that she must have been mistaken.”
Bridget blushed, “Please tell her I am delighted that she enjoyed it.”
Gil soon returned with the coffees and liqueurs by which time the guests had decamped to an assortment of garden chairs at the other side of the terrace. When Gil had served the drinks, Bridget rose to her feet, glass in hand.
“I would like to propose a toast to Madame Blanchard for providing me with the inspiration to question what was happening in Saint-Rémy. Without her insight, I doubt very much that Gil and I would have ever considered that Madame Dubreuil was in any danger. I would also like to propose a toast to Madame Dubreuil…”
“Oh, please call me Agnès!” the younger French woman interrupted.
“I would also like to propose a toast to Agnès,” Bridget continued, “for the bravery she has shown during her ordeal and for coming here this evening, I know it can’t have been easy for her.”
This time it was Béatrice’s turn to blush as she and Agnès murmured their thanks.
“Now I think it is my time to speak, if I may,” said Agnès. She shifted in her seat and for a second, looked near to tears before recovering her composure. “I hardly know where to begin, but I suppose I must go back to the years of my childhood, here in Saint-Rémy. My parents, Colette and Albert Mesnier kept a little farm on the road up to the lake, I believe the house is now owned by Monsieur Jean-Paul Janot.”
Bridget looked across to Béatrice who had her eyes half closed and was nodding quietly to herself as the distant memories of the Mesnier family came flooding back.
“She almost had the names right,” Bridget said, “she told me she thought there was a Colette or Marguerite involved somewhere.”
“She wasn’t so wrong, my sister is Marguerite, as I think you now know Bridget,” Agnès continued. “My father was much older than my mother and was almost forty when they got married, Marguerite was born five years later and I followed four years after her. Although my mother was much younger, it was she who died first, of blood poisoning after she trod on a rusty nail when I was twelve years old. My father was not a very educated man and my mother had done all of the paperwork, so after she died, Marguerite took this task over. My father was not a very good businessman either and he made some bad choices about what crops to grow, where to buy machinery, that sort of thing, and very soon, he was in financial trouble. I did not know it at the time but our landlord, we did not own the farm you see, was also increasing the rent each year by more than he was allowed and my father soon owed to him a lot of money.”
“Who was your landlord?” Heather asked.
“Michel Sellier, but it was his son, Bernard, who had been given the responsibility of dealing with the tenants on their land. The next part of the story is very difficult for me, you must understand that I knew nothing at the time of what was going on.”
“Do you want to carry on?” said Bridget. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to, I’m sure we will all understand.”
“Yes, I want to continue, I must tell this story,” Agnès replied, “the truth has been buried for too long.”
Agnès explained how she had learned from Marguerite that she had pleaded with her father to allow her to go to Bernard Sellier to ask for extra time to pay the rent. But her father
was a very proud man and refused, too ashamed to let a girl fight his battle for him, so Marguerite went in secret.
“And did she get Sellier to give your father extra time?” asked Bridget.
“Oh yes, he agreed straight away, he would waive the debt, but at a price.”
Bridget had a terrible idea of what that price might be and prayed that she was wrong.
“He agreed to Marguerite’s request, on the condition that she, er, er…” Agnès paused, trying to think of words that would not offend Béatrice. “That she visited him, every Friday afternoon, you understand me?”
From the look of horror on the faces around the table, it was clear that they all understood perfectly well.
“Your poor sister, what a brute of a man,” said Bridget, “why did she agree to such a thing?”
“Because there was no alternative, Sellier would have been within his rights to evict us from the farm because the debt was so big. She couldn’t let that happen to us, we had nowhere else to go.”
“Then she was a very brave girl,” said Bridget solemnly.
“I think so too,” said Agnès.
“Then what happened next, did the, er, arrangement, carry on?” Heather asked.
“Oh yes, for about a year I think. Then Sellier decided that he would put up his price for waiving the debt,” Agnès paused.
None of the listeners had any idea what was coming next.
“He decided that he wanted me,” Agnès said calmly.
“You! But how old were you, you couldn’t have been more than a child?”said Helen, horrified at what she was hearing.
“I was just fifteen.”
“Good god,” said Doug, clearly appalled, “the man deserved everything he got.” No-one could find reason to disagree with him.
“But how could Marguerite let you go to him?” Bridget asked.
“She didn’t, it was my idea. I came home from school one day to find her sobbing in the bedroom we shared. She kept saying over and over again that we were ruined but that she couldn’t tell me why. Eventually, I made her tell me everything. I was horrified by what she had done but I said that if she was prepared to do anything to keep our home and family together, then I was too. I ran up to Sellier’s house and told him that I had come as he had asked.”
Agnès by now had turned very pale. “Could I have some water please?”
“Yes of course,” said Gil. He returned moments later with a carafe of water and a tumbler.”
“Merci,” said Agnès, sipping the ice cold liquid. “I am ok now. I think I was very lucky in one way, I only went to him once. Marguerite did not know that his father had already decided to send Sellier away, to Bordeaux, to stay with an aunt and uncle who were very strict, in the hope that they would be able to, straighten him out, I think the phrase is. I do not know if they were successful as we never saw him again.”
“So what happened next?” asked Heather.
Agnès explained that before he left for Bordeaux, Bernard carried out one last cruel act. He wrote to her father to tell him that they must leave the farm within two months. He said that the family were lucky that he was a benevolent man, which he had proved by giving them time to find somewhere else to live. Albert Mesnier realised that Marguerite had lied to him by telling him that Sellier had shown mercy and had agreed to waive their debt for ever. The shock of realising that they now had to move from the farm was almost too much for the old man. Little did he know that there was worse to come. As the girls and their father were preparing to leave the farm, Agnès discovered that she was pregnant.
“Telling my father was the hardest thing I have ever had to do, I think he aged ten years in front of my very eyes.”
“I hope this is not an insensitive question, but did you ever think of not keeping the baby?” Heather asked.
“It was not an option Madame, for Catholics, to destroy a life is forbidden.”
“This is one of the worst things I have ever heard,” said Helen, “and to think all of this happened right here in Saint-Rémy. But tell me, how did news of your pregnancy get out? Béatrice said that she thought there was a baby.”
“I do not know. I went to the doctor of course and soon there was talk of a scandal involving one of the Mesnier girls. Marguerite had a steady boyfriend at the time, Laurent, and as I was just a child, everyone assumed it must be her. We did nothing to correct them. My father was by now beside himself with shame, not only of financial ruin but by the ‘sin’ as he called it, committed by his daughter. It was Marguerite who suggested that we ask Grand-maman if we could live with her. My father at first did not agree as Grand-maman was by then very old and he did not want to bring shame on his own mother. But she surprised us all by insisting that we must all go to live with her.”
“That was very understanding of her,” said Bridget.
“I do not know what we would have done without her kindness. We had nothing. My father sold everything he could to the new tenants of the farm but he did not get very much money. I remember the night that we left that he told us that our dog, Kalli, was to be sold too but Marguerite and I persuaded him to let us keep her. I do not think Grand-maman was too pleased at us bringing a dog as well!” said Agnès with a weak laugh.
“So what happened next?” Tony asked.
“Well, as you say in England, to cut a long story short, we arrived at Grand-maman’s house in the Pyrénées and seven months later, my son, Nicolas, was born. He was such a beautiful baby, he had a lot of dark hair and big blue eyes. But we had already decided that I would not keep him. I was so very young and Papa and Grand-maman thought I needed to go back to school and continue with my studies. I was very good at school and I knew I wanted to teach, even then. It was agreed that Marguerite would take him and bring him up as her own child.”
“Wasn’t that very hard for you, to give up your child I mean?” Heather asked.
“Not as hard as you might think. Like I said, I was very young and I am ashamed to say it but I wanted to forget that I had a baby and get on with my life. It was agreed that Marguerite would go far away where no-one knew her and try to get a job. When Nicolas was one month old, he and Marguerite left for Paris, where they could be anonymous. I never saw either of them again, until I saw Nicolas at the Mirabeau of course.”
“Forgive my asking,” said Helen, “but why did you decide to sever all ties with your sister and child?”
“No I do not mind you asking Madame, it is a very good question. We all thought it was better for Nicolas if he did not know that I existed. Looking back, I am not sure that we made the right decision, but at the time… it was very difficult you know. Marguerite went to Paris and very soon she met Alan Webster, they fell in love and he took her back to London with him where they were married. She told me that he is a good man and is happy to bring up Nicolas as his own son. We agreed that Marguerite would send me a photograph of Nicolas once a year, on his birthday, but after a few years I asked her to stop. I found it too painful.”
“So you didn’t recognise Nicolas that day when he checked you in to the Mirabeau?” said Bridget.
Agnès explained that she had not recognised her son, his name badge simply read ‘Nick’, but he had recognised her. As soon as her room was ready, she unpacked and took a quick shower but when she came out of the bathroom there was a note under her door. It said, “I think we have a lot to talk about. Meet me at the café at the lake at 3.00pm.” It was signed, “Nicolas Webster”.
“I recognised the name straight away of course but I could not believe that the man I had just met was my son, my little Nicolas. My mind was in such a spin I didn’t know what to think, but I was sure about one thing, I had to meet him. I went downstairs and a maid ordered a taxi for me. My head was still whirling when the taxi dropped me at the lake, I was excited, anxious, nervous, all of these things at the same time. I walked to the café and saw Nicolas sitting at one of the tables. He stood up when I approached and said, straight out, ‘So, you
’re my mother, don’t try to deny it.’ His tone was quite hostile, not what I was expecting at all and there was something in the way that he looked at me that suddenly made me feel afraid. I remember wishing I had asked the taxi driver to wait, or at least to pick me up later, but then I remembered that the driver had given me his card so I thought I could ring him later. Of course, I did not know at the time that you, or rather Pete, had my mobile phone, Bridget.”
“Oh I know, I feel so guilty about that,” said Bridget, flushing heavily, “to think I put you in such awful danger.”
“But don’t you see Bridget, if you hadn’t checked to see if Pete had given me my phone back, you wouldn’t have realised that I was missing, and who knows what would have happened if you hadn’t found me when you did. So it’s you I have to thank for saving my life.”
“Well if you put it like that,” said Bridget, not entirely convinced. “What did you say to Nick?”
“Do you know, I can’t remember the exact words, it was all a bit of a blur but I think I said something like, ‘Yes I am your mother, I have denied it for too long,’ and then I think I asked him how he found out. He told me to sit down and he ordered coffee. Then he told me a very long story, which I will cut short.”
“Thank goodness for that,” whispered Doug to Helen, “she’s going on a bit isn’t she?”
“Ssh,” said Helen, nudging her husband in the ribs, “this is fascinating.”
“That’s a maybe, but I could do with another drink. Gil, any chance of a top up?” said Doug, waving his whisky glass in the air.
“Yes of course, anyone else?” Everyone except Béatrice and Agnès held out their glass. “Sorry Agnès, I’ve interrupted you, please continue,” said Gil.
“No matter, now where was I?” Agnès continued. “Oh yes, Nicolas had been brought up to believe that Alan was his natural father and that his parents had met in Paris. Marguerite told him that all her family in France was dead, which was partly true as by the time Nicolas was old enough to understand, Papa had died. He never really got over the shame of what happened to us and, as I have already said, Maman had died many years before. Grand-maman was very much alive though, she was made of strong stuff. Nicolas had no reason to doubt any of this of course. Then he made a discovery which was to change both of our lives. He told me that just under a year ago, when he was looking for something in the attic in his home he came across a box which contained every letter that I had ever written to Marguerite. He was naturally curious and started to read the letters, he said it took him hours to get through them all, and slowly, little by little, the true story of his past was pieced together. Every last detail was there in black and white. His whole life, or at least half of it, was a lie. It must have been a terrible shock for him. There were photographs in the box, of me, Papa and Grand-maman, including one taken just over a year ago on my birthday. I cannot have changed so much since then as Nicolas recognised me straight away when I checked into the Mirabeau. He also recognised my name from the letters, of course.”