The
French
Wife
Also by Diney Costeloe
The Throwaway Children
The Lost Soldier
The Runaway Family
The Girl with No Name
The Sisters of St Croix
The New Neighbours
The Married Girls
Miss Mary’s Daughter
Children of the Siege
The French Wife
The
French
Wife
Diney
Costeloe
www.headofzeus.com
First published in the UK in 2020 by Head of Zeus Ltd
Copyright © Diney Costeloe, 2020
The moral right of Diney Costeloe to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
A catalogue record for this book is available frombthe British Library.
ISBN (HB): 9781789543292
ISBN (XTPB): 9781789543308
ISBN (E): 9781789543285
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Contents
Also by Diney Costeloe
Title Page
Copyright
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Epilogue
About the Author
An Invitation from the Publisher
Prologue
It was almost dark and she was freezing. The floor and the walls of the cell were stone, damp and slippery. She sat on the small heap of straw piled into a corner, the only light illuminating her prison filtering through a barred window high above her. She curled into a ball, her arms wrapped round her body, trying to retain some warmth, but her clothes were torn and her body was bruised and she shook with cold and fear. Then she heard it, the key scraping in the lock, and when the door opened she saw his face, lit by the candle he carried. Flickering flame showed her the black beard, the scarred cheeks, the cruel eyes, now alight with lustful anticipation.
‘On your feet!’ he ordered. ‘It’s playtime!’
She screamed then, a shrill, penetrating scream of terror, a scream that woke her and left her shivering in the dark.
Chapter 1
Paris 1876
There was a silence about the house. The curtains were drawn across the windows and the old priest lay in bed in his room attended by his housekeeper, Madame Agathe Sauze, sitting at his bedside, keeping him company in his dying hours. Father Thomas, the curate who also lived in the St Jacques Clergy House, had administered the last rites earlier in the day and now it was simply a matter of time before the old priest slipped away to meet his maker.
Agathe had been Father Lenoir’s housekeeper for nearly thirty years, and over that time their mutual regard had grown into a comfortable friendship. Well aware of her common sense and respecting her judgement, the priest occasionally asked her opinion on parish matters. Agathe always considered her answers carefully, and always spoke to him with the formality due to his cloth. In public Father Lenoir treated her with the same respect, but in private he had used her Christian name and there was a genuine affection between them.
Now he was dying, and as she kept watch at his bedside, she considered her life without him. Father Thomas had been dismayed that Father Lenoir should confide parish affairs to his housekeeper and had long ago decided that when he had his own parish, there would be no such impropriety. Discussion of such business with a mere layperson – and a woman into the bargain – would never happen when he was in charge. He had been shocked that the old priest had allowed her to sit with him in his last hours, but when he, Father Thomas, had tried to dismiss her from the bedroom, the old man had opened his eyes and murmured, ‘Leave us alone! She can stay. She’s my friend.’
His friend indeed! She was his housekeeper, a paid employee! What right had she to be the one to see him into eternity? Father Thomas, now clearly excluded, withdrew from the room, every line of his body rigid with indignation.
Father Thomas will be an exacting man to work for, Agathe thought as she sat at the bedside and listened to the old man’s ragged breathing. Perhaps it was time to leave the Clergy House, but, after so many years, where would she go? She had no home of her own, her only family an estranged sister, and very few friends.
Maybe, she thought suddenly, the bishop will send another priest to take over the church of St Jacques. After all, Father Thomas is still young; perhaps he’ll be considered too inexperienced to take on the responsibility of such a large parish.
The thought raised her spirits a little. She closed her eyes for a moment or two, but jerked awake as there was a slight movement in the bed. She realised that Father Lenoir’s eyes were open again, gazing unseeing into the air. Then his face relaxed in a smile and the rasp of his breath was silent.
Agathe leaned forward and gently closed his eyes. She tried to pray for his departing soul, but somehow the words would not come and she simply sat in the silence of the empty room.
*
Once the funeral was over, Father Thomas took over the parish, the Clergy House and the lives of the two women who looked after him. Madame Sauze continued as housekeeper, assisted by Annette, the orphan she had rescued some years earlier, with Father Lenoir’s blessing, from St Luke’s orphanage to train as a housemaid. The young priest was determined to show his bishop that he was perfectly capable of running the parish, and the bishop, taking the easy route, made no move to appoint a new, more experienced parish priest. For a while Father Thomas’s future hung in the air, but after several weeks he was summoned to the bishop’s office and told that for the present, at least, he was responsible for the parish. He was no longer a curate, but a parish
priest with responsibility for a church, a congregation and the souls of men. A person of importance.
Thus established in his position, the young priest called Agathe Sauze into his study and told her that he no longer needed her services.
‘The girl, Annette, is perfectly able to look after me here. It doesn’t take two women to look after the simple requirements of a priest.’
Simple requirements of a priest! Apart from the general keeping of a house, Agathe thought of the large meals Father Thomas consumed without comment; the spotless vestments she was expected to provide for the church services. With Father Lenoir that had been a privilege, her pride in his pristine appearance always appreciated with a smile of recognition or word of thanks. She received no such acknowledgement from Father Thomas. Would young Annette, aged only about eighteen, be able to cope with the demands of running the Clergy House and looking after the daily needs of its incumbent? It would not be easy.
Agathe looked him firmly in the eye. ‘So, you’re throwing me out into the street,’ she said flatly.
‘Certainly not,’ snapped Father Thomas. ‘You are getting old and I am releasing you so that you may retire.’
‘But I don’t want to retire.’
‘That’s your problem, madame, not mine. I no longer require your services. You must be out of this house in two weeks’ time.’
‘But I have nowhere to go.’ Agathe heard the dismay in her voice and struggled to hide it.
‘Which is why,’ Father Thomas replied smugly, ‘I am giving you two weeks to find somewhere. It’s the Christian thing to do.’
Agathe returned to the kitchen to break the news to Annette. Over the years she had become fond of the girl. She had taught her to cook and clean properly and in the evenings she had taught her to read and write. At first Annette had dismissed ‘book learning’ as a waste of time, but Agathe had insisted, and as she came to grips with it Annette had realised that it wasn’t that difficult and had discovered a whole new world in the few books Agathe had to offer her.
‘You never know when such learning may come in useful,’ Agathe had said, ‘and in the meantime you can enjoy reading.’ And Annette had found that she did.
Now, when Agathe told Annette what the priest had said, the girl turned pale.
‘You can’t leave me with him,’ she cried. ‘Madame, don’t leave me with him.’
Agathe smiled ruefully. ‘Annette, I can’t take you with me, I’ve nowhere to go. At least you will have a roof over your head and food on the table.’ It was the best she could offer. She was well aware that if she took Annette with her and both of them became vagrant, the girl could well end up on the streets, selling her body to keep herself alive. ‘I looked after Father Lenoir for nearly thirty years, and in that time we learned to get along. You’ll get used to Father Thomas’s ways and find that you rub along together.’
Alone in her room she considered her options and found they were very few. She was only sixty but she knew it would be difficult to find another place. No one would want to employ an elderly woman who might become infirm, when they could get someone so much younger with years of work left in her. Who could she turn to? Briefly she thought of Madame Rosalie St Clair.
Agathe had taken care of Hélène St Clair, Madame Rosalie’s daughter, when, at the age of eleven, she’d been lost and alone in the city during the Communard siege. When the fighting was over and Hélène had been reunited with her parents, Madame St Clair had come to visit Agathe at the Clergy House, bringing Hélène with her. She had wanted to thank Agathe and Father Lenoir for taking her daughter in off the streets. She had been deeply grateful and the two women had got on well, speaking as equals. Agathe had seen Hélène once or twice more when the family was in Paris, but that had been in the early days. Since then she had seen neither mother nor daughter for several years. Would the gratitude so sincerely expressed then still be as strong now? Could she approach them for help after all this time? Turn up out of the blue and expect their gratitude to become practical assistance? No. It would be asking for charity; Agathe Sauze would ask that of no one and she dismissed the option from her mind.
Another possibility was to ask for work from the bishop. Not from the man himself, of course, he was far too exalted to deal with such mundane matters, but perhaps one of his chaplains would know of a parish priest who needed a housekeeper. It was something she had done all her life and there seemed little else she could do. Eventually, as the two weeks were closing in on her, she steeled herself and made the approach to the bishop’s office.
She was greeted with a blank stare from the young priest who had been sent to find out what she wanted.
‘Madame,’ he said dismissively, ‘if your own priest has dispensed with your services, he must have good reason. I’m afraid it is not something the bishop or this office can concern itself with. You must look for charity elsewhere.’
‘I am not looking for charity, Monsieur l’Abbé,’ she replied sharply, ‘I am looking for work and was simply asking if you knew of a parish priest in need of a housekeeper. Clearly you do not!’ As the young priest blinked in astonishment at her riposte, she turned on her heel and, with a ramrod straight back, walked to the door before saying, ‘I’ll bid you good afternoon… Father!’
With that avenue closed to her Agathe finally turned her thoughts to the only other possibility. She had told Father Thomas that she had nowhere to go, and in reality that was true, but her thoughts now turned unwillingly to her elder sister, Fleur. She and Fleur had never been close. As children they had continually quarrelled; as young women they had disagreed on almost everything; and when Fleur had decided to marry Yves Bastien, Agathe had disliked him on sight and had tried to make her change her mind. This was the final straw for Fleur. She was the elder and wasn’t prepared to listen to any advice about her choice of husband from her younger sister.
‘He’s a bully,’ Agathe warned her. ‘Why would you marry him? Listen to the way he speaks to you, Fleur, ordering you about, even before you’re married.’
‘He’s a man of means,’ returned Fleur. ‘He has a good business and he owns his apartment. I’ll have a home of my own. This is the best chance in life that I’ll get, Agathe, and I mean to grab it with both hands, so don’t you dare tell me what I should or shouldn’t do.’
Yves Bastien was a butcher whose family had owned their shop and the three apartments above it for generations. When his elderly sister who’d kept house for him died, it was clear to Agathe, if not to Fleur, that Yves was not looking for a wife but an unpaid servant to replace her.
‘But,’ Agathe said, ‘you don’t love him.’
‘What has love to do with it?’ demanded Fleur. ‘If we marry it will suit us both. He’s looking for a wife and I’m looking for the security that he can provide.’
‘You will never be safe, married to a bully like him!’ cried Agathe in a last bid to make her sister see sense. ‘You’ve seen what he’s like when he’s drunk!’
‘It’s nothing to do with you,’ snapped Fleur. ‘Just mind your own business!’
Within the month Fleur and Yves were married and from then on the sisters had hardly spoken.
Agathe had been proved right, and though she never admitted it to her sister, Fleur found herself trapped in a loveless and abusive marriage, from which there was no escape. Yves dominated her in every respect, making her life a misery, until, that was, coming home one afternoon already reeling from midday drink, he staggered out in front of a coal merchant’s waggon. The horses reared in fright, knocking him to the ground, and their hooves came plunging down on his head, killing him instantly. Her husband was dead, and when they came to tell her of this tragedy, Fleur’s only emotion was profound relief. With no other family to lay claim to his possessions, everything he’d owned was now Fleur’s, and she dealt with her new prosperity shrewdly. She rented the ground-floor shop to Yves’s erstwhile apprentice and continued to live above in the apartment that had been her marri
ed home. The rents from the apartments on the two floors above provided further income. At last Fleur had the security she had so longed for; she had the apartment and enough money to live on, and with no children, she had only herself to please. Her relief at her new-found security she shared with no one, not even her estranged sister.
Now, reluctantly, Agathe set out to visit her, but before knocking at her door, stood outside in the street. She peered in through the window of the butcher’s shop. The apprentice, now a master butcher himself, seemed to be doing a brisk trade. Chickens, their wrung necks dangling, hung above the counter; a butchered sheep swung from a hook on the ceiling and even as she watched, the man sharpened a large knife and sliced meat from the carcass for his waiting customer.
Agathe turned away from the shop and looked back along the cobbled street. It was narrow, lined with tall buildings similar to Fleur’s; a street from an earlier age, it had a gully down the middle to carry away water and much else, but if it wasn’t the best address in Paris, it wasn’t the worst either.
Pull yourself together, she admonished herself. You’ve nowhere else to go and it’ll only be for a very short time, just until you find yourself another position.
The door to the upper floors stood beside that of the shop, and when she pushed it open Agathe found herself in a narrow hallway from which a staircase ascended to the floors above. Slowly she made her way up the stairs and again paused outside the door with the single name beside it. Bastien. Hesitantly, she stepped forward and, grasping the knocker, let it fall.
When Fleur opened the door and found her sister on the threshold, she took an involuntary step backwards.
‘Well,’ she said acidly, ‘and to what do I owe this honour?’
Not an auspicious opening, but she stood aside and let Agathe enter the apartment. She led her sister through an ill-lit hallway into a fair-sized room with long, narrow windows facing the street below. Dust motes danced in the shafts of afternoon sun playing on the old, heavy furniture that crowded the space and on the heavy curtains that attempted to conceal a small kitchen at the far end of the room.
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