The French Wife

by Diney Costeloe

  He saw the bridal pair at the far end of the room, Clarice’s hand still delicately resting on Lucas’s arm as he showed off his bride to all their guests. Monsieur St Clair had left the bridal table and was standing with a group of gentlemen, chatting, but Rosalie St Clair remained at the table, seated with the bridesmaids and Lucas’s young sister Lucie. She was almost holding court, Rupert thought as various other women came over to her and congratulated her on the marriage of her daughter. Even as he watched, Rupert saw Lucie Barrineau murmur something to the younger bridesmaid, who turned to her mother, and having received a nod in reply, the two young girls slipped away from the table.

  Hélène watched them go and felt herself very much alone. I’m neither fish nor fowl, she thought. Not quite a child to be let away from the table to amuse myself somewhere else, not quite an adult, allowed to mingle in the room and admitted to the general adult conversation. She didn’t actually mind that; most of what they all talked about she found dull. She looked round the room and saw that though there was no withdrawing room for the ladies, most of the men seemed to have withdrawn themselves to the far end of the pavilion, their laughter loud, their talk unheard by the women who remained seated at the tables.

  Then she saw someone standing just inside the entrance from the garden, watching her. It was his stillness and solitude amidst the hum that had attracted her attention, and she realised that it was the man she’d met in the hallway before the meal, Lucas’s English friend. What was his name? Rupert Chalfont? Yes, that was it, and his eyes were fixed on her. She felt the colour rise in her cheeks and glanced away, leaning towards the lady on her left, apparently exhibiting great interest in what she was saying.

  Rupert had seen her blush. He had also seen the two younger girls leave the table. Perhaps she might be allowed to do so too.

  Well, Rupert thought, nothing ventured! As he began to cross the room he saw Suzanne Barrineau return to the table and wished he had approached before she had come back. Still, he could hardly turn away again now; Madame St Clair had seen him walking towards them and there was nothing to do but brazen it out. He was surprised therefore when Suzanne said, ‘My dear Rosalie, I don’t think you’ve met Lucas’s English friend, and I am sure he hasn’t been introduced to Hélène.’

  Rosalie looked up and, seeing Rupert at her side, said, ‘Of course we have met, Suzanne. I welcomed Monsieur Chalfont on our return from church. However, I don’t think you have been introduced to my daughter, Hélène.’

  Rupert executed a small bow and, raised Hélène’s extended hand to his lips as he had earlier.

  ‘Enchanté, mademoiselle,’ he said, the ghost of a twinkle in his eye.

  ‘How do you do, monsieur,’ Hélène responded, lowering her eyes with becoming modesty and with no hint that this was not their first encounter.

  Rupert smiled as he released her hand, knowing this small secret was something they shared.

  ‘It was kind of you to take my mother-in-law out to her carriage,’ Suzanne was saying. ‘I’m sure she was exhausted with the excitement of the day. I hope she was not a difficult dinner partner.’ She added with a gay little laugh as she turned to Rosalie, ‘So difficult for Monsieur Chalfont, knowing no one but Lucas!’

  ‘Certainly not, madame,’ replied Rupert, thinking how uncharitable his hostess was about her mother-in-law. ‘She was most entertaining.’

  Rosalie gave him a quick smile of appreciation and then said, ‘Hélène, chérie, you’re looking hot, why don’t you take a turn outside in the garden? I’m sure Monsieur Chalfont will be happy to escort you. I believe that Georges and Sylvie have already gone out to take the air. You may introduce Monsieur Chalfont to them.’

  Hélène felt her cheeks grow red. She could hardly believe her mother was encouraging her to go into the garden with a man she’d only just met. Still, there could be no impropriety in it if she took him out to meet her brother and sister-in-law. She got up from her chair and accepted the arm that Rupert offered. Together they walked away and out into the garden.

  Suzanne watched them go with satisfaction. At least he was nowhere near her beloved Lucie, and very soon, after the ball tomorrow night, he would depart and the danger would be over.

  Rosalie also watched them leave the pavilion. ‘He seems a charming young man,’ she remarked. ‘Has Lucas known him long?’

  ‘He met him on a recent visit to London, ’ replied Suzanne. ‘He’s the son of a baronet.’ However, she didn’t feel it was necessary to mention that he was only a younger son. After all, as he would be gone in a couple of days, that was of no consequence.

  When they emerged from the pavilion into the cool of the evening, Hélène saw Georges and his wife, sitting in an arbour that overlooked the rose garden.

  ‘I must introduce you to my brother,’ Hélène said. It was the first time she had spoken since they had left her mother and Madame Barrineau at the table.

  Must you? Must you really? Rupert didn’t speak the words, though they were fighting to be said; he simply allowed her to lead him over to the couple seated in the arbour. He had seen them in the church and had seen the two small attendants being passed back to them once their train-carrying duties were over. He had noticed outside the church that the man had a decided limp and walked with a cane.

  As they approached, Georges stood up to greet them and Hélène made the introductions. Rupert smiled and very soon they were all four seated in the arbour, the conversation flowing easily enough.

  Better to have them here too, Rupert thought. It saves any embarrassment, and they’ll have to get used to me!

  As dusk turned to darkness, a small breeze blew up and Sylvie shivered. ‘I think I’d like to go back into the pavilion now, Georges,’ she said. ‘It won’t be long before Clarice and Lucas leave, will it?’

  ‘Well, at least they haven’t far to go,’ Georges reminded her.

  ‘They’re moving into the west wing of Montmichel until they find a suitable house of their own,’ Sylvie told Rupert.

  Rupert already knew this, but he said, ‘How convenient it must be that the family has enough space to accommodate them.’

  ‘Yes, for a short while,’ Sylvie agreed cautiously. ‘But there’s nothing like your own home, is there, Georges?’

  ‘Even if it is officers’ quarters?’ teased her husband.

  ‘Even if,’ Sylvie responded firmly as together they made their way across the lawn to the lights of the pavilion.

  Hélène watched them go before she said, ‘We should go too, monsieur.’

  ‘Are you cold as well?’ Rupert asked, longing to put a protective arm about her shoulders, but knowing it was far too soon.

  ‘I think I’d like to fetch a shawl,’ Hélène replied. ‘It will be cold when we see Clarice and Lucas into their carriage.’ There was still a scattering of people in the garden, but everyone knew that the day was drawing to a close.

  They walked into the house and Rupert waited in the candlelit hallway while Hélène ran up the stairs to find a wrap. When she came back downstairs, they were about to return to the pavilion when the door from the servants’ quarters opened and an elderly woman hurried through. She came to an abrupt halt as she saw the couple standing in the hall.

  ‘Madame Sauze?’ Hélène looked at her in surprise. ‘Is there anything wrong?’

  ‘No, no, Miss Hélène, but I need to speak with your mother.’

  ‘She’s in the pavilion,’ replied Hélène. ‘Can I give her a message?’

  ‘No, no, it’s not that important. I will speak with her later, when her guests have gone.’ And with that she hurriedly withdrew through the door, which closed softly behind her.

  ‘Who was that?’ Rupert asked.

  ‘It’s Madame Sauze, the housekeeper.’ She paused and then added, ‘She seemed worried, didn’t she?’

  ‘A little agitated,’ agreed Rupert.

  ‘Yes, that’s what I thought. It’s probably nothing, but we should return to the pavi
lion and I’ll mention it to Maman.’

  As they turned to go through to the garden, she rested her hand on his sleeve, smiling up at him confidingly, and Rupert had to catch his breath and fight the urge to pull her into his arms.

  Chapter 15

  It was the end of a long day and in the Belair kitchen there was a general feeling of relief; at last they could begin to relax. Miss Clarice’s wedding day was almost over and all had been well.

  There had been a hectic two hours while the meal was being served, when everyone in the kitchen was at full stretch, but there had been no hitches. Clarice and Lucas’s wedding feast had proceeded exactly according to plan. Didier, dignified as always, had presided in the pavilion and had no problem instructing the waiters hired in for the day. In the kitchen Monsieur Antoine had worked his magic and the exceptional dishes prepared under his eagle eye had been sent out to the guests with smooth efficiency.

  Now the tables had been cleared, the remnants of the food were in the cool of the pantry and the piles of dirty plates were stacked up in the scullery to be washed later. Food had been sent out to the visiting coachmen, who waited patiently for the carriages they drove to be summoned, but the household staff were called to eat in the kitchen and there was a welcome respite as everyone sat down at the table.

  Leaving nothing to chance, Didier was still busy within the pavilion, making sure that the gentlemen were not short of wine, or following the meal, a cognac or a glass of port; that the ladies, still seated, were supplied with dishes of sweetmeats and their glasses were topped up with cordial or sweet wine.

  Madame Sauze took her place at the foot of the kitchen table and began to serve out the food. She sat in Madame Choux’s habitual chair, leaving Didier’s, at the head of the table, ready for his return. She looked round the gathered servants, and having said a brief grace, she began ladling chicken onto a plate.

  ‘Lizette, child, take this to Madame Choux in her parlour.’

  Lizette paled at the idea of going into Madame Choux’s private room, and taking pity on her, Annette got to her feet.

  ‘I’ll take it, madame,’ she said, and as she picked up the tray she was rewarded by a look of profound relief on Lizette’s face. The young maid, unused to kindness, was finding life more comfortable since Madame Choux had taken to her parlour.

  It was as Annette came back to the table that it happened. Her back had been aching most of the day, but now she suffered a sudden stab of pain, so sharp and unexpected that she had to catch hold of the table to steady herself; for a long moment she couldn’t move as she fought the pain and then it was gone, leaving her breathless.

  Agathe looked anxiously across at her. ‘Annette! Are you all right?’

  ‘Yes, aunt,’ she replied shakily. ‘Just a little pain in my back.’ She sank down onto her chair and then realised in horror that her skirt was soaking as water was seeping out between her legs. Colour flooded her cheeks in humiliation. Surely she had not wet herself, here in front of everyone! Those about the table suddenly fell silent as, with a low moan, Annette grabbed her damp skirts and fled from the room.

  Ella, a girl who’d come in from the village, giggled, breaking the silence. ‘Annette’s pissed herself, she has! There’s a puddle on the floor!’

  Agathe turned on the girl, furious, and snapped, ‘Don’t be ridiculous! She’s expecting a baby. That’s a sign it’s about to be born.’ She got to her feet. ‘I’m going to find her; and you, Ella,’ she retorted, ‘can mop the floor. Now!’

  As she followed Annette out into the passageway, she heard an excited burst of conversation in the room behind her.

  It’s the worst possible time for this to happen, she thought as she took the back stairs up to their bedroom. On Clarice’s wedding day of all days, when the house is full of strangers and everyone’s at full stretch.

  Due to Father Thomas’s systematic abuse, they did not know exactly when the baby was due, but judging from Annette’s size Agathe had guessed there were a few more weeks to go. She had thought there would be plenty of warning when Annette went into labour and they had planned she should be safely in the home of the Madame Leclerc for her lying-in and the birth. But now Agathe was at a loss. Now her waters had broken the birth seemed imminent. Poor child! They should get her conveyed to Madame Leclerc’s at once, but how?

  She hurried up the stairs and, on opening the bedroom door, found Annette sitting, pale-faced but dry-eyed, on the side of the bed.

  ‘Annette!’ she cried. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘I’ve wet myself,’ Annette replied bleakly. ‘In front of the whole room!’

  ‘No, you haven’t,’ said Agathe, going over to sit beside her and taking her hands. ‘Your waters have broken. It’s a sign that the baby is coming. Are you having pains?’

  ‘No. Yes. Well, some backache, it comes and goes, but that’s from carrying those heavy buckets this morning.’

  ‘No, Annette, it’s not. I think you’re in labour.’

  As she spoke Annette was gripped by a sudden pain, making her gasp and grip Agathe’s hands so tightly that it hurt. After a few moments she relaxed again.

  ‘Your baby is on its way,’ Agathe said gently. ‘Very soon you will be a mother… something I’ve never been.’

  ‘You’ve been like a mother to me,’ responded Annette softly.

  Agathe knew a moment’s warmth at the girl’s words, and then she was all practicalities.

  ‘We should prepare for the little one’s arrival,’ she said. ‘I think it’s too late and too difficult to get you to Madame Leclerc’s now. Lie back on your bed while I send Pierre to fetch her here.’

  As she got downstairs Adèle Paquet came out of the kitchen. The cook caught her hand and asked, ‘Annette! What’s happening? Is she going to be all right?’

  ‘She’s gone into labour,’ replied Agathe. ‘We need to send for Madame Leclerc.’

  ‘But will she come?’

  ‘She has to.’ There was panic in Agathe’s voice. ‘Who else can deliver the baby? I’m going to find Madame and ask if Pierre may fetch her from the village. Will you go and sit with Annette, Adèle? Tell her I’ll be back in just a minute.’

  The cook immediately started up the stairs and Agathe hurried out into the hallway in search of Madame St Clair, and there she found Hélène, standing talking to a gentleman she didn’t recognise. Even as she explained that she needed to speak to her mistress, Agathe realised what she was doing. How on earth could she interrupt Madame at her daughter’s wedding? She, Agathe, was in charge of the household servants. It was up to her to decide what they should do.

  Leaving Hélène and the young man staring after her, she hurried back to the kitchen, where most of the servants were still gathered, and an expectant silence fell as she appeared.

  ‘Annette’s baby’s about to be born,’ she told them. ‘I’m sending Pierre for the midwife.’

  She hurried out into the yard, where she found Pierre sitting on a bench outside the stables, having a last smoke before he turned in for the night.

  ‘Pierre,’ she cried when she saw him, ‘I need your help. Annette’s gone into labour. I need you to go to the village and fetch the midwife. Madame Leclerc.’

  ‘Madame Leclerc? Where will I find her?’

  ‘She lives in the lane behind Le Coq d’Argent. Anyone will direct you. Hurry, Pierre, before it’s too late.’

  ‘Too late? Can’t you—’ began Pierre.

  ‘I can’t deliver a baby, Pierre,’ Agathe said, a break in her voice. ‘We have to get help… now. Please, there’s no time to waste.’

  Pierre got to his feet. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘I’ll take Magic and cut across the fields. He’s quite strong enough to carry both of us back. Tell Annette I’ve gone for help.’

  Agathe clasped his hand. ‘Thank you, Pierre.’

  ‘Though what the master will say when he hears I’ve been gallivanting off into the night on one of his horses without a word or a by-your-leav
e, I don’t know.’ He grinned down at her. ‘Still,’ he said, ‘we’ll worry about that when the time comes.’

  Moments later he was clattering out of the yard on Magic, heading into the night in search of the midwife. He didn’t mind going. He’d quite taken to Annette. She was a pretty little thing, and though he didn’t for one moment believe the story of the dead husband, he thought her brave the way she coped with her situation, for whichever way you looked at it the baby had no father and she was going to have to manage on her own.

  Agathe returned indoors knowing she had done all she could with regard to the midwife. She hurried up the stairs to the bedroom, where she found the cook had managed to get Annette into her nightdress and into her bed.

  The look of relief on Annette’s face when she came in through the door was heart-rending.

  She’s relying on us to see her through, Agathe thought in panic. How are we going to cope if Madame Leclerc doesn’t get here in time?

  She pasted a smile onto her face and said, ‘How are you feeling, Annette? Pierre’s on his way to fetch Madame Leclerc. He’s taken a horse and they’ll be back as soon as they can.’

  At that moment Annette was overtaken by another sharp contraction and couldn’t suppress a cry of pain. Agathe was at her side at once, grasping her hand as she fought the griping in her belly.