‘Never mind how I know, Maman,’ Hélène almost shouted, ‘I know.’
She was not yet ready to admit that she had been to the village alone to see Annette. If she hoped to do it again it was better that no one knew about that.
Still, the angry words poured out of her. ‘She was my friend. She’s lost her husband and now she’s lost her baby, and you sent her away. You didn’t even let her stay here with Madame Sauze. She needed our help, but you sent her away, and now she might die too, and it’s all your fault!’
Rosalie’s face hardened. ‘I won’t be spoken to like that, miss,’ she said harshly. ‘You may go to your room and stay there until I come to speak to you. Do you understand?’
The habit of obedience made Hélène turn to the door, but she paused with her hand on the handle and said, ‘I understand, Mother. You’ve made yourself very clear!’ Then she raised her chin and left the room, closing the door gently behind her.
For a moment Rosalie stared at the closed door and then she sank down onto a chair, suddenly exhausted. How could Hélène have discovered that the baby had been born here, upstairs? Only one person could have told her, and with sudden anger Rosalie got to her feet and rang the bell for Madame Sauze.
When the housekeeper came in answer to its summons, her mistress was standing in the middle of the room, her face a mask of anger.
‘You rang, madame?’
‘Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t send you packing,’ came the ice-cold reply. ‘How dare you speak to my daughter about that cheap maid, Annette? I told you right from the outset that if ever you broke your word to me, your given word, you would be out of the house within the hour. So, Madame Agathe Sauze, what have you to say for yourself, eh? Why should I not dismiss you here and now?’
Agathe, surprised at this sudden and unjustified onslaught, spoke calmly. ‘Because I have not broken my word, madame.’
‘You must have done. Hélène knows not only that the baby was born here, but that it was stillborn. Only you could have told her.’
‘But I did not,’ Agathe said steadily. ‘Miss Hélène saw Annette being taken to the village in the waggon early next morning, and when she came to ask me what was happening I referred her to you.’
Rosalie coloured. For the moment she had forgotten the conversation she had had with her daughter the morning of the ball. She had answered that Annette was being moved to the home of the midwife. But she had given no indication that the child had been stillborn, or that it had been born at all. She had been determined that the celebrations of Clarice’s wedding should not be overshadowed by the private tragedy of one of her servants.
‘As you instructed, madame,’ went on Agathe, ‘every care was taken that no one should suspect that the child had already been born when Annette left the house. The only other person who knew apart from the midwife was Madame Paquet, who, understanding your wishes in the matter, I am certain will not have spoken of it to Miss Hélène.’
For a moment Rosalie did not respond; she stood, her expression fixed, her hands clasped together in front of her, gripping each other as if she were trying to control them.
The silence extended between them and eventually Agathe broke it, saying, ‘However, madame, if you no longer accept my word, I shall pack my things and leave your employ today.’
‘No, no,’ Rosalie said testily. ‘There is no need for that. But how did she find out, Agathe? Who knows, and who told Hélène?’
Accepting that this was as near to an apology as she was going to get, Agathe shook her head. ‘I don’t know, madame. You will have to ask her.’
‘I shall,’ said Rosalie. ‘She is in her room, where she will remain for the rest of the day. Perhaps you could arrange for a tray to be taken up to her later.’
‘Yes, madame.’ Agathe’s voice was that of the perfect servant. ‘If that is all?’
‘It is for now,’ Rosalie replied, and then almost as an afterthought she asked, ‘How is Annette?’
‘Very weak, madame, and very low in spirits. Madame Leclerc fears for her sanity, if not her life.’
‘I see. I am sorry to hear it. Please feel free to go and visit her when your work allows and let me know how she goes on.’
‘Thank you, madame. I will.’ With that, Madame Sauze went back to the kitchen, leaving Rosalie with the unpleasant feeling that somehow she herself had been found wanting.
Alone again, Rosalie sat for a long time considering what she should do next. Clarice’s wedding was over; the risk of blighting it with the death of a baby was past. The newly married couple had now departed on their wedding trip to Venice, and life should be returning to normal. But before that could happen she needed to speak to her daughter. Though Hélène had had peculiar freedoms as a child caught up in the siege, she was no longer a child and must learn her place in society, and that place did not include friendship with a girl of the streets brought up in an orphanage.
Half an hour later Rosalie tapped on Hélène’s door, the first sign that she was treating her as an adult; until now she would have entered her daughter’s room unannounced. When there was no reply she knocked again and then tried the door handle. To her astonishment she found the door was locked. Rosalie knocked a third time, calling out as she did so, ‘Hélène, are you there? Open the door.’ For a moment there was still no response; then she heard the scrape of the key turning in the lock and the door opened a crack.
‘What d’you want?’ Hélène’s voice was stony.
‘Hélène? Don’t be silly. Let me in. We need to talk.’
‘What about?’
Rosalie had never heard her daughter use that tone of voice and she took a deep breath before, keeping her own voice calm, she said, ‘About Annette and what we can do to help her.’
The door swung open and Hélène moved away towards the window, leaving her mother to enter if she chose.
Rosalie saw her standing, watching, and noticed at once that she had washed her tear-stained face and bathed her reddened eyes. She still looked pale, but she seemed entirely in command of herself.
‘Let’s sit down,’ Rosalie said and, pulling out a chair, did so. With a sigh, Hélène sat down on her window seat, her back to the light, her face partially shadowed.
‘Hélène, darling, I realise you’re very upset about Annette,’ Rosalie began, ‘but sometimes babies do die before they’re born.’
‘You didn’t tell me,’ Hélène said mutinously. ‘You told me she was going to have the baby at the midwife’s.’
‘I didn’t want to upset you,’ replied her mother. ‘It was a special day, a special day for all of us, but most of all Clarice. It was her special day. Can’t you see that?’
Hélène relaxed a little and sighed. ‘Maybe,’ she conceded. ‘But you could have told me afterwards.’
‘This is afterwards,’ said Rosalie. ‘I’m telling you now.’ She fixed her eyes on Hélène’s face and added, ‘Who did tell you, anyway?’
‘Annette.’
‘Annette?’ echoed Rosalie. ‘When? I mean, how could she have?’
‘I went to see her,’ answered Hélène. ‘I wanted to see the baby.’
‘You went to see her? In the village? How did you…? I mean, where did you…?’
‘Everyone in the village knows where Madame Leclerc lives,’ Hélène said truculently. ‘She isn’t hard to find. You said that was where Annette had gone, so I went to see her.’
Rosalie could hardly believe what she was hearing. ‘You just went there and knocked on the door?’
‘Of course,’ said Hélène. ‘Madame Leclerc was very pleased to see me. She said Annette was feeling very low and needed to see a friendly face. I went up to her room. She was still in bed, just lying there. She hardly knew I was there. Madame Leclerc says she’s been like that ever since she realised Léon was dead. She’s afraid that Annette will die too.’
‘Léon?’
‘The baby, Maman. The baby was called Léon.’
/> ‘Hmm.’ Rosalie couldn’t see the point of giving a name to a stillborn baby. She certainly had not done so to the one she’d lost between her second son, Marcel, and Clarice. She had mourned him privately but had never mentioned him again. ‘Well, you should have asked me if you might go and see her,’ Rosalie said, ‘instead of just taking yourself off without a word to anyone.’
‘You’d have said no,’ Hélène answered.
‘And I shall say no again,’ said her mother.
‘Well, I shall visit her again.’ Hélène spoke without emphasis, simply stating a fact. ‘I promised her I would.’
‘But Hélène, darling, it’s not fitting for you to go into the village entirely on your own, without a maid or someone to attend you. I don’t know what your father would say.’
‘I’m sure Madame Sauze will be going,’ replied Hélène. ‘I shall go with her. Or Pierre can drive me in the chaise, that would be perfectly proper.’
Her mother sighed. ‘You can be very obstinate at times,’ she said.
For the first time there was the trace of a smile on Hélène’s face and she said, ‘I think I take after Papa.’
‘Hélène!’ exclaimed her mother. ‘You should not say such things!’
But it was true, Rosalie acknowledged to herself when she thought back on the conversation later that evening. Emile had a very stubborn streak.
In an effort to change the subject, Rosalie said, ‘Georges and Sylvie have to return to Versailles in a few days’ time. I thought perhaps we might have a small farewell dinner for them before they go. Just the family and a few good friends.’ She looked enquiringly at Hélène, hoping to give her thoughts a more cheerful turn. ‘What about Simon Barnier? Shall I ask him? He would like to be included, don’t you think? And Lucie, if her parents will allow? And what about Lucas’s English friend, Monsieur Chalfont? He seems a charming young man; I know Georges thinks well of him. We could ask him too, as he’s alone in the area.’
Hélène had been about to admit that she did not particularly like Simon Barnier and would prefer he was not invited, but when she heard Rupert Chalfont’s name added to the list, she said, ‘That sounds a lovely party, Maman.’
‘Good, I will send them all cards. And tomorrow, if Madame Sauze is going to visit Annette at a suitable time, you may go with her.’
Reconciliation made, Rosalie kissed her daughter on the cheek and went to change for dinner.
Hélène sat back onto the window seat. From the pocket of her dress she pulled out two damp linen handkerchiefs. They would need to be laundered, she supposed, and returned to their owner.
*
Their owner had walked back to Le Coq d’Argent, his mind busy with all he had heard that afternoon. Rupert had been alone with Hélène for only twenty minutes and yet that twenty minutes had changed everything. He had seen her in tears and listened as she poured out her heart to him, seemingly unaware of the impropriety of the situation, and in that time, sitting together on her cloak on the grass, they had become closer than several weeks of normal courtship could have brought them. She had spoken to him with no self-consciousness or artifice; she had simply said what was in her heart at the time and so had, unconsciously, revealed herself to him.
There was also the meeting with Simon Barnier. This was far more worrying. He had already heard from Louis Barrineau that Simon had wanted Clarice St Clair as his wife and was likely to transfer his attentions to Hélène, but he had not believed that Simon had any real claims upon her. Now, however, he might have to think again. Did Simon simply want her for the dowry that came with her? That might be another problem for Rupert himself – people could well believe that he was a fortune hunter, courting Hélène for her money.
By the time he had reached the inn, he had come to a decision. If he received the promised invitation to dine at Belair he would accept it, and after that, as someone who had been a guest in his house, he would go to Emile St Clair and ask permission to address his daughter. It would all be out in the open. There would be no secret assignations, no secret letters or messages, all of which had tended to be part of his flirtations up until now, because, he was clear in his own head, this would be no flirtation, it would be a serious proposal of marriage. Yes, he was a younger son, there would be no title, no large estate, but Rupert wasn’t entirely without money, and the name he would be offering was that of a landed family of ancient lineage. Surely, a professional man such as Emile St Clair would consider that heritage acceptable, particularly if Hélène clearly wanted the match herself – but therein lay the question: would she? It was up to him to ensure that she did.
Rupert realised that he must move swiftly to make his claim, for if he were Simon Barnier, he would be losing no time in approaching Hélène’s father. He wished there were some way that he could reach Hélène’s heart, but until they could meet socially there would be little he could do.
When he reached his chamber he crossed to the window again and looked down into the lane. The sun was lower in the sky now and much of the street was in shadow, but a single shaft of sunlight probed between the tall chimneys of Le Coq d’Argent and directed itself onto the green-painted door of the house Hélène had visited. As he stared at it, it seemed to shine like a beacon in the shadowy lane, pointing the way forward.
Could he go there? he wondered. Could he, a complete stranger, simply knock on the front door and ask how the poor distressed mother did? What was her name? Annette, that was it, Annette. What reason could he give to the woman who lived there? Could he say he came from Annette’s friend to ask how she did, or if she were in need of anything? Medicine? Special foods to tempt an invalid? Surely they would send him packing. No gentleman would even consider visiting a woman he had never met as she languished in her bed. Perhaps he could keep watch for when Hélène made a return visit and meet her once again quite casually in the village. No! He had already decided that there must be no deception in his suit. If her family thought he had been lying in wait to catch her on her own, that would be the end of any chance for him. He must, as his old nanny used to say, possess his soul in patience.
Chapter 20
The next afternoon Pierre the coachman drove Hélène and Agathe into the village so that they could visit Annette. The lane was too narrow for the chaise, so he left it in the inn yard and accompanied the two ladies on foot to the house with the green door, carrying the small bag of Annette’s clothes and other necessaries Madame Sauze had brought with her. Madame Leclerc opened the door and, taking the bag, Madame Sauze stepped forward to enter. On the threshold Hélène turned back and said, ‘Just wait for us at the inn, Pierre. We’ll come and find you when we’re ready to go home.’
‘Yes, Miss Hélène,’ replied Pierre, thinking as he did so how much she had changed in the last few days. Gone was the girl he had known nearly all her life, always getting in and out of scrapes but daring and brave, and in her place was a young woman, giving orders with the calm confidence of her mother.
A far cry from the little girl who had thrown cabbages at the Prussian soldiers when they had paraded through the streets of Paris, he thought now. It won’t be long before she’s married and running her own household, and what will happen to poor Annette then?
In the few weeks that she had been at Belair, Pierre had grown fond of the new maid, the strange girl who had arrived so unexpectedly. He didn’t know if she was actually a widow, but he didn’t really mind one way or the other. What he did know was that she was a woman adrift, having to make her own way in the world, and he had come to admire her courage.
When she had been brought downstairs on that dreadful morning, he had put his arms round her and lifted her gently onto the waggon. He had felt the warmth of her body against his. She felt small and frail in his arms. He suddenly felt protective and found himself reluctant to set her down. He had looked into her face and seen it white with pain and exhaustion and he’d wanted to hold her to him, to comfort her and say everything would be all ri
ght.
It wasn’t all right, of course, but at the time Pierre had not known that it was all too late. The midwife had clambered up beside her, and she had been carrying a small bundle in her arms. At the time he had assumed it was necessaries belonging to Annette, but he was sure now that it must have been the tiny body of the baby. He had heard nothing since, except that the baby had been stillborn. Since then, for the first time in his thirty-five years, he’d begun wondering if it was time to think of getting married and settling down. He longed to know how Annette was, wished he could go to see her, but knew that was impossible. The intrusion of a man into her sorrow was the last thing she would want. However, he decided he could ask Miss Hélène how she was faring on the way home today; nothing could be more natural.
As Pierre was waiting with the chaise, Hélène and Agathe were taken upstairs to Annette’s room. She was out of bed now, sitting in a chair, wrapped in a blanket. She looked up as the door opened, expecting it to be Estelle Leclerc. When she saw the two women she gave the ghost of a smile.
Agathe stepped forward and, setting aside the bag of clothes, grasped Annette’s hands. ‘Are you feeling a little better, child?’ she asked gently. ‘Here’s Miss Hélène come to see you again as well.’
Estelle had followed them into the room, but knowing they would want to be left alone, she said, ‘I made some fresh lemonade this morning, Annette. Shall I go and fetch it? I’m sure your friends would like some refreshment on such a hot day.’
‘That would be most welcome,’ Agathe agreed. ‘Perhaps I could come and help you with the tray.’ So saying, she followed Estelle out of the room, leaving Annette and Hélène alone together.
‘They’ve put my Léon in the ground,’ Annette said bleakly. ‘They wouldn’t let me see him. They took him away and put him in the ground.’
Hélène reached for her friend’s hands and, when she found that despite the heat of the day they were icy cold, gently chafed them between her own. She had not given any thought to what must have become of the infant corpse, but now she realised he must have had to be buried, and quickly, due to the summer heat.
The French Wife Page 16
