The French Wife

by Diney Costeloe

  *

  It was Fran who found him. She came from the house carrying a basket containing a bottle of cold tea and some of the scones Mrs Darwin had made that morning.

  ‘You and Mr Justin can have a lovely picnic by the river,’ the cook had said with a smile. ‘It’s a beautiful afternoon now the rain’s stopped. Shall you take a blanket to sit on, Miss Fran? Just in case the ground’s still damp?’

  Fran thought this was a good idea and went back upstairs to find one. Carrying the basket, she draped the blanket round her shoulders and set off along the footpath. When she reached the river, she soon saw where Justin had been fishing. His fishing box containing reels, flies and extra line was on the bank, his landing net lying on the shingle beach, but there was no sign of Justin.

  He must have moved along the river, she thought, but he can’t have gone far without all his fishing kit. At first she walked a little way upstream to where the river straightened out, running through the water meadows. From this vantage point she could see for two or three hundred yards, but the banks were deserted, with no sign of a fisherman. She turned back, and leaving the picnic basket and the blanket beside Justin’s things, she began to walk the other way. It was only a couple of hundred yards before she heard the sound of the water plunging over the weir. Suddenly alarmed, she hurried forwards, calling Justin’s name as she went. Beyond the pool, she realised there was nowhere he could stand and fish. With dread in her heart she hurried along the bank until she was standing on a little promontory above the weir. For a moment she watched the relentless flow of the river, seeing nothing but the swirl of the water as it flung itself in a cloud of spray over the ledges. She was about to turn back, thinking he must have gone the other way after all, when she caught sight of something, floating in a pool of calmer water beyond the weir, beneath the branches of a weeping willow.

  With a cry of anguish, she jumped down and followed the bank round to the tree.

  Surely, she thought, it must be some sort of debris brought down by the storm, but as she approached the edge of the pool she saw that her worst fears had been realised.

  Justin lay face down in the water, out of the current now, bobbing gently against the bank.

  ‘Justin! No! Oh, no!’ Frances’s frantic cries echoed into the empty air. There was no one to hear, no one to help. No one to pull him out just in case he might still be alive. With no thought for her own safety, Fran scrambled down the sloping river bank and lowered herself into the water. She found she could stand, though her feet sank into the mud on the river bed. She ignored her sinking feet and moved forward to catch hold of Justin and pull him towards her. He was incredibly heavy, she could hardly move him, though he was still floating, half-submerged. With superhuman effort she managed to drag him towards the bank, but as she pulled, his face turned in the water, pale with eyes that stared and hair that drifted like water weed about his head. It was then that she knew for certain that she was too late – that there was nothing she, or anyone else, could do for him. Her beloved brother was dead. For a moment she stood waist deep in the muddy water, sobbing, with no idea of what to do. It was, she knew, impossible for her to pull Justin completely clear of the river, but she felt she must get him out of the water. Suppose he drifted away while she went for help? But waterlogged as he was, he was too heavy. She even had difficulty getting back onto dry land herself. For a long moment she scrabbled with her feet against the river bank, but at last she managed to grasp hold of a small bush and pull herself free of the muddy water. As she crawled up the bank, she looked back at Justin’s body bobbing gently again at the edge of the pool and felt herself in the grip of despair. Then at last she had an idea. The dress she was wearing was an old one, a cotton dress for summer… with a belt tied loosely about her waist. Quickly she untied it and pulled it free. Making a slip knot, she lay down on her stomach and reached for Justin’s hand, which was floating, strangely pale, almost disembodied, close to the bank. Looping the belt over fingers that moved with the movement of the water, she pulled the slip knot tight about his wrist. It was still no use trying to pull him from the water, but she tied the other end of the belt round the bush on the bank, knotting it firmly so it wouldn’t pull free. Now at least when she fetched help, they would know where to find him.

  Dripping wet and covered in mud, Fran scrambled along the river bank until she came to the footpath that would take her home. She was exhausted, unable to run, but she stumbled along as fast as she could. The first person she saw as she entered the yard was Fortune, her father’s coachman.

  ‘Why, Miss Frances,’ he cried in alarm as he took in her wet and muddy clothes and her tear-streaked face. ‘What on earth has happened to you?’

  ‘Justin!’ she croaked. ‘Justin! He’s in the river. By the weir.’ And with that she gave in to her weakness and collapsed at Fortune’s feet.

  After that everything moved very quickly. Sir Philip was called, and immediately Fortune reported what Miss Frances had said before she fainted, a search party was despatched to the river.

  They had no idea of what they were going to find. Frances had collapsed without telling them whether Justin was still alive, but they went equipped with a strong rope and a blanket, ready to haul him to safety.

  They found him as Fran had left him, tethered to the small bush on the bank but still floating with his face in the water, his hair a dark halo about his head. There was nothing they could do for him but draw him in to the bank and lift him out of the water. It took four men to drag him ashore. The water streamed from his clothes, draining out of the waders that had drowned him.

  It was a sad procession that trailed back towards the house, Fortune and Sir Philip’s man, Scott, carrying Justin, wrapped in the blanket, while Jack the stable lad and Harris, Justin’s valet, carried the things that Justin and Frances had left on the shingle beach.

  When they reached the house they laid Justin upon his bed. Lady Chalfont was at Frances’s bedside, but when she heard the men come in, she left her daughter, now dozy from a dose of laudanum, and hurried down to be with Justin. The moment she saw him lying inert on the bed, she knew her son was dead and gave a cry of despair. Sir Philip was already at his side, standing looking down at the pale face with the bruise at the temple, his own face a mask of anguish. After a moment he turned away, and as he walked out of the room he said, ‘Send for Rupert.’

  Chapter 25

  Rupert spent the next month at Le Coq d’Argent. He had come to terms with the landlord and negotiated a special rate for his room and board. Joseph Fermont was pleased to be able to say that he had an ‘English milor’ making an extended stay at his inn. It could only be good for business, but though he was indeed staying, he seldom ate more than his breakfast at Le Coq.

  Once the St Clairs had accepted him as a frequent visitor to their home, he was often made one of the party at dinner or included in family picnics taken by the river or beneath the trees in the nearby woodland. He was allowed to drive Hélène about the countryside in the chaise he had hired from the stables in town, with Annette sitting quietly in the seat beside her, a silent chaperone.

  It was as they were walking in the Place in St Etienne, looking at the market stalls one afternoon, that they encountered Simon Barnier. Annette was still in close attendance, but at first Simon did not see her, perhaps did not realise that she was anything to do with the couple, who were looking at some lace being displayed to them by an old woman who brought her work to the market once a week.

  ‘It’s beautiful,’ Hélène was saying, ‘and just what I need to trim my new tea gown.’ She carried a small purse and was reaching for this from her reticule when Rupert said, ‘Allow me,’ and handed the woman the few coins she asked for the lace.

  Simon Barnier, who had seen them across the square, stared in amazement as the damned Englishman took the lace and handed it to Hélène with a smile and a slight bow. Hélène put a hand on his arm and was thanking him when Simon could bear it no more. He c
rossed the street and approached as if he had only just seen them.

  ‘Mademoiselle Hélène,’ he said, ignoring Rupert and greeting her with a bow. ‘Good day to you. I trust you are well.’

  ‘Yes, indeed, m’sieur,’ Hélène replied with the slightest of curtsies. ‘I thank you.’

  ‘It is such a hot day, I’m surprised to see you out and about. I was about to take a glass of lemonade at Le Coq d’Argent; if you would care to join me, I would be delighted to escort you.’

  ‘Thank you, m’sieur, but as you see I already have an escort’ – she indicated Rupert, who was standing at her side – ‘and we have just now taken a glass of lemonade.’

  ‘I beg your pardon, Mademoiselle Hélène.’ Simon still ignored Rupert. ‘I assumed you were attended by your maid and had only stopped to pass the time of day with Monsieur Chalford.’

  Rupert made no effort to join in the conversation. It seemed to him that Hélène was managing very well on her own.

  ‘Monsieur Chalfont and I are about to return to Belair, monsieur.’ Hélène made no effort to correct Simon’s mispronunciation of Rupert’s name, deciding not to dignify the deliberate mistake with any attention. ‘So if you will excuse us.’ She held out her hand, which he had hardly touched with his own before she withdrew it to rest on Rupert’s arm. ‘It was a pleasure to meet you, m’sieur.’

  ‘Good day, m’sieur,’ said Rupert, with an inclination of his head, and together they walked away. Annette stepped forward to follow a discreet few metres behind them, but as she passed Simon Barnier, who stood stony-faced looking after them, he put out an arm to stop her.

  ‘You’re Mademoiselle St Clair’s maid?’

  Annette curtsied. ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And you always attend your mistress?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘I very much fear for her with that man.’ He glanced after the departing Rupert. ‘I think he is an adventurer after her money.’

  Annette made no reply, but her mind raced as he went on, ‘I would make it worth your while to keep an eye on them for me. The St Clairs are old friends of my family.’ He jingled some coins in his pocket. ‘It would be doing us all a service if you happened to find out anything about him. He is too free with her and we must guard her reputation, must we not?’

  ‘Indeed we must, m’sieur,’ agreed Annette. ‘I will keep careful watch.’

  Simon Barnier nodded his approval and, slipping a coin into her hand, turned away, allowing her to catch up with Hélène and Rupert without them having noticed that she had been waylaid.

  They took the path through the fields, and when they reached Belair they joined Rosalie, who, with a book in her hand, was reclining beneath the ancient apple tree that offered welcome shade. She looked up and smiled as they approached.

  ‘Hélène, my dear,’ she said. ‘Do come into the shade or you’ll burn and look like a peasant!’ She turned to Rupert. ‘Good afternoon, m’sieur. Pray do please take a seat and join me. Didier will be bringing some refreshment directly. Louise will be out in a moment, when Mademoiselle Corbine releases her. It really is too hot to remain indoors in the schoolroom, is it not?’

  Rupert agreed that it was and sat down as requested, listening as Hélène told her mother about the lace she had bought. It was hot, even here in the shade, and for a moment Rupert’s thoughts drifted away from the Belair garden as he pictured the spreading oak tree in his family’s garden in England. How often had his mother sat as Rosalie St Clair was sitting now, about to dispense cool drinks and cakes on a summer afternoon, the gentle drone of bees busy among the flowers a soft accompaniment to the heavy stillness of the day?

  Would Hélène be comfortable at Pilgrim’s Oak? he wondered. He was certain that she and Fran would get on well, that Fran would ensure her welcome whenever they visited, but it would not be their home. He had no idea where that might be, but he was quite happy to settle anywhere Hélène might choose – Paris, maybe, or London.

  His thoughts of the future were interrupted and he was drawn back to his immediate surroundings when Louise appeared from the house, running out into the sunshine, having finished her lessons for the day. He was surprised to see that she was accompanied by her governess, and when Louise flopped down into a chair with a sigh, Angèle Corbine, uninvited, also joined the group.

  Mademoiselle Corbine had been the girls’ governess ever since they had returned to Paris seven years earlier, and Rosalie was beginning to think that they had no further need of her services. Louise would be out of the schoolroom and launched into the world next summer, and there was little that Mademoiselle Corbine could teach her now that could not be learned from visiting tutors like the dancing master and the drawing master who already came to the house. In the last few months Rosalie had been aware of Mademoiselle Corbine in a way that she had not before, aware of her growing confidence of her place in the household. A governess was always in rather an equivocal position within an establishment – neither a servant nor one of the family – but recently Rosalie had realised that Angèle Corbine expected to be treated almost as an equal, and that Emile seemed quite comfortable with this state of affairs. It was, Rosalie decided as she listened to her speaking to Hélène, time for Mademoiselle Corbine to move on. She would speak to Emile about it when she could get him alone. He would understand, she thought now, and acquiesce. He had strayed before and she had always turned a blind eye, but his wandering had been discreet, not carried on under her own roof.

  Just then Didier appeared, carrying a tray, with glasses and a jug of lemonade and a plate of macaroon biscuits. He was followed by Lizette with cloth and plates to lay out on the table, and so Rosalie put these thoughts away to be considered later. Once the refreshments had been set out, Rosalie told Didier that they would help themselves.

  ‘Hélène, chérie,’ she said, ‘will you pour the lemonade, and perhaps Rupert will pass the glasses.’

  Rupert was happy enough to be thus called upon. It demonstrated to him that he was no longer considered a guest to be waited on, but one of the informal family group.

  It was as he picked up a glass of lemonade, and was carrying it over to Rosalie, that he was struck by a sudden shaft of pain in his head, making him stagger. He cried out, dropping the glass onto the ground, the lemonade spraying over his hostess’s skirt. For a moment he clutched his head in his hands and then the pain was gone, leaving him unfocused and giddy.

  ‘Rupert!’ Hélène cried, leaving the table and rushing to his side. ‘Are you all right? What happened?’

  For a moment Rupert thought he might collapse but then the dizziness passed and, seeming to recover, he apologised profusely to Rosalie for his carelessness.

  Rosalie had looked up in alarm as he’d dropped the glass, and as she heard his apologies, she saw that all colour had drained from his face, leaving him deathly pale.

  ‘My dear Monsieur Chalfont,’ she cried. ‘You are unwell. Please, sit down, sit down.’

  ‘Really, madame,’ he said a little shakily, ‘it is nothing. Perhaps the heat or a little too much sun.’ But he followed her instruction to sit, nonetheless, and was glad to do so. Hélène was at his side at once, fear in her eyes.

  ‘Rupert,’ she said again, more quietly this time. ‘What is the matter? You look quite ill.’

  ‘Nothing,’ he answered with a weak smile. ‘I’m fine, really. Just a moment’s dizziness, which caused me to spoil your mother’s dress.’

  ‘Just stay sitting where you are,’ Hélène said, taking charge. ‘You mustn’t get up again until you’re feeling better. Louise, will you run indoors and ask Didier for some brandy for Monsieur Chalfont? He needs a restorative.’

  ‘Yes, hurry up, child,’ Rosalie said. ‘Ask him to bring it at once.’

  Moments later Rupert was sipping from a generous measure of brandy, and as he felt the warmth of the spirit trickling down his throat, he did indeed feel better. A little colour crept into his cheeks and again he apologised to Rosali
e, who dismissed his words with a wave of her hands.

  ‘Think nothing of it, m’sieur,’ she said. ‘Yvette will have that set to rights in no time. It is you who must concern us now. How are you feeling?’

  Rupert smiled and said, ‘Much better, madame, the brandy has done me a world of good.’

  The accident seemed to have brought the party under the tree to a close, and it was not long before they all repaired indoors to the cool of the drawing room, saying that it really was much too hot to be sitting outside.