Chapter 30
Hélène’s reply to Rupert’s letter was carefully composed. It was not the letter she’d been writing in instalments before his arrived. Having read the depths of his family’s sorrow at his brother’s accident, her letter prattling generally about what had been going on at Belair since his departure seemed shallow and insensitive. Despite his protestations of love in his letter, Hélène felt that it would be somehow forward to pour out her heart to him. How easy it had been to tell him she loved him face to beloved face, but somehow putting the words down on paper seemed different.
The result of this dilemma was a slightly stilted missive, offering condolences for the loss of his brother and greetings to his family, after which she went on:
Of course I understand that your duty to your family is the most important thing just now but I do miss you, Rupert, and am longing for the day you come back to me.
In a few days’ time Maman and I are going to our house in the Avenue Ste Anne in Paris. I’m not sure how long we shall stay, but you have the address and could write to me there.
She had been going to tell him about the dinner party that had been given to welcome Clarice and Lucas back from their honeymoon, but when she reread what she had written it seemed so trivial compared with the difficulties Rupert was facing at home that she discarded that page, simply saying the Clarice and Lucas were home again and her parents had given a dinner to welcome them back.
Hélène hadn’t particularly enjoyed that evening. It was lovely to see Clarice and to hear about Venice and Florence and Rome, but that had been in the privacy of Clarice’s old room, where she had laid her cloak and tidied her already beautifully coiffed hair before descending to the drawing room. Hélène had then told Clarice about Rupert’s proposal and how she had, with Papa’s qualified blessing, accepted him.
Clarice was surprised and mildly condescending. ‘Doesn’t Papa think you’re a little young to be considering marriage? I’m twenty and it was only in the last few months that Lucas and I became engaged.’
‘That’s because Lucas wasn’t here,’ retorted Hélène. ‘I bet you’d have accepted him if he’d proposed to you when you were seventeen!’
‘Perhaps,’ conceded Clarice, ‘but there’s a lot more to marriage than dancing with a handsome man.’ She patted Hélène’s hand and added, ‘I’m sure Maman will explain what I mean when the time comes. Come on, we’d better go down.’
They found the others waiting for them in the drawing room. Almost immediately Didier announced dinner and Rosalie, offering her hand to Lucas, their guest of honour, led the way into the dining room. Hélène found she had been seated between Monsieur Barrineau and Simon. She knew both of them well and it should have been an easy dinner placement, but, somehow, she found she had very little to say to either of them. Monsieur Barrineau was jocular, speaking to her almost as a favourite uncle might. Simon, on the other hand, seemed rather stiff and formal and gave much of his attention to Lucie, sitting opposite to him. How Hélène wished Rupert were there to lighten the table with his easy flow of conversation.
It was Clarice who, unwittingly, disturbed the general equilibrium by saying in her clear voice, ‘I hear that Hélène is to be married, Papa,’ before turning to her husband and adding, ‘and to that strange Englishman you invited to our wedding, Lucas.’
With only eight at the table, her words were clearly audible to all. Hélène felt hot colour flood her cheeks and she glared at Clarice for mentioning what she had told her in confidence. There were immediate expressions of amazement and Rosalie stepped in at once and, addressing herself to Clarice, said, ‘Monsieur Chalfont has asked your father’s permission to address Hélène and I believe there is some sort of understanding between them, but there is no formal betrothal and any thoughts of marriage are a long way off.’ She smiled across at Hélène, hoping to soften her words. ‘We shall consider the matter seriously when he returns.’
‘But where is he?’ asked Clarice. ‘Why isn’t he here?’
‘Because his brother died,’ snapped Hélène. ‘He’s gone home to his family. Where else would he be?’
‘Where indeed?’ murmured Simon. ‘He has to claim his inheritance, after all.’
‘What did you say?’ demanded Hélène in unsuppressed rage. ‘That doesn’t matter to him!’
‘Oh, I think you’ll find it does,’ replied Simon equably. ‘Such things matter to everyone.’
‘His inheritance?’ Suzanne Barrineau queried and then, realising, went on, ‘Of course, this means he’s now his father’s heir. A good catch for the daughter of a Paris architect.’
‘Mother!’ exclaimed Lucas.
‘Suzanne, my dear,’ her husband spoke repressively from the other end of the table, ‘such things are hardly any business of ours.’ And before she could reply he eloquently changed the subject, asking Rosalie if his gardener might take cuttings from some of her roses to graft to his own.
After a moment the talk became general again and Rosalie rang for the dinner plates to be removed and the cheeseboard to be brought. For a long moment it was all Hélène could do to remain seated in her place. She glowered at Clarice along the length of the table. How could she? How could she have broken such a confidence? But then, Hélène suddenly realised, she had not actually said that the matter was for family ears only; her sister had assumed that everyone must know of the understanding, even if it were not a formal betrothal. Clarice gave Hélène an apologetic smile and, sighing, Hélène smiled half-heartedly in return.
No further mention was made of Clarice’s revelation, and when the ladies retired to the drawing room it wasn’t long before the gentlemen joined them. The evening had not been spoiled by the interchange, but it had cast a shadow.
No, Hélène decided now as she recalled her own feelings of dismay, that was not something more to lay on Rupert’s shoulders. Her final paragraph should be one to give him comfort.
I so wish I were with you to share in your grief. I send my love and shall count the days until you come back to Belair… to me. Your own Hélène.
*
In Pilgrim St Leonard, the inquest was little more than a formality. The succession of events that had led to Justin’s untimely death were fairly clear; there was no question of foul play or suicide. The coroner, local solicitor Martin Flugue, heard the evidence given by Frances, Fortune and Scott. It was accepted that Justin had slipped on the rocks, banged his head and while unconscious face down in the water had drowned, and a verdict of death by misadventure was brought in.
The funeral was held the following day. Amabel Chalfont did not attend and nor did Lady Blake, but both Frances and Kitty, heavily veiled and dressed in unrelieved black, insisted on being at the church and the graveside, after which Kitty returned to Marwick House. Fran, however, played the part of her father’s hostess and joined him in welcoming the few guests who chose to come back to Pilgrim’s Oak. No one stayed long and it was with enormous relief that both Rupert and Fran heard the sound of wheels on gravel as the last carriage drove away and Mitchell closing the front door behind it.
It seemed to both of them that the house that had sheltered them all their lives settled round them as a silent shield. Sir Philip had retired to his library, where despite the warmth of the day a fire had been lit and a tray with brandy and glasses had been laid out. They did not join him, but went into the quiet of the drawing room and sat down together.
‘Thank goodness that’s over,’ breathed Fran. ‘I’m exhausted.’
Neither of them had partaken of the refreshments prepared for the guests.
‘You should eat something,’ Rupert said. ‘I’ll ring for Mitchell.’
‘I’m not hungry,’ said Fran wearily, ‘really, Rupert.’
‘A bowl of soup and some bread and cheese,’ Rupert said firmly. ‘We have to keep up our strength.’ He reached for the bell and when Mitchell came in answer, he asked for the food.
‘I saw you talking to Sir Jame
s,’ Fran said as she leaned back in her chair and waited for their supper to appear. ‘What did he want?’
‘To tell me my business,’ retorted Rupert, his eyes darkening at the memory of his conversation with Kitty’s father. Before he returned to Marwick House, Sir James Blake had crossed the room to where Rupert had been speaking with Mr Flugue, thanking him for his thoughtful handling of the inquest the previous day.
‘No point in dragging things out,’ said the coroner. ‘Difficult enough for all concerned.’
Sir James did not exactly interrupt, but standing beside Rupert in a proprietorial way he made it clear that he wanted a private word and the coroner took himself off.
‘Sad day,’ Sir James said, glancing round the room. ‘Very sad. Poor Kitty would come to the church, though her mother and I argued against it. Very hard for her.’
Rupert gave a nod of agreement and said, ‘And very brave.’
‘Your father was finding it difficult… you could see.’
‘That’s hardly surprising, sir,’ replied Rupert. ‘It’s been a dreadful shock to all of us.’
‘Well,’ went on Sir James. ‘Sir Philip’s still got you. He’s not getting any younger and he’ll be depending on your support, I dare say.’
While making these comments, Kitty’s father had not made actual eye contact with Rupert, seeming, Rupert thought when he considered the conversation later, to have been addressing himself to the air between them. ‘No more going off on your travels, eh?’ And now Sir James did look directly at him. ‘Duty before pleasure, I suppose. Yes, I expect you’ll be taking over the running of the estate, like your brother was.’
Rupert could feel the anger rising in him and he replied tersely, ‘That, of course, is a matter I shall be discussing with my father, sir, at an appropriate moment.’
‘Quite so,’ agreed Sir James with an approving nod. ‘Well, I must be going. Please pass my compliments and condolences on to your mother.’ And with that he half raised his hand, turned away and went out into the hall.
Another old family friend came up to bid him farewell, and Rupert managed to suppress the anger Sir James had aroused in him to shake the man’s hand and thank him for coming to pay his respects.
Rupert knew that some of his anger was due to guilt. Now that there was no Justin between him and the title, he felt trapped. He had never wanted the title, or the trappings and duties that went with it. He had been completely happy in his own selfish way with no one to consider but himself. Now, all of a sudden, the title, with all that went with it, had been thrust upon him; there was no escape. The only bright light on his immediate horizon was Hélène; now he could offer her far more than before, and though he felt sure that the title would be of little importance to Hélène herself, he was certain it would be of great consequence to her parents, paving the way to their acceptance of a formal betrothal sooner rather than later.
Hélène was so precious to him he wished he could go to her straight away. He hoped she had got his letter and that he would soon have her reply.
Chapter 31
The day after the funeral Lord and Lady Devenish took their leave, and with their going the whole household at Pilgrim’s Oak seemed to relax a little. Rupert and Fran privately discussed the situation as it now stood, and Fran pulled no punches.
‘You’ve seen how our parents have aged,’ she said as she and Rupert lingered at the breakfast table a few days later. ‘Papa has become very frail. Not mentally, of course, but physically. He eats less than a sparrow and is exhausted most of the time. I fear for his life, Rupert. It isn’t just Justin’s death; he was going downhill before that. I’m sure there is an underlying illness.’ She looked over at her brother and went on, ‘Do you remember how our grandfather looked just before he died? All skin and bone?’
Rupert nodded. ‘You think this is the same thing?’
‘I don’t know, not as bad maybe, but very like. Justin was taking the weight of the estate off his shoulders and now you’ve got to do the same thing.’
‘Trouble is,’ replied Rupert, ‘I don’t know anything about running the estate. It was never going to be my province.’
‘Well, it is now,’ asserted Fran. ‘Justin was working with Foxton to see how the estate was run. He’d been going round to all the tenant farmers and reassessing the rents. You must do the same. You need to know how the place works to the advantage of all concerned. It’s not something you can learn in a few weeks – you need to be here, living here, to get a proper feel for the place.’
‘I see.’ Rupert was surprised at this sudden onslaught. ‘So what you’re saying is that I must come home to live permanently and take control.’
‘That’s exactly what I’m saying,’ said Fran. ‘Papa and Mama need you here. Like it or not, you’re going to be the head of this family, and if Papa’s health is any guide, maybe sooner rather than later.’ She paused and when Rupert made no comment, she continued, ‘You can see that Mama has withdrawn into a world of her own. It’s up to you now. You’re going to have to pull this family through, and one of the best things you can do is to produce an heir before Papa dies.’
‘Produce an heir?’ echoed Rupert. ‘Just like that? Probably have to get married first, wouldn’t you say?’
‘Exactly,’ Fran said firmly. ‘You must get married and get on with starting a family.’
‘Nothing I’d like better, but I can’t see Hélène’s parents agreeing to anything that quickly.’
‘Hélène?’
For a moment Frances looked puzzled and Rupert said, ‘Remember? I told you about her when I came home. I have an understanding with the most beautiful French girl. I told you I was going to marry her.’
‘Oh, yes,’ replied Fran flatly. ‘I do remember you saying something like that, but I didn’t think it was serious. I mean that was all before… while you were away. I mean you’re not actually engaged, are you?’
‘Yes, we actually are. Well,’ he amended, ‘I’ve asked her to marry me and she said yes. She’s only seventeen and so her parents have insisted that we wait until the spring before our betrothal becomes official, but as far as I am concerned, we’re engaged to be married.’
‘Oh, Rupert,’ sighed Fran. ‘What have you done?’
‘What have I done? I’ve proposed marriage to the woman I wish to marry and she has accepted me. It happened before I left France.’
‘Before you heard about Justin,’ Fran said flatly.
‘Well, no, not exactly.’ Rupert felt the need to be scrupulously honest. ‘It was when I knew I had to come home that I proposed, but her father had already given me permission to address her. There is nothing hole-in-the-corner about our engagement, but we both accepted his stipulation that there should be no formal betrothal until next spring.’
‘So, you are not formally engaged,’ stated Fran firmly. ‘You can get out of it with no loss of honour.’
‘If I tried to do any such thing,’ Rupert said, ‘it would be with great loss of honour. I have given my word. But, Fran, why should I want to?’
‘You may not want to,’ conceded Frances, ‘but I think Papa will want to discuss this with you.’
She was quite right, and it was the very next morning that Sir Philip summoned Rupert to the library. He was already ensconced in his armchair and he waved Rupert to the one on the other side of the fireplace.
‘Now then, my boy,’ he said with something of his earlier manner, ‘we’ve got some serious thinking to do. It’s time to consider the future.’
‘Indeed, sir,’ said Rupert, readying himself to speak of Hélène, but his father completely took the wind out of his sails by continuing, ‘You can see for yourself, Rupert, that I’m not very long for this world. I have the wasting sickness.’
‘Papa—’ exclaimed Rupert, but Sir Philip simply waved him to silence.
‘Just like my own father. It must be obvious to anyone who knows me. I have been to see Dr Evans and he has confirmed that it’s just
a matter of time and there is nothing to be done.’
‘But we must have a second opinion!’ cried Rupert. ‘You must see someone in London.’
‘Indeed,’ replied his father, ‘and I have. Not long ago I went up to town for a few days, and while I was there, I took the opportunity of consulting Mr Ernest Young in Harley Street. He was of the same opinion as Dr Evans. The condition is fairly well advanced and there is no cure. Mr Young gave me about six months to live, but said that was only a guess based on previous cases he’d treated.’
‘Have you told Mama?’ asked Rupert quietly. ‘Or Fran?’
‘No, not yet. There is no point in alarming your mother at this stage. Since Justin’s death I fear for her sanity; I won’t put anything further on her. As for Frances, she’s been a tower of strength to me over the past days, and I’m loath to ask any more of her.’
‘I think she already knows, sir,’ said Rupert. ‘She has seen for herself.’
‘Has she? Then I’m sorry. She’s had too much to bear. I just thank God you’re home at last and can take the weight from her shoulders… and mine.’
‘Did Justin know?’
‘He guessed and I admitted it to him just before he died. He began to deal with estate matters at once.’
‘I shall try to do the same, sir,’ Rupert said. ‘I have an appointment with Foxton later this afternoon to discuss how things are on the estate. Fran told me that Justin had already been dealing with some of the estate business, and I need to be brought up to date with the state of things.’
‘Justin was setting his hand to the plough,’ agreed Sir Philip, ‘and now it’s up to you. At least there’s nothing to keep you away from home these days, and while I’m still here we can make plans for the future together.’
Rupert looked across at his father, so suddenly small, but still with fire in his eyes. How could he tell him that there was something, or rather someone, to take him away from Pilgrim’s Oak, at least in the short term? How could he tell him about his engagement to Hélène? And yet he must, because she was part of the future they were going to discuss.
The French Wife Page 25
