The French Wife

by Diney Costeloe

  At that moment there was a tap on the door. Fran looked round for somewhere to hide the incriminating letter and hastily stuffed it down the side of the armchair that stood in the corner of the room before calling, ‘Come in.’

  ‘Excuse me, Miss Frances.’ The parlourmaid put her head round the door.

  ‘Yes, Hilton? What is it?’

  ‘Beg pardon, miss,’ Hilton said, ‘but Lady Chalfont says will you come to her in her parlour.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ Fran replied. ‘Please tell Lady Chalfont I’ll be there in just one moment.’

  ‘Yes, miss.’ Hilton disappeared, closing the door quietly behind her.

  Fran hastily retrieved the letter from the chair and looked round for somewhere better to hide it. She decided on the back of her dressing table drawer, and pulling it right out, she carefully secreted the letter behind it. It wasn’t the perfect hiding place, but unless someone was actually looking for something, it was unlikely to be discovered by accident.

  And it isn’t as if it’ll be there for long, Fran thought as she went along the landing to the parlour, where her mother was waiting for her. She would probably put it back in the postbag tomorrow.

  She did not. When the post came the next day, Mitchell received it from the postman and, immediately sorting the letters, took them round to their various recipients. There were two more letters of condolence from people who had only just heard about Justin’s accident, and it was Fran who replied to those. Rupert had been spending most days with Foxton, visiting the tenant farmers, and said that he could not be responsible for answering the letters as well.

  The days went quickly and September passed in a blaze of colour. The trees were dressed in flaming orange, reds and gold, made brilliant by the September sun. In the evenings there was an autumnal smell in the air as wood fires were lit and stoked to fight the night-time chill. Rupert was tired at the end of each day and found himself happy enough to settle by the fire after an early supper and chat with his sister. His only disappointment was the lack of letters from Hélène. At first he explained this to himself quite rationally. Hélène and her mother were in Paris and perhaps his letter had gone astray. Perhaps he had not put the correct address on the envelope. Perhaps there had been a change of plan and they had not gone to Paris at all; they were still at Belair and his letter was waiting for her in the Avenue Ste Anne. He made no mention of the expected letters to his family. They had, for the time being, stopped talking about his future, leaving the thoughts they had implanted in his mind time to take root and put up shoots. He asked Mitchell if there had been any post for him, and the butler shook his head.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr Rupert,’ he said a little stiffly, ‘but if there had been I’d have given it to you, sir.’

  Rupert sighed. ‘Yes, I’m sorry, of course you would.’

  The day that Kitty and Justin were to have married came and went. Everyone remembered it, but no one mentioned it except for Amabel. She still took most of her meals in her room, but on this occasion she had come down for luncheon.

  There had been little talk during the meal when she sudden announced, ‘Today is Justin’s wedding day. Poor Kitty.’

  Poor Kitty indeed. Rupert had been over to Marwick House to see her a couple of times. Neither time had she seen him alone, but knowing what his own father was suggesting and what Sir James had hinted at the funeral, he was disappointed that they had no opportunity for private conversation. He wanted to know if the outrageous suggestion that he should now marry Kitty in his brother’s place had actually been made to her.

  ‘It would have been a lovely wedding,’ Amabel went on, entirely unaware of the effect her words were having on the rest of the family. ‘Poor dear Justin. Everything was arranged. And they’d have had babies, wouldn’t they?’ Her voice broke on a sob.

  ‘Now then, Mama,’ Fran said quietly, taking her hand. ‘You mustn’t distress yourself so. We all miss Justin, but we have to look forward now. Rupert’s here to look after Pilgrim’s Oak.’

  ‘Then he must have babies,’ whimpered her mother.

  Nothing more was said at the table. Frances took her mother back up to her parlour and settled her down for an afternoon nap, but her words could not be unsaid and now stood between Rupert and his family. Rupert knew that it was his duty to step into Justin’s place as his father’s heir, and he knew he would stay, but if they wanted a new generation, they must accept his marriage to Hélène.

  That night, despite having heard nothing from Hélène since her first letter, Rupert retired upstairs and wrote to her again. He poured out his heart to her, telling her how much he missed her and asking her to write to him very soon.

  I miss you every minute of every day, he wrote. Write to me soon, my darling girl, and tell me news of your family and Belair.

  This time he addressed the letter to her at Belair, for surely they must have returned from Paris by now. He thought of her, back in the social circle in St Etienne, and the fear began to grow that she had become so involved in the social life there that she had started to forget him. Perhaps Simon Barnier had begun to court her. The thought made him go cold but he dismissed it at once. Hélène didn’t even like Simon Barnier.

  Remember how much I love you, darling girl, and send me a letter bringing me your love.

  Your Rupert

  This he added as a postscript to his letter before sealing it into its envelope.

  In the morning he put it in the postbag to go to the post office. Today it would be on its way to St Etienne, and surely Hélène would reply. With a lighter heart he went out to the stable.

  From the shelter of the half-open dining room door, Fran watched him leave the house. She stole across the hall and silently slipped her hand into the postbag. There were three letters waiting to go, and glancing at them, she removed the one addressed to the girl in France.

  Even as she went quickly upstairs with the letter in her pocket, she felt sick at what she was doing, but it was too late to go back on everything now. She already had two letters from France hidden in her dressing table. How long before Rupert came to accept that the girl wasn’t going to write to him, that the romance had meant nothing more to her than a mild flirtation? In many ways Fran wished she had never started the deception, but it was too late to repine. After all, she was doing all this with the best of intentions; she was doing it for her family. Rupert might never forgive her if he ever found out, so she must ensure that he never did, but it was Rupert’s duty to marry Kitty and all she was doing was helping him to make the right decision. She had never opened the letters; they were still private. He could never accuse her of prying, she wouldn’t dream of reading anyone else’s letters… and thus she tried to salve her conscience. She was doing the right thing.

  Chapter 33

  Rosalie stayed in Paris for a week before returning to Belair. To begin with Hélène was buoyed up with the thought of Rupert’s letters, but as the days passed and nothing was heard from him, she began to worry. Without letting her mother know, she had written to him again, getting Annette to post the letter in the village rather than putting it in the household postbag. She had no reason to think that it would not have been posted that way; it was simply that she had disobeyed her mother in not waiting for another letter from Rupert before writing again. She realised that he must be extremely busy with everything he needed to do at Pilgrim’s Oak, with perhaps no time to write, and she hoped that another letter from her would cheer him, but as the days turned into weeks and she heard nothing further, she began to believe that he had changed his mind and forgotten her; her heart ached and her spirits sank lower.

  Rosalie saw the change in her. She had, of course, noticed that there had been no letters from England after the one which had arrived in Paris. She wondered if another had been directed to the Avenue Ste Anne and was simply waiting to be picked up. She wrote a brief note to Georges and asked him to go to the house next time he was in Paris and see what post, if any, was ther
e. Within three days she had a reply from him, saying there was nothing.

  Were you expecting something important, Maman? he wrote. I shall be in Paris again very soon and can go to the house again to see.

  Rosalie replied that there was nothing and not to bother. If Rupert hadn’t written to either place by now, it was clear to Rosalie that he wasn’t going to. He had left Belair and Hélène behind, gone home to claim his inheritance, and he wasn’t coming back. She saw her daughter’s misery, but there was little she could do to alleviate it.

  Since the dinner party revelation, word of her understanding with Rupert had become generally known and those in their social circle had accepted the fact that Hélène was spoken for. Rosalie wished with all her heart that Clarice had not spoken out as she had that night. If the understanding had been kept within the family, Rupert’s desertion would have passed almost unremarked. She had noticed that Simon Barnier, a frequent caller at Belair for some time, visited less often. Rosalie thought that this was most unfortunate; Simon would have been an eminently suitable match for Hélène had there been no Rupert Chalfont. He had returned from a sojourn abroad a year ago and had quickly made his way to the top of the list of eligible bachelors. Several young ladies had had hopes of him, but so far none had captured his heart. Rosalie had seen how he had looked at Hélène recently and wished she could see a reciprocal spark of interest in her daughter’s eyes, but she knew that at present Hélène only had thoughts of Rupert.

  Well, Rosalie thought bitterly, he doesn’t seem to have any thoughts of her.

  ‘I don’t understand it,’ she confided to Emile. ‘I thought he was a man of honour… and that he really loved her.’

  Emile shrugged. ‘He’s probably found a better prospect at home,’ he said. ‘He’ll be able to take his pick now that he’ll inherit a title.’

  ‘I thought Hélène was his pick,’ muttered Rosalie.

  ‘Well, Hélène’s young. If he has changed his mind, she’ll soon get over him.’

  Rosalie wasn’t so sure, but she made a point of taking Hélène with her wherever she was invited. The girl was not wearing an engagement ring, there had been only an informal understanding; it was important that people realised Hélène was under no obligation to the Englishman who had disappeared home.

  ‘Why doesn’t he write?’ Hélène cried to Annette in the privacy of her bedchamber. ‘What’s happened to him?’

  ‘I don’t know, Hélène,’ Annette replied. ‘You could write again, I suppose.’ They had grown closer since Annette had become Hélène’s personal maid, and when alone together, they spoke as equals.

  ‘No.’ Hélène was adamant. ‘If he doesn’t want me after all, I’ll not chase him.’ She stuck by this resolve and whenever she went into company her pride kept her smiling. She was not the life and soul of the party, but neither was she seen to droop.

  On one occasion when Annette was in the village running an errand for Rosalie, she was cornered by Simon Barnier.

  ‘You were going to keep me informed about the Englishman,’ he said, ‘but I’ve heard nothing from you.’

  Annette bobbed a curtsy. ‘There’s nothing to tell, sir,’ she replied. ‘He’s gone back to England.’

  ‘I know that, stupid girl,’ he snapped, ‘but what news from there?’

  ‘I don’t know, sir. Miss Hélène doesn’t talk to me about him, so I can’t tell you nothing.’

  ‘Hmm. Well, if you hear anything, make sure you do!’ And with that he strode off across the square, unaware that she stared after him with visible dislike.

  Back at Belair, Annette didn’t tell Hélène that Simon Barnier had been asking questions – there was no need to worry her any more than she was already. However, as soon as she got the chance, she spoke to Pierre.

  ‘What should we do?’ she asked. ‘Monsieur Chalfont asked us to look after Hélène and keep her away from Monsieur Barnier. Should we write to him – Monsieur Chalfont, I mean?’

  Pierre gave the idea serious consideration before he said, ‘One letter, perhaps. But if there’s no reply to that, well, we’ve done what we promised.’

  ‘You’ll have to write,’ Annette told him. ‘It would be better coming from you. What will you say?’

  Pierre sighed. ‘I don’t really know. Just that Hélène’s pining for him and he must come back?’

  They decided that was enough and that evening Pierre wrote a brief note and sent it to the address Rupert had given him.

  ‘Now all we can do is wait,’ he said. And wait they did until the letter came.

  *

  At Pilgrim’s Oak, Rupert was also waiting. There had been no word from France for the past month. He had given up looking expectantly at Mitchell when he came in with the post. He had written once again, but when that letter produced no response, he finally accepted that Hélène had changed her mind and had written no more. He briefly considered going over to France to see her. He even mentioned the idea to Fran.

  ‘If I could just see her,’ he said, ‘perhaps I’d understand.’

  Fran had a vision of the letters in her drawer and knew an appalling guilt, but she said, ‘I don’t think that would answer, Rupert. It would reopen wounds for both of you. If she’s changed her mind and stopped writing, she must feel that a clean break, without long explanations about why, would be the easiest thing for both of you.’

  ‘But if I could just see her…’

  ‘What good would it do?’ Fran asked. ‘You’d just be hurt all over again.’ She thought of the last letter that had arrived. It was not addressed in the same hand as the others, but Fran was not prepared to risk Rupert receiving it, even if it wasn’t from his Hélène girl, and she had squirrelled it away with the rest.

  No further mention was made of ‘the French girl’, but one windy afternoon in late October, Rupert was summoned to the library.

  ‘It’s time you sorted yourself out,’ said his father. ‘I want to see you settled before I die. I want to see you married.’

  ‘I told you I was engaged, sir,’ began Rupert.

  ‘To the daughter of some French architect—’

  ‘He’s a professional man,’ interrupted Rupert, ‘and perfectly respectable.’

  ‘To a foreigner and a Catholic,’ continued Sir Philip, as if Rupert had not spoken. ‘Neither of which is suitable or acceptable for a Chalfont of Pilgrim’s Oak.’

  ‘I really think, sir—’ Rupert tried again.

  ‘That’s the trouble, Rupert! You don’t think at all. Our land marches with Sir James Blake’s. Neither estate is large enough to survive much longer alone, but combined… now that’s a different thing altogether.’ He looked at Rupert with steel in his eyes. ‘Only you can save the place now, you know.’

  Rupert did know. He’d been working with Foxton for nearly two months now and had seen that much of the estate was no longer viable as it stood.

  ‘We have to modernise, Mr Rupert,’ Foxton had urged. ‘If we don’t do that, we’ll end up selling off land simply to survive. You can’t just raise the rents, because your tenants won’t be able to afford them, not without help to bring the farms up to date, and to do that you need an injection of capital.’

  Rupert knew Foxton was right, and it had been made clear to him that such capital might come from Sir James if he thought it advantageous to his family, to Kitty and her children.

  ‘You can’t marry this French girl, Rupert,’ insisted Sir Philip. ‘It won’t do. You have to break any agreement you had with her… and do it straight away.’

  ‘It’s not as simple as that, sir,’ Rupert said.

  ‘Yes, my boy, it is. Once done, you propose marriage to Katharine and all will be well.’

  ‘She might turn me down,’ said Rupert.

  ‘I very much doubt that,’ replied his father.

  ‘She loved Justin,’ Rupert pointed out.

  ‘And she’ll come to love you,’ came the sharp reply. ‘For goodness’ sake, man, look at the bigger pi
cture. The continuance of our family, our name, our land…’

  ‘That wouldn’t change either way…’

  ‘You have a duty to your heritage. Against which you’re setting an unsuitable marriage to a chit of a girl from France, and a Catholic at that.’

  Rupert got to his feet. ‘Thank you, sir,’ he said, his voice tight with emotion. ‘You’ve made yourself perfectly clear. I will consider what you’ve said. And now if you’ll excuse me…’ He let his words hang in the air, unable to finish, and left the room, closing the door softly behind him… a closing that demonstrated his feelings far better than a slam.

  Rupert knew that the time had come for him to make a choice. Hélène, who appeared to have cut him off, or his family, who made it very clear where they believed his duty lay. He thought of Kitty and wondered what her reaction would be if he went to her and suggested that they should get married, and married with Justin only two months in his grave. He could explain that the questionable haste was due to his father’s illness, but wouldn’t Kitty think it unseemly to accept him so soon after Justin’s death?

  There was, he decided, only one way to find out and unknowingly following Justin, he made his way out to the stables, where Jack saddled Rufus, and without a word of where he was going, he rode to Marwick House.

  This time Kitty was alone when she received him. She offered him refreshment, but he turned it down. Having got here and able to speak to her privately, he wanted to get their conversation over before they were interrupted by her parents or one of the servants.

  ‘Kitty,’ he began, ‘we need to talk.’

  She watched him pacing the floor and said, ‘Do we, Rupert? If that’s the case, do stop pacing about and sit down, you’re making me giddy.’

  Rupert did as she asked, perching for a moment on a chair by the fire, before getting to his feet again and walking the floor once more.