‘I hear you’re coming with Miss Hélène when she moves to Gavrineau,’ he said.
Annette lowered her eyes and murmured, ‘Yes, monsieur.’
‘Well, let me warn you, you’re there for the time being on sufferance. Just make sure you do nothing to jeopardise your position.’ He put his hand under her chin and tilted her head towards him. ‘Understand?’
‘Yes, monsieur,’ she whispered.
‘Well, I hope you do.’ He let her go and strode across the hall into the drawing room, where Hélène and her mother were waiting for him.
It was this encounter that convinced Annette as to what she should do, and that evening she set pen to paper and wrote to Mr Rupert Chalfont at Pilgrim’s Oak.
*
The wedding day drew nearer and Rosalie knew that she must have a very serious talk with Hélène before the big day. It was only six months since Hélène had begun her monthly courses and Rosalie had had to explain to her when Hélène, terrified, had come to her, fearing that she had some dreadful internal disease. ‘It happens to all women,’ Rosalie had said. ‘It means that you are ready for marriage, that you are old enough to bear children. This is one of the most important days of your life.’
She knew that she should have explained before, so that Hélène would not have been frightened, but she had continued to put off the explanation for fear of reviving memories of what had happened to her during the siege. Now she must risk that, so that Hélène would be ready for the bedchamber on her wedding night. She could only hope that Simon would be a careful and gentle lover. She could procrastinate no longer and summoned Hélène into her parlour.
‘Shut the door, chérie,’ she said, ‘and come and sit by me.’ Hélène did as she was told and waited.
‘Hélène, you remember I told you when your monthly courses started that you were now ready for marriage.’
‘Yes, I remember.’
‘Well, when a man and a woman are married, they have a very intimate life with each other. Very often they share the same bed and when they are sleeping close to each other they become…’ She paused, looking for the right word. ‘…entwined.’ She paused again before she went on, ‘It may take you a while to get used to sleeping next to someone like that, but it can be very comforting to fall asleep in a man’s arms.’
For a moment Hélène remembered the feel of Rupert’s arms about her, but she forced it away. That way led to misery. It was Simon’s arms in which she would fall asleep.
‘And after such a night together, you may find you are carrying his child.’ Rosalie had still not explained how this last was achieved, but, she reasoned, very few brides actually knew before their wedding night exactly what was expected of them. It wasn’t customary to go into detail; a new wife learned as she went along, and once she had found herself expecting a baby, as Clarice was now, she accepted that whether she enjoyed the experience or not, that was the way babies were created.
That evening Hélène sat at her dressing table while Annette brushed out her hair, and looking at her maid in the mirror, she wondered about Father Thomas. Annette had said he used to come to her bed at night. That was what her mother had just explained would happen when she and Simon were married. She was very tempted to ask Annette about it, but she knew Annette had hated what had happened, and surely that couldn’t be the same for all women, or there would be no children. So, she asked nothing and relaxed as the strokes of the brush soothed her. She wouldn’t know what to do, but she guessed Simon would, and they would have babies.
Chapter 37
It was extremely cold. Rupert walked over from the Dower House to Pilgrim’s Oak to visit his father. Sir Philip was dying. They knew it and he knew it and he was facing death with his usual fortitude. In the chilly weeks after Christmas he had contracted a loud and hacking cough, but he had only taken to his bed when his temperature had risen to thirty-nine degrees. Fran was at his bedside. She held a cup of wine mixed with a little warm water to his lips and said, ‘You must try, Papa.’
‘Don’t fuss, Frances,’ he muttered as she tried to sit him up so that he could drink, but the effort simply brought on another bout of coughing. Amabel, now living in a world of her own, took no part in nursing her husband; it was probable that she had no realisation of his illness. Kitty was expecting a baby and had been so sick herself that she was unable to help with the nursing, so the responsibility fell on Fran, ably helped by Mrs Crowley. Fran had wanted to employ a proper nurse, but her father had been adamant.
‘I’m dying, Frances,’ he’d said, ‘I don’t want anyone fussing round me. Let me go with dignity.’
Fran had understood and accepted his wishes. Rupert visited every day, only to see his father growing progressively weaker. Dr Evans had paid several visits, but admitted that there was no more he could do and that it was just a matter of time.
‘His cough is in his chest and there is almost certainly fluid in his lungs,’ he said. ‘That means pneumonia, and in his weakened state it could carry him off any day. I’m afraid you must prepare yourselves.’
Rupert, Fran and Kitty all knew of this diagnosis, but they had kept the news from Amabel. She was in no fit state to hear it. Time enough when the worst happened and she had to be told.
Rupert opened the bedroom door quietly and went into the room. Fran was still sitting holding the cup, but Sir Philip was lying back on his pillows with his eyes shut.
‘How is he?’ whispered Rupert.
Fran gave a faint shrug and, keeping her voice low, said, ‘Much the same.’
‘I can hear you talking,’ said the voice from the bed. Sir Philip opened his eyes again. ‘I’m not dead yet.’
‘How are you, sir?’ asked Rupert, knowing as he posed the question what a stupid one it was. The old man was a shadow of his former self, wasted to the size of a child, his skin the colour and texture of parchment. He lay under the covers with only his hands above the sheet, but his eyes were open again and he fixed them on Rupert.
‘Never better,’ came his reply. It was followed by another bout of coughing, great rasping coughs that shook his whole body. When at last it stopped, he said, ‘How’s that wife of yours?’
‘Still feeling sick, I’m afraid,’ Rupert replied. ‘At the moment she’s staying in bed on Dr Evans’s orders, but she’s very anxious to get up and come over to see you.’
‘Tell her not to,’ said Sir Philip. ‘No point in putting that baby at risk; he’s the future.’ Ever since he had heard there was a baby on the way, Sir Philip had referred to it as ‘he’. ‘I didn’t think I’d live to see my grandson,’ he’d said when he heard the news, but now he knew he’d been right – he would be in his grave before the baby was born.
It was later, when he had fallen into an uneasy doze, that Rupert left Fran watching over him and went to see his mother. She was in her parlour, sitting by the fire, which, recently made up, was throwing out a comfortable heat. She looked up as he came in and gave him a dreamy smile.
‘Hello, dear,’ she said. ‘I thought you were Justin. Where’s he?’
‘He’s out, Mother,’ Rupert answered. They had all long since stopped trying to tell her that Justin was dead. That had upset her every time she asked. It was as if she had to come to terms with his death anew each time she heard of it. Now, at Dr Evans’s suggestion, they simply told her he was out and she accepted that quite happily, sometimes saying, ‘Ask him to come in to see me when he gets back.’
‘I just looked in to see how Papa is,’ Rupert said.
‘Is he well?’
‘He’s coughing a bit.’
‘Poor Philip. His usual winter cough. We must find some camphor and red flannel for his chest. That always makes him more comfortable.’
‘Good idea, Mama,’ said Rupert. ‘I’ll suggest it to Fran.’
He stayed with her for ten minutes longer and then kissed her on the cheek and went back downstairs. As he crossed the hall, Mitchell came in with the postbag. Since his
marriage, Rupert’s mail was addressed to him at the Dower House, but this time Mitchell said, ‘There’s a letter for you here, Mr Rupert. Must have got put in the wrong bag,’ and he handed him an envelope. Rupert glanced down at it and it seemed for a moment that his heart had stopped. The writing was not known to him, but the letter came from France. He stared at it for a second and then shoved it into his pocket, saying as he did so, ‘Thank you, Mitchell. Please will you tell Miss Frances that I’ve gone back to the Dower House. I’ll come over again later. Perhaps you’d ask Mrs Crowley if she could sit with Sir Philip for a while to give Miss Fran a break. I think she sat up with him most of the night and she ought to get some sleep.’
‘Of course, sir.’ Mitchell disappeared towards the kitchen to find the housekeeper and Rupert left the house to walk slowly home. When he got there, Kitty was still obediently in bed, so he went into his study and shut and locked the door. He could feel the letter in his pocket, as if it were burning a hole, but for a long moment he waited, afraid to pull it out.
At last he did so and looked at the envelope. The writing was ill-formed, definitely not Hélène’s, but his name and the address at Pilgrim’s Oak were spelled correctly, and the stamps were French. He sat down behind his desk and picked up his paper knife. For one moment he shut his eyes, then with a quick movement he slit the envelope open and drew out the single sheet it contained.
Dear Mr Chalfont
This is to let you know that Miss Hélène is going to be married to Monsieur Barnier next week. She was very upset when she heard you were married having heard nothing from you after your first two letters even after Pierre wrote and told you how sad she was. It was cruel of you to cut her off like that, and not write any more letters until you was actually married. You may have changed your mind, but she didn’t deserve that. Shame on you! Miss Hélène is nothing to do with you now, but I thought you should know the misery you have caused her by your desertion and now she’s being pushed into marrying Monsieur Barnier.
You may think I have no right to take you to task, but Hélène is my friend and we look out for each other so I have every right. I am going with her to Gavrineau, so she won’t be on her own but I hope you feel as sick as I do at the thought of her being married to M. Barnier.
Annette Dubois
Rupert read the letter through again and did, indeed, feel sick. Hélène was going to marry that cold, autocratic man. How could she? How could she even consider the idea? And what did Annette mean by saying he hadn’t written more than once? He’d written several times and received no replies. It was only because Hélène had cut him off that he had allowed himself to be pushed into marriage with Kitty. Pushed into marriage. The words that Annette had used struck him forcibly. His Hélène was being forced into marriage with Simon Barnier – only, of course, she wasn’t his Hélène any more. But who was forcing her? Her parents? Simon Barnier himself? Did he have some hold over her? Rupert wished he could talk to Annette and get her to answer all his questions. She said Pierre had written to him as well. Where was that letter? If he had addressed it as this one from Annette was addressed, it must surely have arrived. The same with Hélène’s letters. He had given them all the same address to write to, but this was the sole letter that had arrived since Hélène’s first and only one. Annette said Hélène had heard nothing from him after the letter he’d sent on his arrival. Surely all his other messages couldn’t have gone astray. She obviously received the one he’d sent after he and Kitty were married. Why not the others?
And then a thought struck him; he’d taken that one to the post office himself. He had not put it in the postbag in the normal way, to be posted by one of the servants, and that letter had arrived at Belair.
Surely that wasn’t the answer, that thought that had slipped into his mind, something so unthinkable that he dismissed it at once. But as he sat reading and rereading the letter from Annette, it returned to weigh in upon him. If his letters, the ones he’d put into the postbag in the hall, had never been sent, that would account for what Annette was saying. But surely, no one at Pilgrim’s Oak would have had any reason to tamper with the postbag. But if they had, who had it been? Once the unwelcome thought had been planted in his mind, it began to take root, and he then took the next logical step. What had happened to the letters that Annette said Hélène had written to him? The servants would have had no knowledge of letters that might come from France. His mother knew nothing about Hélène – Rupert had never mentioned her existence to Amabel – which left his father and Fran. It seemed to him incredible that either of them should have taken such a reprehensible step, but who else was there? They had both been determined that he should marry Kitty, but determined enough to steal his letters? Because that was what it came down to: theft of both incoming and outgoing post. How could they have done such a thing? And how could he accuse them of it? He had no proof and if he were wrong, it was the sort of accusation that could never be repealed or forgiven.
At that moment there was a knock on the study door and he heard Parker’s voice calling through to him, ‘Are you in there, sir? Message from Miss Frances.’
‘I’m coming, Parker,’ he said, and putting Annette’s letter in his desk drawer, he unlocked the door and went out.
‘Message from Miss Frances, sir,’ Parker repeated. ‘Please can you come over to the house at once.’
Rupert didn’t ask him why, simply nodded and hurried over to the main house.
Mitchell was in the hall waiting for him. ‘Miss Frances is in with Sir Philip, Sir Rupert,’ he said; and those words told him all he needed to know. His father had closed his eyes for the last time. He was now Sir Rupert. He went upstairs to his father’s room and found Fran sitting quietly beside the bed. There was a stillness in the room; the hacking cough was silent and the face of the man lying in the bed, eyes closed, was peacefully smooth. Fran turned round as Rupert came in.
‘He’s gone,’ she said. ‘One minute he was here, you could hear his breathing across the room, and the next minute, nothing.’ She looked up at Rupert, dry-eyed, and said, ‘It was a merciful end, you know. He never complained, but he was in great pain.’
Rupert nodded. ‘Yes,’ he murmured, ‘I know.’ He crossed to the bedside, and for a moment he rested his hand against his father’s cheek and wished he could have said goodbye properly. Fran was right, of course, Papa had been in pain and now he was free and at peace, but even so, who he had been to each of them would leave an empty space in their lives.
‘We must tell Mama,’ he said. ‘Perhaps we should do that together.’
‘And we must send for Mrs Fender from the village to come and lay him out properly,’ said Fran. ‘Oh, Rupert, how we’ll all miss him.’
Rupert saw now that tears were beginning to slip down her cheeks and he went and put his arms round her, to comfort them both.
After a while she pulled free and, taking her hankie out of her pocket, blew her nose. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘at least he knew that Kitty is expecting. He knew that the future he wanted was taken care of. He was pleased about that.’
Rupert nodded and, with the flick of a thought to the letter lying in his desk, said, ‘Yes, I know.’
Together they went to see their mother in her parlour. Amabel was sitting in her usual chair by the fire and looked pleased to see them as they came in.
‘Have you come to take me down to lunch?’ she asked. ‘I told Mrs Crowley I’d come down today. I want to see Justin.’
‘No, Mama,’ Fran said softly. ‘I think you’re having your lunch up here today. Justin’s out.’
‘Is he? Well, perhaps, then, you’ll tell Mrs Crowley that I’ve changed my mind. I will have my lunch up here.’
‘Mama,’ Rupert said, ‘I’m afraid we’ve got some sad news.’
‘Have you, dear?’
‘You know Papa has been very ill—’ he began.
‘I told you to put red flannel on his chest,’ interrupted his mother.
�
��We did that, Mama,’ interposed Frances, ‘but it didn’t do any good. Dear Papa passed away this morning.’
‘Passed away?’ echoed Amabel.
‘Yes, Mama,’ said Fran.
‘Passed away,’ repeated her mother. ‘Poor Philip.’
For a moment none of them spoke and then Amabel turned to Rupert. ‘You will tell Mrs Crowley about lunch, Rupert, won’t you?’
‘Of course, Mama,’ he replied, and then he and Frances left her sitting contentedly in her chair, gazing into the fire.
‘We’ve lost them both now,’ Fran said sadly as they closed the door behind them. ‘Mama isn’t Mama any more. Now there’s only you and me.’
‘And Kitty,’ Rupert reminded her. ‘I must go and break the news to Kitty. Will you send for Mrs Fender?’ Fran said she would, and they parted in the hall.
With his father’s death and all the arrangements that had to be made about the funeral, Kitty’s continued sickness and his mother’s disconnection from the world, Rupert had little time to give further thought to Annette’s letter and what it might indicate. It was not at the forefront of his mind, but neither did it rest quietly at the back. In moments alone, her words slid forward into his consciousness: I hope you feel as sick as I do at the thought of her being married to M. Barnier. And he did. His instinct had been to rush over to France, to see Hélène… And what? His saner, more sensible self enquired. Ask her not to marry Simon Barnier? Hardly. No, such a journey would achieve nothing, nothing but to open old wounds for both of them; and it was too late. In her letter Annette had said Hélène was getting married next week. Taking into consideration the time Annette’s letter had taken to reach him and the time he must give to respect his father’s passing, it was almost certain that Hélène was now married and they were each beyond the reach of the other.
He would write back to Annette, Rupert decided, and ask her all the questions to which he wanted answers. Perhaps then he might tackle Fran about the missing letters, but maybe that too would do more harm than good. There was Kitty, and her feelings must be considered. She had known nothing about Hélène and their engagement, and since there was nothing to be done, perhaps it would be better to let sleeping dogs lie.
The French Wife Page 30
