*
It was several days before Pierre was able to meet with Annette again. As before, they met in the market, where they could mingle with the crowds of housewives carrying baskets to do their marketing. Annette carried hers as she carefully chose bread, eggs, onions and garlic for their evening meal.
Pierre told her about Jeannot’s visit to the stable. ‘He says if you want to earn some money you should find someone called Benny Bonnet who has a stall selling chickens and eggs in the St Eustache market. He says he’ll tell Benny to expect you. It won’t be much, but I thought you might be glad to get out of the apartment for a few hours each day. Hélène can still do the sewing you bring her and between you, you should bring in enough without having to borrow from Agathe.’
Annette was delighted with the idea. She longed to escape the apartment into the fresh air, such as it was, of the city streets. Together they went to the market in St Eustache Square, where it was easy enough to find Benny, standing beside his stall, a crate of live chickens at his side, several others, their necks wrung, hanging from hooks along the roof of the stall.
Benny was a small rat of a man, with a fringe of sandy-coloured hair around a bald pate, who greeted them with a grin displaying wide pink gums in an almost toothless mouth.
‘Jeannot said you might come see me,’ he said. ‘Says you need a job. Well, my missus is laid low at present, so you could help me on the stall each day if you like. Dealing with the chickens an’ that. Can’t pay you much, just a couple of francs a day.’ He squinted at Annette and added, ‘You look a useful sort of girl and Jeannot says you’re honest enough.’ He nodded several times and then said, ‘Important that, as I might have to leave you on your own at the stall sometimes when I got some other business to do.’
It was agreed, and Annette was able to tell Hélène when she got home that, thanks to Jeannot, they had another source of income.
Chapter 43
Kitty Chalfont lost her child and her life in mid-February. She had struggled with her pregnancy from the start, but was reassured by Dr Evans, the family physician, when he said that the morning sickness that laid her low would probably abate by the end of the third month.
‘Still feeling a bit sick?’ he had asked on one of his regular visits.
‘Just a bit,’ admitted Kitty. ‘And some pain, in my side. I just can’t seem to get comfortable.’
‘Ah,’ said the doctor with a smile. ‘The joys of pregnancy. No bleeding, though?’
‘Just a few spots,’ Kitty said. She looked at him anxiously. ‘I’m not going to have a miscarriage, am I?’
‘No, my dear lady,’ replied the doctor heartily. ‘Whatever makes you think that?’
‘Nothing really,’ said Kitty. ‘It’s just that when it’s your first baby, you don’t know what to expect, do you? What’s normal, you know?’
‘Well, if you’re worried, I can examine you, if you’d like me to,’ suggested the doctor.
‘No,’ Kitty replied hastily, ‘no need for that, I’m sure.’ The thought of the old man seeing her naked stomach, feeling for the baby, running his hands across her belly and who knew where else, made her shudder. No one but Rupert, and possibly the midwife when the time came, should see the bare flesh of her abdomen.
It was Lady Blake, worried by her daughter’s listlessness and continued sickness, who suggested sending for Mrs Harper.
‘She’s an experienced midwife,’ she told Rupert. ‘Knows far more about having babies than any doctor.’
‘By all means,’ he said. ‘If you think it’s necessary.’
Lady Blake did think so, and the message was sent.
When Mrs Harper arrived from the village an hour later, Rupert left her to his mother-in-law; it was women’s business. He didn’t know what the problem was or what he should be asking her.
Lady Blake took her into Kitty’s room and closed the door behind her, leaving Rupert firmly outside. Once with Kitty, Mrs Harper was all efficiency.
‘Now then, my lady, I’m going to have to examine you. I need to look at your stomach. Don’t worry, it won’t hurt, but we just have to see if baby is all right. Don’t want him getting into trouble, now, do we?’
Kitty agreed that they didn’t and, closing her eyes, submitted to the gentle pressure of Mrs Harper’s hands.
Mrs Harper knew almost at once that there was indeed something wrong. The child was lying in quite the wrong place. She looked up and exchanged a glance with Lady Blake.
Gently she replaced Kitty’s bedclothes and smiled down into her fearful eyes. ‘There now,’ she said. ‘That’s over, not so bad, you see. Now, you get some rest while I have a word with your mother.’
In Rupert’s study Mrs Harper explained her fears – that the baby was growing outside Kitty’s womb and at this late stage there was almost nothing that could be done. Rupert immediately telegraphed for a doctor from Harley Street. He came at once by train but when he’d examined Kitty, he only confirmed that the midwife was right, the baby was trying to grow in the wrong place.
Kitty suffered more and more pain, and when the tube finally ruptured, as the London doctor had known it must, and she began to bleed, there was nothing anyone could do. There was no baby to save and the mother was beyond saving. As she lost too much blood, she lost her grip on life and Pilgrim’s Oak suffered its third death in six months.
She was buried in the graveyard of the church where she and Rupert had been married. Apart from the priest there was no one but Kitty’s parents and Rupert and Fran at the church or the graveside. Sir James and Lady Blake stood rigidly dry-eyed as their daughter’s coffin was lowered into the ground, Rupert and Fran beside them. Rupert watched as Kitty’s mother scattered a handful of soil into the grave, heard it clatter on the coffin lid and felt ineffably sad. He hadn’t loved Kitty as a wife should be loved, but he had loved her as a childhood friend and bitterly mourned her passing. Frances stood erect and silent at his side and he wondered at her strength. Three funerals of people she loved. All that were left to her now were him and their mother.
Amabel still spent her days in her parlour, and though Rupert had told her that poor Kitty had died in childbirth, she had simply given him a sweet smile and said, ‘How very sad. Poor Justin!’
Rupert moved himself and his office back into Pilgrim’s Oak itself. The Dower House, with its memories of Kitty’s short tenure, was too sad a place to live and he knew that Fran would welcome his company back in the main house. Their mother was far beyond running a household, and Fran continued with the task as she had since Justin’s accident. It was to her that Mrs Crowley came for orders every day.
Rupert threw himself into the running of the estate. The two estates would never be joined as Sir James and Sir Philip had planned, and it was unlikely Sir James would now fund any of the improvements Rupert had been planning. He would have to do what he could on his own, and he was beginning to consider offering some of the tenant farmers the freehold of their land.
If Papa knew I were disposing of land, he thought ruefully, he’d be spinning in his grave.
It was one evening in late March when he was searching his desk drawers for a tenancy agreement that he found Annette’s letter. It was several weeks old now. With everything that had happened, he had almost forgotten about it. He had certainly never replied. He read it again, and again wondered what had happened to the lost letters. Had someone intercepted them? It was just possible, he supposed, but again he came up against the problem of who would do such a thing. Surely no one at Pilgrim’s Oak. He didn’t want to believe that; he couldn’t believe it. Someone at Belair? But why? Monsieur and Madame St Clair had already accepted him as a suitor for their daughter. He read Annette’s letter through again. Was it too late to reply to it now? She had kept her promise to write to him about Hélène, and though such a long time had passed, she deserved an answer. Before he could change his mind, he sat down at the desk and picked up his pen.
He was about to send the
letter to her at Gavrineau. After all, that was where Hélène would be living now, and where she was, Annette would be too. But something made him hesitate. If his letters had gone missing before, the same might happen again. When he had finished writing the letter, he decided to address the envelope to Pierre at Belair.
Pierre could be trusted to pass it on to Annette somehow, Rupert thought as he walked to the village to post the letter. He would rely on Pierre as he had relied on Annette, for he knew that both of them had Hélène’s interests at heart.
Chapter 44
Hélène was sewing a pocket into the seam of a skirt. As she completed the task she snipped off the thread and smoothed the fabric to be sure that the pocket itself lay flat along the seam, ready for pressing. Hélène had been taught to sew as a child, but Annette had had to teach her how to iron the pocket and the seams when it had been stitched in place. Now she was proficient; she could have the sewing ready and pressed for return by the next day. Today she had been given five skirts and was supposed to be fitting two pockets into each. The sewing was simple and she found her mind wandered as she plied her needle. She was alone in the apartment and would be most of the day. Annette had already left for the St Eustache market, where she had been given work on one of Jeannot’s stalls. Despite the job being menial, sometimes including the plucking of a freshly killed chicken for a customer, she had been pleased to accept Jeannot’s offer of work – it gave her the freedom to come and go as she chose.
‘Chickens!’ cried Hélène when she told her. ‘You’ve got to pluck chickens!’
‘Isn’t as if I haven’t done it a hundred times before,’ Annette said, giving her a sideways look. ‘Working in the kitchens at Belair, perhaps? How d’you think them birds came to the table without their feathers on!’
‘I never thought about it,’ admitted Hélène, thinking even as she said it that she had seldom thought about any of the jobs the servants at Belair carried out on a daily basis. ‘But I should hate to do it!’
Annette laughed. ‘It’s not that bad,’ she said. ‘You could do it if you had to. You can do anything if you have to. You’d never used an iron till you came here, or cooked a meal, now you’re a dab hand at both.’
‘I’m getting there,’ replied Hélène with a rueful smile.
Today as she sewed she thought of her mother, living with Louise at the house in the Avenue Ste Anne. Poor Maman, she thought, she has no idea where I am.
She remembered her conversation with Annette after Pierre had brought news from home. Her father had disowned her, remaining entirely unforgiving of the shame she had brought on the family, but her mother, Pierre had said, showed some sympathy. As she thought of this now, Hélène realised just how much she longed to see her mother. She wanted to feel her mother’s arms around her as she explained how Simon had behaved towards her, how he had threatened more. Even though she had been away from Belair and Simon’s threats for some weeks now, she still had the occasional nightmare – a throwback to when she had been in the clutches of the Gaston man.
Most of the time she could be strong, but on occasion, like now when she was alone in the apartment, she felt like a young, confused child, and wanted her mother.
She finished the sewing and thought about heating the iron on the kitchen stove but, staring listlessly at the pile of skirts, made no move to do so.
Suppose she went back to the Avenue Ste Anne, just for a short visit, just to see her mother. She need not say where she was living, but simply tell her that she was safe, and that whatever happened to her, she would never, never marry Simon. She would make no mention of Pierre or of his part in her escape. He was their link with Belair. She wouldn’t mention Madame Sauze, either. They needed to remain in her mother’s employ, and though perhaps Maman would not dismiss them for what they had done, if her father found out, he certainly would and she couldn’t be responsible for them losing their livelihoods.
When Annette returned from the market that evening, Hélène had cooked their evening meal. Unsurprisingly, it was chicken that she had stewed in a pot with some of the vegetables Annette had brought from the market. As they sat over their meal, Hélène suggested casually that she might visit her mother.
Annette stared at her, aghast. ‘Hélène! Really! You can’t possibly. It would be far too dangerous. Supposing Simon is having the house watched.’
‘I doubt if he is still,’ answered Hélène, ‘even if he was once.’
‘But why take the risk? You’re safe here; we are comfortable in the apartment, and we are both earning money to keep us. We aren’t a burden to Aunt Agathe. Until we hear that Simon is going to marry someone else, we can stay here and he’ll never find us.’
‘I know,’ replied Hélène with a sigh, ‘it’s just that my mother must be worried about me. All I’d do would be to see her and tell her I’m safe. I wouldn’t tell her where we are.’
‘And she’d tell your father and possibly Simon, too.’
‘She might tell them that she’d seen me, but she’d still have no idea where we’re living.’
‘It would be madness,’ said Annette flatly. ‘Really, Hélène, you must put the idea out of your mind. Maybe in a couple of months, but why take the risk now, when you’re safe?’
Hélène didn’t answer and Annette went on, ‘I remember you telling me that Simon would never give up looking for you. What’s changed your mind? He’s still the same Simon.’
‘But whatever happens, I’ll never marry him.’
No, thought Annette bitterly, but what about us? Pierre, Aunt Agathe and me, who helped you escape? She kept these thoughts to herself, but in all their time together, it was the first time Annette resented Hélène’s reliance on them.
That night Hélène lay in bed going over their conversation. Though Annette hadn’t said any more, Hélène had recognised the tension between them. Annette was right, of course; it would be stupid to give Simon any chance of finding her. She would have to wait a while longer before making contact with her mother.
Annette left the next morning, taking the skirts with her to return to the dressmaker. ‘I expect there’ll be some more of these,’ she said as she folded them into a bag. ‘With the summer coming people are going to want some lighter skirts. If there are, I’ll collect them on my way home.’
Hélène had nothing to fill her day. She cleared the breakfast bowls away, thinking with a wry smile that washing up was another thing she’d learned to do since she’d left home. Once that was done, however, she had little enthusiasm for any other housekeeping duties. She looked out of the window. The day was overcast but dry. Should she go out? Take the air? Simply to get out of the apartment? She had nowhere particular to go, but she knew she could not stay alone in the apartment all day.
With sudden decision she put on her coat and hat and, locking the front door behind her, she went quickly down the stairs and out into the street. Pausing on the pavement, she wondered which way to go, but eventually turned right and walked up the narrow road, coming out onto a main thoroughfare. She did not look behind her, entirely unaware of the man who loped along in her wake. She had forgotten how busy the city streets could be, and as she walked she was often pushed and shoved by other pedestrians as they hurried about their business. Dressed as she was in the simple clothes of a working woman, she did not receive the consideration which might have been accorded to her had she been dressed more fashionably. At first she made no conscious decision as to her direction, wandering without purpose, but as she headed further west she realised she was going in the direction of Passy, the direction leading to the Avenue Ste Anne. When at last she saw the church of Our Lady of Sorrows, the church she and her family always attended when they were in Paris, she knew that she was within a stone’s throw of their house. She was nearly home.
She paused on the steps of the church and considered what she should do. Annette said it would be mad to risk going to the house, but she was so close. She hadn’t set out to come here,
but somehow her feet had brought her nonetheless. She knew Annette was right, she could not simply walk up to the front door; anyone might see her, and when the door was opened, all the servants would know that she had come home. Even if her mother did not speak of it, there would be no keeping her reappearance from her father or Simon. Perhaps she should simply turn round and go back to her refuge in the apartment in Batignolles.
But what if…? As she stood hesitantly on the church steps, she had an idea. When she had been hiding in the stables during the siege, her brothers, Georges and Marcel, had always come and gone by way of a small wooden gate set in the high stone wall that surrounded the garden. The gate opened onto a narrow lane outside; it was the way that Jeannot always used when he came visiting Pierre.
I could go in that way, she thought now. No one would notice me going into the stable yard. I could wait in the stables for Pierre and perhaps he could fetch Maman. I could see her in the stables and no one else in the house would even know I’d been there.
She looked down at the shabby clothes she was wearing, bought by Annette from a market stall. She hardly looked like the daughter of the house. Anyone seeing her in the street would assume she was a maid bringing a message. All she had to do was to walk along the road and turn into the lane that ran down the side of the house and it would be most unlikely that anyone would give her a second glance. She could simply slip in through the garden gate, and if that were locked, she might use the port cochère where the carriage turned into the stable yard.
She descended the church steps, and having looked carefully about her and seen only an empty street, she set off towards the house and turned into the lane. From the opposite side of the road, a pair of eyes watched her. Despite her confident walk or maybe because of it, there was something about her that drew their owner’s attention and he watched her first try the garden gate, which was locked, and then slip into the yard through the port cochère.
The French Wife Page 35
