Earlier that morning Rosalie had watched as Yvette had slipped Clarice’s wedding dress over her head and fastened the row of tiny pearl buttons up the back. As she returned to her bedroom now her eyes filled with tears at the sight of her eldest daughter, ethereal in the beautiful milk-white gown, embroidered with silver flowers, made specially for her by Monsieur Worth. Yvette had dressed her hair, leaving it tumbling to her shoulders as became a maid, with a silver circlet holding the lace veil that would cover her face. She had attached the embroidered train that the children would carry and was standing back to survey her handiwork critically.
‘My darling, you look radiant,’ Rosalie murmured. ‘Lucas is a lucky man. Come, let’s go downstairs to your papa.’
Emile was waiting in the hallway and looked up as Clarice paused at the top of the staircase. Normally an undemonstrative man, he found he had tears in his eyes, and pretending to sneeze, he drew a handkerchief from his pocket to wipe them away.
‘Come, girls,’ Rosalie said to Hélène and Louise, and she shepherded them out to where Pierre was waiting to take them to the Place.
When he returned, Emile handed his daughter up into the barouche, and sitting proudly side by side in the June sunshine, they were driven to the Mairie. As they drove into the Place they were greeted with applause from the crowd who had gathered there to cheer the arrival of the bride. When Emile handed Clarice down from the carriage, she paused for a moment looking up at him, her face misty behind the lace of her veil.
‘Ready, chérie?’ he asked softly.
‘Yes, Papa,’ she replied, ‘quite ready.’
She placed her hand on her father’s arm and took her bouquet from Hélène and then, followed by their close family, they walked up the steps of the Mairie and through the arched doorway into the vestibule, where Lucas was waiting for her.
When they re-emerged some twenty-five minutes later, Clarice’s veil had been thrown back and her face was alight with the joy that filled her, joy that was reflected on her new husband’s face as they paused for a moment on the steps, surrounded by their families. They were welcomed with more cheers and applause from those of the village who had waited patiently in the Place to greet the young couple.
With Clarice’s hand tucked under Lucas’s arm, they descended the steps, and with Hélène close behind to lift the lace train clear of the road, they led the way out of the Place and along the lane that led to the church. More villagers were standing outside it, and it was here that little Monique and Clément waited, ready to carry Aunt Clarice’s train. Delphine held Clément firmly by the hand as he jiggled from foot to foot with excitement, Monique standing solemn and silent, ready for the important part she was about to play.
The newly married couple waited for their families to move into the church and take their places before Lucas led his bride, attended by her bridesmaids, into the coolness of the church and up the aisle to where Father Bernard was waiting for them.
Rupert, sitting in the row behind the Barrineau family, saw Clarice in all her happiness for the first time and thought he’d never seen such a beautiful girl, but that was until he saw the bridesmaids. As Hélène turned to pass Clarice’s two small attendants back to their mother on the other side of the church, he saw her face and changed his mind. Clarice was a woman who had the radiance of a bride who knew she was beautiful; the elder of the two bridesmaids who followed her seemed entirely unaware of her own dark beauty. Despite the fact that the bride was fair-haired and the bridesmaid was dark, there was a definite family likeness, enough for Rupert to be almost certain that they were sisters. Indeed, the third bridesmaid, though much younger, also had the family resemblance, though she still retained the chubbiness of face and form of a younger girl.
Rupert watched the proceedings with interest. He had never been inside a Catholic church before, let alone attended a service, and he was anxious not to remind his hosts that he was not a Catholic and probably should not have been allowed into the church at all. As he watched he thought about this. He had attended the village church with his family as a child, but since he had left home he had given very little thought to religion or God. He supposed that if he were anything, he was Church of England, but, he decided, mostly he wasn’t anything. He was relieved when only the bride and groom took Communion at the nuptial Mass.
When at last it was over and they had been blessed as man and wife in the eyes of God, the newly married couple left the church, Clarice proudly on Lucas’s arm. Standing aside in the porch, Rupert watched the bridesmaids gather round them in the churchyard. The elder of the two, dressed in the palest of yellow silk, was standing in a shaft of sunshine, and it seemed to Rupert that she stood in a halo of light. She was smiling as she remained with the excited children until their nursemaid stepped forward and led them away from the wedding party.
‘Who is she?’ he longed to ask another guest, but he knew no one well enough to pose the question. He continued to watch her until she was handed into a barouche by the bride’s father, also clearly her own.
Led by the bride and groom in the Barrineau landau, a procession of carriages passed back through the village, to the cheers of those watching. Hélène and Louise travelled to the house with their parents in the barouche.
‘Didn’t she look beautiful?’ Emile said. ‘Today I’m a very proud father.’
‘Only today, Papa?’ ventured Hélène.
‘Of course not!’ Emile exclaimed. ‘I’m always proud of her!’
‘He’s proud of all of you,’ Rosalie said, trying to smooth the thoughtlessness of his words, ‘and the children did very well, don’t you think?’
Hélène, well aware of her father’s bias towards Clarice and used to it, didn’t answer but turned away, her gaze drifting over the villagers lining the streets, and it was then that she saw him. Jeannot. At first she thought her eyes must be deceiving her, but as he caught her eye he raised his hand in salute, and seeing his familiar grin she had no doubt that it was indeed Jeannot. She felt a flush of pleasure flood her cheeks and hurriedly she turned her face forward again, having no wish to alert either of her parents to his presence.
Not that they’d recognise him after all this time, she thought, but you never know. Hélène knew they would want no reminder of the time she and Jeannot had survived together in the besieged city of Paris. For the rest of the short journey back to the house she wondered what he was doing in St Etienne and whether she’d be able to see him. She looked up at Pierre’s straight back on the box in front and wondered if he had seen Jeannot as well. He had always had a soft spot for the street urchin – had he perhaps known that he was going to come?
When they arrived back at the house, they all alighted from the barouche and Pierre quickly led the horses away to make room for the carriage following. There had been no chance for Hélène to speak to him, nor would there be for the rest of the day, but she was determined to ask him about Jeannot as soon as she could.
The promise of the early morning had not failed; it was a perfect June day, and once they had been formally received in the house, the guests walked out into the garden, where hired waiters offered glasses of wine and lemonade. Hélène had slipped upstairs to her own room, and from her usual perch on the window seat, she watched as more guests emerged through the drawing room doors to stand in the sunshine awaiting the call to the wedding breakfast, to be served in the large pavilion that had been erected on the lower lawn. Hélène knew that very soon she must make her own appearance but for a moment she leaned out of the window a little and looked across at the stables. She could see Pierre and Henri rubbing down the horses in the yard. Was Jeannot there too? She couldn’t see him.
At that moment her door opened and Louise appeared.
‘Maman says where are you? She says you’re to come down at once.’
‘I’m coming,’ Hélène replied, and having tucked an escaped tendril of hair behind her ear, she glanced in the mirror to ensure she was tidy before following her sister down the stairs.
Rupert had been driven to Belair in one of the Barrineau carriages. He lingered outside the front door, allowing other guests to overtake him, and thus it was that Hélène was coming down the stairs in answer to her mother’s summons as he came into the hall. As she saw him walk through the door she paused on the staircase, wondering who he was. She didn’t think she’d ever seen him before and decided he must be one of Lucas’s cousins.
For a moment Rupert was at a loss, his normal self-confidence deserting him as, almost ethereal in her pale silk, a wreath of flowers on her dark hair, she stood looking down at him.
Hélène’s well-bred manners came to their aid and she descended the last few stairs, saying, ‘How do you do? I don’t think we’ve been introduced. Are you a cousin of Lucas’s?’
Rupert pulled himself together and said, ‘No, a friend, from London.’
Hélène’s eyes widened. ‘You’re English?’
Rupert, suddenly returning to himself, gave her a lopsided grin. ‘Afraid so. Rupert Chalfont, at your service.’ He held out his hand, and when Hélène took it in hers and replied, ‘I’m Clarice’s sister, Hélène St Clair,’ he raised it to his lips and murmured, ‘Enchanté, mademoiselle.’
At that moment Didier came through the hall and stopped abruptly when he saw Hélène, her hand being kissed by one of the gentleman guests, whom he did not recognise and to whom she clearly had not been properly introduced. With disapproval in every line of his body, he said, ‘Miss Hélène, your mother is looking for you in the garden.’
‘Yes, I know, Didier, I’m just coming. Please excuse me, monsieur.’ And leaving Rupert standing in the hall, she hurried out into the garden.
‘Allow me to announce you to your hostess,’ Didier said stiffly. ‘She is in the garden now that she has already received her guests.’ He gave Rupert a chilly look, clearly wondering if this stranger was indeed one of the invited guests or some interloper who should be shown the door immediately.
‘Thank you, Didier.’ Rupert spoke loftily, very much the aristocrat. ‘I fear I was detained and have yet to meet my hostess.’
‘What name shall I announce… sir?’
‘Rupert Chalfont, the guest of Monsieur Lucas Barrineau.’
When they had reached the garden and the introduction had been made, Rosalie said, ‘It’s a pleasure to welcome you here, monsieur, on such a happy occasion. I understand that you have few acquaintances here, but I hope you will make yourself known to some of our other guests.’
Rupert smiled, his handsome face alight with pleasure. ‘Thank you, madame, you’re very kind.’
I don’t know what Suzanne was worried about, Rosalie thought as she watched him walk among her other guests, accepting a glass of wine from a waiter as he did so. He seems utterly charming.
When the guests were summoned into the pavilion for the wedding breakfast, Rupert found himself again seated with members of the Barrineau family. As before, he had Madame Beaumont on his left, but today on his right was an elderly lady who had been brought to the table in a bath chair. Suzanne accompanied her and said, ‘Monsieur Chalfont, allow me to introduce my mother-in-law, Madame Barrineau. Madame, this is Monsieur Rupert Chalfont, Lucas’s English friend.’
Once the old lady was settled in her seat, she raised her lorgnettes and, peering at Rupert with shrewd blue eyes, said rather disconcertingly, ‘Come looking for a French bride, have you?’
Rupert smiled. ‘That wasn’t my intention, but now I am surrounded by so many beautiful ladies, perhaps I shall find myself a wife.’ Taking a risk, he added, ‘Are you available, madame?’
For a moment he thought he’d made a mistake, but then the blue eyes crinkled into a smile and she said, ‘Yes, but be sure you want to ask me, for I might accept and then where would you be, eh?’
‘The happiest man alive,’ Rupert replied at once, his own eyes twinkling in return.
The old lady gave a cackle of laughter. ‘You must be the despair of your mother,’ she remarked.
And Rupert, shaking his head sadly, answered, ‘Yes, madame, I think you’re probably right.’
The bridal pair were seated at a flower-bedecked table on a raised dais with their parents and attendants. From her seat beside Emile St Clair, Suzanne looked across at Louis’s mother, now chatting easily with the Englishman, and sighed. The old lady, usually so difficult to please, seemed to be charmed by the young man next to her. He was charming – even she, Suzanne, could see that – and it made her even more determined to keep Lucie away from him. She needn’t have worried, however, for Rupert had completely forgotten Lucas’s young sister. He was only interested in one woman in the room, in the world, he might have said, and she was sitting with the bride and groom and their parents. Once he saw her look across to his table and meet his eyes with the flicker of a smile, but most of the time her attention was given to her family, and he, knowing that he’d discovered some sort of ally in the Barrineau household, gave his to the elderly lady on his right.