Hélène and Annette accompanied Rosalie to Paris the following day. They were both pleased to be going, Hélène because she was missing Rupert too much at Belair and Annette because she wanted Hélène safely away from Simon Barnier. They travelled up by train, but Emile had sent Pierre with them so that he could drive them in the light chaise that they kept in town, and the first few days were spent shopping and visiting friends.
Pierre was delighted to be able to spend time back in his loft above the stables. Over the ten years he had worked for the St Clairs it had become entirely his place, and he felt far more at home there than in a similar loft above the stables at Belair. It was there that the street urchin, Jeannot, would visit him whenever he heard that Pierre was back in the city. Pierre never knew how Jeannot learned of his arrival so quickly, but he clearly had his sources, as Pierre could be sure of seeing his grinning face looking round the stable door within a day or two of his arrival.
Jeannot had prospered after the Communard siege. Having removed fifteen francs from Emile’s desk when the house had been left empty for a while, he’d used his new-found capital to start his own business. He employed street boys like his former self and had a booming trade in pickpocketed goods and, even more lucrative, information. Jeannot was now a main man, respected in the Paris underworld, a man to be reckoned with.
Together, two children alone, he and Hélène had survived the siege and the bloody civil war that ended it. With the arrival of peace, their lives had taken very different paths and though he seldom had the opportunity to see Hélène, Jeannot continued to feel protective of her. It was for this reason that one of his scouts kept an eye on the house in the Avenue Ste Anne, how Jeannot always knew when the family was in residence. The last time he had seen Hélène was at her sister’s wedding. He had travelled down to St Etienne and joined those lining the street to watch the bride and groom ride home after the ceremony, and in the second carriage he had seen her, Hélène, dressed in pale yellow with flowers in her hair, her sister’s bridesmaid. He had risked a visit to Pierre in the Belair stables the next day, but had caught no glimpse of her.
Pierre had always had a soft spot for the boy and was not surprised when Jeannot put his head round the door the day after they’d arrived in Paris this time.
‘Well, Jeannot,’ he said. ‘Thought we might see you.’ The two men sat together on the bales of straw, sharing a beer and chatting as comfortably as they always had.
‘Who’s here?’ Jeannot asked casually.
‘Madame St Clair, with Miss Hélène and her maid, Annette.’
‘She has her own maid now, does she?’ Jeannot said, raising his eyebrows.
‘I thought it was you!’ The voice from the doorway broke in on their conversation and the two men turned to see Hélène standing on the threshold. Both stood up as she walked into the stable to join them, saying, ‘I saw you from my bedroom window, Jeannot, creeping into the yard.’
‘I didn’t creep, Hélène, I walked in like a Christian.’
‘Miss Hélène,’ murmured Pierre, ‘you shouldn’t be in here with us.’
‘Why not?’ Hélène shot back. ‘I always was before.’
‘And remember the trouble it got you into? Madame would not be pleased.’
‘My mother is out,’ replied Hélène. ‘She took a fiacre to visit her dressmaker.’
‘It still isn’t proper for you to be out here,’ Pierre maintained, ‘without even your maid.’
‘Oh, if that’s the problem,’ Hélène said cheerfully, ‘I’ll call Annette, shall I?’
Jeannot looked at her and realised she’d changed. Last time they had sat together in this stable had been just before Clarice’s wedding. Hélène had been a young girl, full of excitement about the wedding, telling Jeannot of all the important people who would be attending, the latter information interesting him very much. Now, however, she was different. That girl was gone and in her place was a young woman, an adult, relaxed and confident.
At that moment Annette appeared at the door. ‘Miss Hélène,’ she said breathlessly, ‘your mother has returned, she’s paying off the fiacre.’
‘Then I suppose I’d better go indoors,’ replied Hélène, ‘but I shan’t need you for a while, Annette.’ She gave Pierre a grin and disappeared, leaving the other three staring after her.
‘She’s changed,’ Jeannot said.
‘She’s in love,’ replied Annette as she sat down beside Pierre on his straw bale.
‘In love?’ laughed Jeannot. ‘Is that all?’
‘With an Englishman.’
‘An Englishman!’ Jeannot was horrified. ‘What’s wrong with someone French?’
‘He’s a good man,’ Annette said. ‘He’ll look after her.’
‘What about you two, then?’ asked Jeannot with a grin as he saw Pierre with his arm round Annette’s waist. ‘You look pretty close an’ all.’
‘None of your business!’ retorted Pierre, though he grinned back as he said it.
‘The coachman and the lady’s maid,’ Jeannot said. ‘Sounds like a bar room song to me!’
‘Does it?’ growled Pierre. ‘Well, you can keep such thoughts to yourself, my lad!’
‘All right, all right, keep your hair on. I’m going anyway.’ He stood up and turned to Annette. ‘Nice to meet you, miss. Hope you know what you’re taking on.’ He nodded in Pierre’s direction. ‘Bit of a reprobate this one, yer know!’
‘Who on earth is he?’ demanded Annette when he’d gone, and she settled herself more comfortably against Pierre.
‘He’s a lad who used to work for the St Clairs,’ answered Pierre. ‘Then he and Hélène got trapped in the city during the siege. As you see they both survived, but it made them close despite their different backgrounds. The St Clairs were grateful he’d helped her, but they didn’t want to continue the association, so Hélène sometimes sneaks out here to see him.’
‘And you let her?’
‘I can’t stop her. There was no real harm in it,’ insisted Pierre. ‘I don’t encourage them, but I don’t give them away either.’ He tightened his arm round Annette and added, ‘I can tell you one thing, though, she has nothing to fear from Jeannot. He wouldn’t harm a hair of her head.’
Annette heard voices out in the yard and wriggled free of his arm. ‘I must go in,’ she muttered. ‘That Madame Vernier will be after me.’ And with that she was gone, leaving Pierre wishing he’d kissed her. He hadn’t yet, but found himself increasingly longing to do so. His instinct was to hold back, to take things slowly. She had lost a husband, she’d lost a baby, but the more he saw of her, the better he got to know her, the more he wanted her; he had never wanted anyone more.
When Hélène got back inside, she found her mother standing in the hallway, looking at the post that lay on the table.
Rosalie looked up and smiled. ‘One for you, chérie,’ she said and passed Hélène the envelope.
Hélène took the letter and hurried up to the privacy of her room to open it.
My darling girl,
Hélène smiled. She loved the way he called her his darling girl.
In the first part of the letter he told her about the funeral and the difficult days that followed, preparing her, she thought as she read the rest of the letter, for the disappointing news it also contained.
I shall be needed here for some while yet, my darling. There is much to do, as my father is not well and I have to take over the running of the estate. Justin had already begun to take my father’s place and now I must do the same. As I feared, it does mean that I shan’t be able to come back to St Etienne for a while yet, but I know you’ll understand why. Darling Hélène, remember how much I love you, how I long to hold you in my arms. You are my beloved and one day I shall bring you here as my bride; in the meantime I shall live for your letters. Believe me, I’m forever yours, Rupert.
Well, she thought with a sigh, I am disappointed. I really hoped he might be back soon, even if only for a short visit, but I suppose I do understand that his family must come first for the time being.
She read the letter again, several times, hearing his voice, cherishing his endearments, before she slipped it back in its envelope and put it into the cherrywood box she had bought especially as a repository for his letters. Two rested now beneath its smooth polished lid, and she turned the key to keep them safe.
I shall live for your letters, Rupert had said, and so after dinner that evening, Hélène sat down to write to him again.
*
What made Fran do it she wasn’t sure. It was simply an impulse and she followed it. The postbag from the village lay on the hall table. Mitchell had not yet sorted its contents and Fran, expecting there to be more letters of condolence to be answered, flipped it open and pulled out the letters it contained. There she saw it, a letter addressed to Rupert in flowery foreign script. It had a French stamp and a name on the back of the envelope. Hélène St Clair.
Fran glanced round, but there was no one to see her. Hurriedly she stuffed the letter into the pocket of her skirt and, pushing the rest of the post back into the bag, left it as she had found it, lying on the hall table. With another guilty glance over her shoulder, she hurried upstairs to her bedroom and closed the door behind her. She flopped onto the bed, almost unable to believe what she had done. She had stolen Rupert’s letter. She took it out of her pocket and looked at it. The envelope beckoned, as if urging her to tear it open, but with sudden resolution she resisted the temptation. She had the letter in her possession, but she wasn’t quite sure what she was going to do with it. Perhaps, after some thought, she could replace it in the postbag another day. No one would know when it had actually arrived, so if she decided to do that there was nothing to stop her and no one would suspect. In the meantime, she certainly wasn’t going to open it. It was clearly from the girl in France and Fran had no desire to know what she’d written to Rupert. It was one thing to divert the mail for a couple of days and quite another to read her brother’s private correspondence.
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.