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 there. 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 picture. 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.
‘It’s difficult,’ he began.
‘Is it? Well, I shan’t know what you’re talking about unless you tell me, so do come straight to the point. I always think that’s best when you have something unpleasant to say.’
‘It’s not unpleasant, it’s just difficult.’
‘For goodness’ sake, Rupert, tell me.’
‘Right.’ And Rupert took the plunge. ‘My family think it would be beneficial all round if you and I got married.’
‘I see,’ Kitty responded coolly. ‘But you don’t want to.’
‘It’s not that exactly…’
‘Then what is it… exactly?’
‘I wanted to know what you thought of the idea,’ Rupert said, then continued without giving her time to answer. ‘I mean, it’s far too soon for you to be thinking again of marriage. You loved Justin and you can’t simply take me instead, like replacing a pair of lost shoes.’
‘So why are we talking about it?’ asked Kitty quietly.
‘My father is dying,’ Rupert told her. ‘He has the wasting sickness, like my grandfather. He knows he hasn’t long to live.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ murmured Kitty.
‘He is anxious to see me settled at Pilgrim’s Oak.’
‘Well, you are, are you not?’
‘Of course. It’s my duty to stay.’
‘And you feel it’s your duty to marry me?’ Kitty gave him a quizzical look.
‘It’s something we both wanted once,’ he replied quietly.
‘And now you don’t, because of Justin’s death.’
‘Something like that, I suppose.’
‘I do understand, Rupert,’ Kitty said. ‘If Justin hadn’t died there would be no question of our being married. But we can’t bring him back, much as we’d like to, so we have to look to the future. If we agree that we should marry at some time in the future and it is only the speed with which we are contemplating it that concerns you, well, that is nobody’s business but our own. Wishing to be married before your father dies puts a completely different complexion on the whole thing; it can give offence to no one.’
‘But what about you, Kitty? It may not be something you want, ever.’
‘I want to be married,’ she answered. ‘I want to have children. With you I could do both. Of course it would be more seemly to wait, but in the circumstances, it would be unkind to your father to do so.’
‘Your parents may not agree,’ Rupert warned. ‘Your mother will surely worry about the proprieties.’
‘She may,’ agreed Kitty, ‘but my father will not. He has always been keen for an alliance between our families.’
‘He’s a practical man and thinks of the estate,’ remarked Rupert, remembering his conversation with Sir James at the funeral.
‘He does, but he also wants to see me comfortably established. If we did decide to marry, he would be happy for both reasons.’ She smiled at him and added, ‘But it must be your decision, Rupert. You will have to propose our marriage. It won’t come from me.’
Rupert rode home with his mind in turmoil. There was no doubt that news of his visit to Kitty would soon come to Sir James’s ears – the servants would see to that – and Sir James would put two and two together and be expecting a visit from him. Speaking with Kitty he had almost proposed to her there and then, firmly dismissing any further thoughts of Hélène, but he held back, as one tiny corner of his mind warned, ‘Suppose you get home and find a letter waiting – it will be too late.’
There was no letter. The following day he rode back to Marwick House to ask Sir James’s permission to marry his daughter.
They were wed three weeks later in a quiet ceremony at the village church and together moved into the Dower House, as Kitty and Justin had planned.
No one mentioned Hélène St Clair, and if Kitty suspected there might have been someone else, she asked no questions. She had accepted Justin as second best and hoped he wouldn’t realise it, and she didn’t want to know if Rupert had accepted her in the same way. With a heavy heart, Rupert wrote one last time to Hélène, telling her of his marriage; and to save any awkward questions from Kitty, he walked to the village and posted the letter himself.