The letter arrived at Belair on a cold morning in early December. The world beyond the windows was white with overnight frost, unmelted by the pale winter sun. Hélène was sitting in the morning room by the fire reading when Didier brought in the post. He had seen that there was a letter from England, and knowing how long Hélène had been waiting for one, he brought it straight to her. When she saw the handwriting, the blood drained from her face. Rupert!
Didier saw her change of countenance and ventured to ask, ‘Are you quite well, Miss Hélène?’
‘Yes, of course, Didier,’ snapped Hélène. Then, realising how rude she had sounded, she said, ‘I’m sorry, Didier, but I’m quite all right.’ She thanked him for bringing her post, and as soon as he had withdrawn, she hurried up to her room where she could lock her door and be undisturbed.
Didier was unconvinced, and knowing that Madame St Clair was out, he went in search of Annette, who was in the kitchen with Agathe Sauze.
‘A letter has come for Miss Hélène,’ he told them. ‘From England. She went quite pale and I think she almost fainted. Madame is out, but I think someone should go to her in case it’s bad news.’
Annette was on her feet at once. ‘I’ll go. Where is she?’
‘In the morning room,’ replied Didier.
Annette hurried to the morning room but when she found it empty, she ran upstairs to Hélène’s bedroom and tapped on the door. No reply came from within and she knocked again before trying the handle, only to find the door was locked. She called Hélène’s name but received no reply.
Hélène heard her knock, but she was beyond answering. She had just opened and read her letter and her world had crashed about her ears. She couldn’t speak. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she understood what he had written. No my darling girl, the opening words she loved so much – it simply began,
Dear Hélène,
The letter was short, but its content felt like a hammer blow, and she sank down onto her bed, overcome with a physical pain in her chest.
When you stopped answering my letters, I realised that you must have changed your mind about our engagement. Obviously you thought a clean break was for the best and so, though I don’t understand what made your wishes change, I respected your decision and ceased writing to you.
This is the last letter you will have from me but I felt the necessity of letting you know that, at the behest of my family, I am now married to a young lady whose family land is neighbour to our own. As I have known her since childhood, it seemed a sensible way forward and both families are pleased with this union.
The time I spent with you at Belair will always be precious to me, but I can see now that it would have been difficult for you to uproot yourself and move to another country where you knew no one and didn’t speak the language, and I understand your change of heart.
I wish you every happiness, Hélène. Think kindly of me, as I do of you.
Yours, Rupert Chalfont
Hélène cried until she had no more tears and lay, exhausted, on her bed. The door was still locked, and hearing nothing from inside, Annette was terrified that Hélène might have harmed herself. What on earth could have been in that letter to provoke such a reaction? She hurried down to the kitchen to consult with Madame Sauze as to what they should do. They both went back upstairs, but no amount of knocking elicited a response.
‘Should we break open the door?’ Annette cried. ‘What can she be doing in there?’
The decision was taken for them by the arrival home of Madame St Clair. Immediately she heard what had happened she rushed up the stairs and banged on Hélène’s door. When there was no response, she sent Annette to fetch Pierre from the stables. ‘And tell him to bring a crowbar,’ she called after her.
Within minutes Pierre appeared, crowbar in hand. ‘Get the door open somehow, Pierre,’ Rosalie instructed.
‘It’ll damage the door, madame,’ he said.
‘Just do it!’ snapped Rosalie and she watched as Pierre set to work, attacking the door about its lock.
Moments later, with a loud cracking of wood, the door flew open and Rosalie rushed into the room, closely followed by Annette. Hélène lay, a still form on the bed, the crumpled letter beside her. Annette went immediately to the bedside and gave a cry of relief when she saw that with the sudden invasion of her room, Hélène had opened her eyes and was staring unfocused at the crowd. She was pale and tear-stained, but she was struggling to sit up.
‘Hélène!’ Annette cried. ‘Thank God you’re all right.’
Rosalie picked up the letter and read it quickly. It explained everything. No wonder Hélène had been in despair. Not only had Rupert married someone else, he had done so without warning Hélène that he considered their engagement over. It was done and there’d be no going back. The mention of no letters was clearly an excuse to get him off the hook of an unwanted betrothal. Rosalie seethed with anger. And she had thought him an honourable man!
Seeing her daughter’s confusion, Rosalie shooed them all from the room before returning to the bedside to take Hélène’s hands in hers. She looked down at the tear-streaked face, the eyes swollen with crying, and, gathering her into her arms, rocked her like a baby.
At last Hélène broke free and scrubbed her eyes with the handkerchief her mother handed her.
‘He’s married,’ she said flatly. ‘Rupert’s married.’
‘I know,’ Rosalie said gently.
‘He says I didn’t write, but I did, several letters’ – her voice broke on a sob – ‘but he never wrote back.’
‘Perhaps he didn’t receive them for some reason,’ murmured Rosalie, though she didn’t believe that for a minute; he had just used that as an excuse.
Hélène latched on to this and said, ‘That must be the answer. I can write and tell him I did write.’
‘But if he didn’t receive your other letters, chérie, he probably won’t get that one either. And you have to accept,’ she continued firmly, ‘that it doesn’t matter now, one way or the other. He’s married to someone else and that’s an end to it.’ She knew it sounded unfeeling, but there was no way she was going to allow Hélène to write another word to the monster who had led her on in such a dishonourable way and then pushed her aside when someone else came along. ‘A better prospect,’ Emile had suggested and it seemed he was right. Hélène had been brushed aside for ‘a better prospect’, and Rosalie felt the rage build up inside her.
Well, she thought, she’ll not give him the satisfaction of any more tears. ‘Think kindly of me’! Huh, they would never think of him again.
‘Come along now, chérie,’ she said briskly. ‘You must get up and wash your face and then come down for lunch. This afternoon you must have a rest in the drawing room, ready for this evening.’
‘This evening?’ Hélène looked at her blankly.
‘This evening… at Gavrineau. Madame Barnier’s card party.’
‘Oh, Maman, I couldn’t possibly…’
‘Yes, my dearest, you could and you must. You cannot allow the world to see you so distressed. Face the world proudly, with your head held high and a smile on your face, and people will soon forget that you ever met Rupert Chalfont, let alone became engaged to him. Come along, now. Up you get. I’ll send Annette to you, and when you’re ready just come downstairs. Don’t worry, no one will say anything. I shall speak to your papa, and Rupert Chalfont will never be mentioned in this house again.’
Rosalie was glad that they had an evening engagement. It would stop Hélène sitting at home brooding on Rupert’s perfidy. Rosalie had been delighted when they received the invitation to Madame Barnier’s card party at Gavrineau. It was clearly a select gathering, just four card tables and a light supper, and it would be a chance for Hélène and Simon to spend some time together. Now she was even more pleased; Hélène had received a blow to her confidence and the sooner she had another man paying court to her, the better. The quickest way to forget all about Rupert was to fall in love with someone else. Simon was tall and good-looking and could be extremely charming when he chose. She had no doubt the news that Rupert Chalfont had married someone else would percolate through to become general knowledge, but if Hélène could be seen to be unmoved by it, it would be clear she was, perhaps, ready to consider another proposal.
She would share none of these thoughts with Hélène, but she was determined that all memory of Rupert should fade as quickly as possible from local recollection. They had all been taken in by him and the sooner he was forgotten the better.
When her mother left the room, Hélène crawled off the bed and, crossing to the window seat, looked out at the garden. In her mind’s eye she saw not the bare flowerbeds of the winter garden, still gleaming frostily in the pale sunshine, but the pavilion that had been erected for Clarice’s wedding, the rose garden in fragrant and colourful bloom and the seat where she had sat with Rupert, Georges and Sylvie. She would always remember that night, the night when she had first seen him, standing at the bottom of the stairs, and her heart had begun to thud.
On the day he’d left to return to England they had declared their love to each other, and when she had said, ‘I shall remember today as long as I live, sitting with you beside the river and having our picnic,’ he’d replied, ‘It’s the day you said you’d marry me; for that reason it will be with me all my life.’ With his promise and a kiss, he had left her, and now he was married to someone else.
When Annette came back upstairs, bringing hot water to wash with and a soft, warm towel to dry her face, she found Hélène sitting, staring dry-eyed down at the garden.
‘He’s married,’ she said. ‘He’s married someone else, Annette.’
‘Then you must forget him,’ stated Annette firmly. ‘He belongs to her now.’ She poured the warm water into the china bowl on the dresser and, as if speaking to a child, encouraged Hélène to sponge her face and wash her hands. Then she made her sit down in front of the dressing table and released her hair, which she brushed soothingly until it was shining. Yvette had taught her well and it wasn’t long before Hélène, though still looking pale, was ready to go down to the dining room for the midday meal.
‘Are you all right?’ Annette asked as she paused on the landing. ‘Is there anything more I can do for you?’
‘No,’ Hélène replied quietly. ‘There’s nothing anyone can do.’
By the time she reached the dining room, Rosalie had spoken with Emile and impressed on him the importance of saying nothing about a letter coming, or anything that might upset Hélène’s fragile equilibrium, and the meal passed off easily enough.
‘Don’t worry about her,’ Emile said to Rosalie. ‘She’ll soon get over him. She’s a strong character – remember how she survived during the siege?’
Rosalie did remember; it was a memory she would have preferred to forget, for it still frightened her.
After luncheon, as she rested in front of the drawing room fire, Hélène considered whether she would write one last letter to Rupert, to tell him that she hadn’t cut him off. But the more she thought about it, the more she came to the conclusion her mother had been right. Whatever the rights and wrongs of the correspondence, Rupert was married; it was too late to alter that and he was lost to her.
Following her mother’s instructions, Hélène dressed to go out for the evening, in gown the colour of clotted cream that set off her gleaming dark hair to perfection. Annette had dressed it in a simple but becoming style and threaded cream ribbons through her curls to hold them in place. She looked at herself in the mirror, and seeing how pale she was, she pinched her cheeks to bring some colour to her skin.
Pierre drove them to Gavrineau, and when they walked into the drawing room to be received by Madame Barnier, remembering her mother’s advice, she held her head high and smiled as she greeted her hostess. From across the room Simon watched her, and the sight of her, elegant and upright in the simplicity of her cream dress, took his breath away. She had never looked more beautiful. As yet he knew nothing of Rupert’s marriage, but he was already determined to supplant the effete Englishman in her affections.