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.
Interesting, he thought. Would she come out again the same way, or would she remain in the house? Either way, he would be able to report her arrival to the man who employed him. He settled down again to wait, as he had waited for several long weeks. Waiting was something he was good at, especially if he received solid coinage for doing so.
Having found the garden gate locked, Hélène had to risk using the wider gates of the port cochère. The yard was empty, and with an anxious glance at the house, she slipped out of sight into the stable block. Pierre was grooming one of the carriage horses and he looked up in surprise.
‘Miss Hélène!’ he hissed. ‘What are you doing here? Why have you come? Is there something wrong? Annette…?’
‘It’s all right, Pierre,’ Hélène said softly, looking round to see if the stable lad was anywhere about. She had forgotten him.
‘What’s all right?’ demanded Pierre. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I came to see my mother,’ Hélène said.
‘To see your mother?’ Pierre was incredulous. ‘Is she expecting you? Have you contacted her?’
‘No, not yet, but I thought if I came here, into the stables, you could fetch her out to see me.’ Seeing his shocked expression turning to one of anger, she hurried on, ‘I won’t go into the house. No one else will see me, and I shan’t stay long.’
‘Have you considered the risk you’re taking?’ Pierre snapped. ‘Not only for yourself, but for us who have been helping you? I can’t believe you’ve simply walked in here in broad daylight. Anyone could have seen you—’
‘I won’t tell her where we’re living,’ interrupted Hélène. ‘I just—’
‘You just didn’t think!’ retorted Pierre, his anger unabated. ‘You must go, now, before anyone sees you.’
‘But Maman—’
‘Your mother is out,’ Pierre told her, not knowing if that was the case or not, but determined that Hélène should make herself scarce and do it as soon as possible. ‘Go! Go now before you waste everything we’ve all done for you.’ He shook his head in despair. ‘Christ, Hélène. You had more sense when you were a kid!’
Hélène could feel the tears pricking at the back of her eyes and turned away. Pierre had never spoken to her like that before, would not have dreamed of doing so, and it was clear that he was far too angry to help her. She lifted her chin and stepped back out into the yard. As she did so, the back door of the house opened and Alice, one of the housemaids, came out carrying a pail of slops, which she tipped down into the drain in the middle of the yard. Glancing up, she saw a young girl in a dark, drab coat and hat slipping out of the gate and disappearing into the lane. She saw Pierre watching her from the stable door and she grinned at him.
‘You’re a dark horse, Pierre,’ she chided. ‘A bit of skirt on the side, eh?’
Pierre gave her a conspiratorial grin, raising a finger to his lips before turning back into the stables. He knew he should have gone out into the street to be sure the coast was clear before he let Hélène leave, but she had been too quick for him and now it would be too late. He could only hope that Alice was the only one who had seen her, and that only from behind. Thank goodness, Pierre thought, she hadn’t recognised her as Hélène St Clair, daughter of the house.
Hélène strode out of the gate, along the lane. She was angry at Pierre’s reaction. How dare he speak to her like that! But she was also angry with herself. She knew in her heart that she should not have come here, that Pierre was right and she had risked everything they had all done for her. With tears in her eyes, she turned out of the lane into the street and headed back the way she had come, passing the church and crossing the park behind it.
The man in the garden of the house opposite eased his way out from the bush that had concealed him. His mark was heading back into the city. All he had to do was follow her, discover where she was living and report back. It would be easy to stay far enough behind her that should she happen to look over her shoulder, he would be just another person among the press of people on the street.
Hélène walked quickly, anxious to get as far away as possible from the Avenue Ste Anne, until she suddenly realised that she had strayed into unfamiliar streets and she didn’t know where she was. The street she was in didn’t look familiar at all. Had she taken a wrong turning? Going towards the Avenue Ste Anne she had recognised landmarks and had found her way easily enough, but now, coming back, she was lost. Where should she turn off? Which of the smaller, meaner streets led back to Batignolles? Had she passed that church? Was that where she must turn left? She paused on a corner and looked about her. Suddenly there was a voice beside her, making her start in fright.
‘All right, darlin’? Lost, are you?’
‘No,’ Hélène snapped. ‘Of course not. Go away!’
‘Just thought I might be goin’ the same way as you, darlin’. We could walk together!’ He reached for her arm and she shook him off, shouting, ‘Let me go!’
‘No need for that,’ grinned the man, gripping her arm more firmly. ‘Why don’t you let me look after you? Pretty girl like you needs looking after!’ He pulled her towards the entrance of a narrow alleyway that ran between two shops, but before they reached it and as if in an echo from her childhood, she heard Jeannot’s voice. ‘Bite, Hélène!’ She lowered her head and sank her teeth into the man’s hand. He gave a bellow of pain and let go, cradling his injured hand against himself. The moment she was free, Hélène took to her heels and ran. With no idea of where she was going she ran, pushing people out of the way, pulling loose from the hands that tried to stop her until she turned the corner into a narrow street with a bakery on the corner. Here she allowed herself to stop and catch her breath. She looked back over her shoulder, but could see no one trying to follow her. She was certainly lost now and needed directions. She knew if she got to St Eustache market she could find her way back to the apartment. But which way was it? She went into the bakery, and keeping an eye on the street outside for any sign of pursuit, she bought a loaf. It was still warm from the second batch of baking and the smell made her mouth water. As she paid for the bread she spoke to the woman behind the counter.
‘Please can you tell me the way to St Eustache?’
The woman looked at her curiously and then said, ‘Out of here and turn left. Follow the street to the end and then turn right, then ask again.’
Hélène thanked her and went back outside. As she turned the corner she heard someone speak her name and, spinning round, found herself face to face with Jeannot.
‘Bread smells good,’ he said. ‘Come on, let’s go back to your apartment and have something to eat.’
‘Jeannot!’ Hélène could hardly believe her eyes. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘What’s it look like? Looking after you, of course. But what you thought you was doing, going back to your house when you know everyone’s on the lookout for you, I don’t know!’
‘How do you know that’s where I’ve been?’ demanded Hélène, a little of her usual spirit returning now that she had him with her.
‘Because,’ he said, ‘I followed you there. Saw you come out of the apartment and wondered where you was off.’
‘You’ve been following me?’ Hélène stared at him. ‘All the way?’
‘Yeah. Didn’t want you running into no trouble, did I?’
‘Well, I didn’t, did I?’ Hélène rounded on him. ‘I got away from that man without your help, didn’t I?’
‘Yeah, when you heard me shout,’ Jeannot concurred with a grin. ‘But he weren’t important, he was only after a bit of fun. No, Hélène, it was the one what was following you back from your house. Wanted to find out where you was hiding, I guess. Work for your fiancé, does he?’
‘No one saw me,’ Hélène asserted hotly. ‘And no one’s following me.’
‘Well, they aren’t now,’ Jeannot agreed as they began to walk down the street. ‘When you ran, he was after you. He ran, but I was faster. A kick in the right place sorted him. ’Spect he’ll be waddling for a few days to come yet.’
‘Someone really was following me?’ Hélène glanced over her shoulder.
‘He ain’t there now,’ Jeannot assured her. ‘And he still don’t know where you live. Doubt if he has any idea, cos you was walking round in circles. Now, are we going to get back to your place before that bread’s gone cold?’
He set off through a myriad of back lanes and very soon Hélène found herself walking down the narrow street that led to Agathe’s apartment building.
She led the way upstairs and opened the front door. Jeannot followed her in and looked round.
‘Not bad,’ he said. ‘Not bad at all. Not quite like your house, though, is it? That why you went back?’
‘No, of course not.’ Hélène went into the small kitchen and put some broth on to heat. Within ten minutes they were sitting at the table with the broth, the fresh bread and a hunk of cheese.
‘Now then,’ Jeannot said as he broke a piece from the baguette and dipped it in the broth. ‘Tell me what on earth’s going on.’
‘It’s a long story…’ Hélène began.
‘Well, give me the short version.’
She did not mention Rupert – well, only in passing as someone she had wondered if she might marry. She told him about Simon, how she’d been encouraged to accept him by her parents, and then how he had threatened her. She explained that she was afraid of him and didn’t dare go home.
‘But you went today,’ Jeannot said. ‘I followed you all the way there.’
‘I wanted to see my mother,’ Hélène said. ‘She must be frantic with worry.’ She paused and added, ‘It’s the second time she’s lost me.’
‘Why don’t you go back, then?’ asked Jeannot. ‘Because of this Barnier bloke? Does he still want to marry you? After you’ve run off an’ that?’
‘I don’t know, but my father is so ashamed of me, Pierre says he won’t let them mention my name at Belair. I might not be allowed back.’
‘Did you see Pierre while you was at the house today?’ asked Jeannot.
‘Yes, I did, and he wasn’t at all pleased to see me. He told me I was risking everything.’
‘He was right,’ Jeannot said firmly. ‘If I hadn’t been watching your back, you’d have led your fiancé’s snout straight here.’
‘He’s not my fiancé,’ snapped Hélène.
‘Well, whoever set that watch on the house wants to know where you are. And whoever it is has been very patient, and today his patience almost paid off.’
‘I know it was stupid,’ admitted Hélène with a sigh, ‘but I can’t stay in this apartment all day on my own while Annette is working in the market. I’m going mad.’
‘Tell you what,’ Jeannot said, ‘one of my lads has been keeping tabs on you. It was only luck that I sent him somewhere else this morning and came to watch for myself. He’ll be back tomorrow. From now on, when you need to go out, he’ll go with you. Make sure you don’t run into any more trouble.’ He grinned. ‘You always was one for gettin’ into trouble, wasn’t you?’
‘Yes,’ returned Hélène ruefully. ‘When I had anything to do with you.’