Two days after Hélène’s visit to the Avenue Ste Anne, Emile St Clair arrived at the Paris house.
‘I shall be staying a week or so,’ he told Rosalie. ‘I’ve been sadly neglecting my work with everything that has happened. But when I return to Belair after next weekend, I shall expect you and Louise to return with me. It is time that we get on with our lives and stop skulking in Paris.’
‘I have not been skulking,’ retorted Rosalie. ‘Louise and I have been living perfectly normal lives here. It won’t be long before Louise will have to be introduced to society and we have been refurbishing her wardrobe.’
‘Nevertheless,’ Emile insisted. ‘We shall all be going back to Belair as soon as I have seen to my business affairs here in Paris.’ He paused at his study door and, looking back, said, ‘Tell Pierre I want him.’
Pierre knocked on the door and, when summoned inside, waited for instructions.
‘I shall be going to my office tomorrow morning,’ Emile said. ‘Please bring the chaise round at half past nine.’
‘Yes, monsieur.’ Pierre spoke with great respect, wondering as he did so whether his employer had any idea of his part in Hélène’s escape. But when Emile spoke again, it was evident that he had no suspicions as he said, ‘We shall all be returning to Belair after the weekend. We shall take the train, but I want you to bring the chaise down to the country. I may have to come up to town now and then, but Madame will not be returning to Paris in the foreseeable future.’ He looked up at his coachman and added, ‘When we are back at Belair, life will revert to how it was. I want no speculation about my daughter or her whereabouts among the servants. I shall rely on you, Didier and Madame Sauze to ensure this is so. You understand?’
‘Yes, sir.’ There was no other answer Pierre could give. He turned to leave the room but was called back by Emile.
‘I nearly forgot,’ he said, opening the attaché case that lay on his desk. ‘A letter came for you at Belair.’ He handed Pierre an envelope, remarking, ‘From England, I see.’ He raised an eyebrow as if in query. Thinking fast, Pierre said, ‘Thank you, monsieur. It’ll be from my cousin who has a position in London.’
Emile gave a vague nod, and taking this as his dismissal, Pierre quickly left the room before any further questions could be asked. He did not know who the letter was from – he had no cousin in London – but he had once written to Rupert Chalfont and it was just possible that this could be a long-delayed reply to that letter. He went to his quarters above the stables and tore it open, only to find that the letter was not written to him at all. It began Dear Annette and was signed Rupert Chalfont.
Unable to contain his curiosity he read it through quickly, only immediately to reread it more slowly, almost not believing what it said. He stuffed the letter back into its envelope and tucked it under his pillow. He must show it to Annette as soon as he could.
Since she had begun working in the market they had been able to see each other as often as Pierre’s work allowed. He would go and give her the letter tomorrow. He was certain that she needed to read it without Hélène’s knowledge, and if he gave it to her in the market they could discuss its implications without Hélène even hearing about it while they decided what to do. Then he remembered he had to drive Monsieur St Clair to his office in the morning. Emile had said that they were returning to the country after the weekend; he just had to hope that his master didn’t keep him fully employed until they left.
Next morning he put the letter in his pocket just in case there was an opportunity to give it to Annette. He had the chaise at the door punctually at nine thirty and it wasn’t long before Emile came out, attaché case in hand. They drove across the city through the morning traffic, and when they reached the architect’s office Emile went in, leaving Pierre to wait in the street. In the office, his secretary, Forquet, had a pile of mail and plenty of questions that needed answers.
‘I’ll just go up to the drawing office first,’ Emile told him, ‘and then I’ll come back and deal with whatever you’ve got.’
The drawing office was busy with the draughtsmen carefully copying plans ready for the builders to take on site. It was several weeks since Emile had taken his design for a house off the Rue St Honoré to show Monsieur Balfour, the man who had commissioned it. Having eventually approved of what he had seen, Monsieur Balfour had decided to proceed and wanted the plans drawn up immediately so the work could begin as soon as the site was cleared. It was a good commission and Emile knew that if it went well it could attract similar design jobs. It would mean that he had to spend some time in Paris, but that did not worry him. Though he insisted that Rosalie and Louise should return to life at Belair, he knew that he himself would be happier away from the village for the foreseeable future.
When he had inspected the work, encouraging the draughtsmen to take exceptional care, he went back down to his office, where Forquet was waiting for him.
‘I see your chaise is waiting in the street,’ he said as Emile came back into the room. ‘Your groom is walking the horse.’
‘Send down to him,’ Emile said. ‘Tell him to come back for me this afternoon. It’s not good for the horse to stand all day. Tell him I shan’t be ready for him until at least three o’clock. I will eat at Le Coutelas. He may find me there.’
Forquet sent an office boy down to Pierre with the message, and Emile saw him drive away before he gave his attention to Forquet and his questions.
Pierre couldn’t believe his good fortune. He had been told earlier that they would be driving round the various sites where Emile had work in progress, and he had relinquished any hope of delivering Rupert’s letter to Annette that day; nor, he’d thought, would there be a chance to discuss its contents. But now Monsieur St Clair was held up in the office and did not want him to return until the afternoon, he had plenty of time. He drove the chaise to Le Coutelas in the next street, where he normally waited for Emile to send for him. He turned in under the sign of the cutlass that hung over the gate and left the horse with its nosebag and the chaise in the care of one of the ostlers. He would be back well before three to drive Emile home after he had eaten.
Telling the ostler there would be a franc for him if he had the horse ready to be put to just before three, he set off on foot for the market. Annette was working with Benny at the stall and was delighted to see him.
‘What’s this then?’ demanded Benny. ‘Love’s young dream? Go on, off with the pair of you, but be back within the hour. Got some business to see to, right?’
Annette and Pierre scurried away before he could change his mind and went into the café on the edge of the market that they had been frequenting.
The patron grinned at them. ‘You’re early,’ he remarked. ‘Skiving, are you?’
He let them take their usual table in a quiet corner, and at last they could speak.
‘What are you doing here?’ she murmured. ‘You didn’t say you were coming.’
‘Unexpected chance,’ he said. ‘But I needed to see you.’
‘I needed to see you too,’ she said with the smile that produced the hidden dimples that made Pierre long to gather her to him and kiss her. He made do with touching the dimples with the tip of his finger and then said, ‘There’s something we need to discuss. First of all, Monsieur St Clair is here in Paris, so I may not be able to see you for some time. We have to return to Belair after the weekend, so I don’t know when I can come to you again.’ He took her hand as the joy at seeing him faded from her face. ‘Listen, chérie,’ he said. ‘There’s more. We’ve had a letter – at least you have, but it was addressed to me at Belair.’
‘A letter.’ Annette was immediately intrigued. ‘Who from?’
‘Who do you think?’
‘I don’t know, do I? Just tell me.’
‘Sir Rupert Chalfont.’
‘Rupert?’ Annette was stunned. ‘But why would he write to me?’
‘Because you wrote to him?’
‘But that was ages ago. I was so angry with him that I wrote and told him Hélène was going to marry Simon Barnier. And I said I hoped the idea made him feel as sick as it made me.’
Pierre grinned. ‘Did you now?’ he said. ‘Well, I think you got your wish.’
‘Good,’ said Annette viciously.
‘Anyway, you must read what he says. After all, although it was addressed to me on the envelope, the letter is actually for you, and so I’ve brought it with me.’
‘Have you read it?’
‘Yes, because I’d opened it and couldn’t not!’
‘I wonder why he sent it to you,’ mused Annette.
‘To make sure you actually got it, I should think,’ Pierre said as he handed it over. ‘He assumed that you were both living at Gavrineau by now. You’ll see why when you read it.’
Annette unfolded it.
Dear Annette
I am sorry I haven’t replied to your letter before now. Things have been very difficult here ever since I came home from France. We have had three deaths in the family – my brother’s, which you knew about, my father’s and my wife’s. But these are excuses. I could have replied sooner but I didn’t know what to say.
You accuse me of deserting Hélène. I would never have done that had she not cut me out of her life. She did not reply to my letters, or if she did, I didn’t receive them… or the one you mention from Pierre, for that matter. That I find strange… where did they go? To someone else? You say I caused her misery, but you must know that would be the furthest thing from my mind. I fell in love with her the moment I saw her and I love her still. That will never change.
As she is now married, any further contact will be impossible… for both of us.
Yours sincerely
Rupert Chalfont
‘Do you believe him?’ Annette said, looking up. ‘About not receiving the letters?’
‘It’s possible,’ said Pierre, ‘but it doesn’t explain why he didn’t write to her either… at least until he told her he was married.’
‘I shan’t write to him again,’ Annette said, offering the letter back to Pierre. When he shook his head, she put it into her pocket.
‘I don’t think he’s expecting you to,’ Pierre was saying. ‘But he did say one thing we didn’t expect.’
‘What was that?’
‘He said,’ answered Pierre, ‘that his wife is dead. He doesn’t say how, but don’t you see? That means he could marry again… and Hélène is free.’
‘Maybe.’ Annette looked doubtful. ‘But I think it’s probably too late, don’t you?’
‘I don’t know,’ answered Pierre. ‘I don’t understand what women think about these things. Might Hélène forgive him, do you think? Does she still love him despite everything?’
Annette shook her head. ‘I don’t know either, but she swore the other day that she would never, never marry.’
‘Because she couldn’t marry Rupert, or because the whole idea of marriage is repugnant to her?’
Annette shrugged. ‘Either or both. But we don’t know that Rupert would want to marry her now anyway.’
‘Don’t we?’ Pierre looked at her quizzically. ‘I think we do. I know you will find it hard to forgive him for what you believe he has done, but set that against Hélène’s happiness. If he suddenly came back to France looking for her and free to marry her, how do you think she would react? Would she fall into his arms or would she show him the door… or somewhere in between?’
‘I don’t know,’ admitted Annette.
‘Nor do I, though I guess probably something in between, but don’t you think there’s been enough interference in their lives? Don’t you think we should give him a chance to make his peace with her if he wants to? I know you’ll find it hard to forgive him, but we can be pretty sure it isn’t entirely his fault. We can’t play God, you know.’
‘There isn’t a God,’ stated Annette flatly.
‘Maybe, maybe not, but either way it isn’t up to us to make other people’s decisions for them. If I were Rupert I’d never forgive anyone who knew that the woman he says he still loves was free to marry him and didn’t tell him so.’ He looked at Annette, his eyes holding hers. ‘If it were you and me, wouldn’t you want to know? If you thought I was married and lost to you, wouldn’t you want to discover that I was free after all?’
‘I suppose.’ Annette sounded reluctant.
‘You don’t seem very sure,’ Pierre teased.
‘If it was you, of course I would,’ she said, her face breaking into a smile, ‘but I just think Hélène’s had enough to put up with. Suppose he has changed his mind? Or if he’s engaged to someone else now.’
‘This could be her chance of happiness, you know,’ Pierre pointed out. ‘Who are we to judge? We should leave it up to him. We should tell him that she hasn’t married Simon Barnier and that she’s living in Paris and see what happens. If he writes to her, then he’ll have made his decision and she can make hers.’
‘I’ll think about it,’ Annette said. ‘Even if I do write back to him, he may never get the letter.’
‘That’s a risk we’ll have to take,’ Pierre said. ‘But if someone has been stealing his post they’ve probably stopped now, believing there’s no further need.’
‘I’ll think about it,’ repeated Annette, ‘and in the meantime I shall say absolutely nothing of this to Hélène. And,’ she added, ‘I shan’t tell her that you’re all going back to Belair, either, in case she tries to visit her mother again before you go.’
‘Certainly she mustn’t do that,’ Pierre agreed, ‘especially as her father is in the house, but if you think about what she did the other day, how much she needed to go home, we have to accept that she can’t stay hidden here indefinitely… and nor can you.’
‘If Jeannot hadn’t been there…’
‘He was and kept her safe, but this has to be resolved one way or another. I think you should write back and tell Rupert her situation.’
Later that evening, when Hélène had gone to bed, Annette gave great thought to what Pierre had said about making other people’s decisions for them and reluctantly came to the conclusion that he was right. How would she feel if someone willingly kept her away from Pierre? She had never loved or been loved as she was now. Pierre was her rock. Could she stand between Rupert and Hélène? With a sigh she took pen and paper and wrote a short note to Rupert, addressing it to him at Pilgrim’s Oak as before. If they heard no more from him, she decided, at least it wouldn’t be her fault and Hélène would never know she’d tried. She discarded several efforts before she was happy with what she had written. The letter she put in her pocket, ready to post in the morning; the discards she burned. There should be no trace of any letters to England. Sleep didn’t come easily that night as she lay in bed wondering if they would ever hear from him again.