When Rupert received Annette’s letter he could hardly believe what he was reading. Not only was Hélène not married to Simon Barnier, but she was in hiding from him. How could she be so afraid that she couldn’t even live with her own family? Surely they hadn’t disowned her because she had refused to marry him at the last minute? He pictured Rosalie, a charming and sensible woman who loved all her children and had seemed particularly protective of Hélène. He must go to her at once. Annette had not given him an address but had suggested that, if he wanted to reply, he write care of Pierre as he had before. The words reminded him yet again of the mysterious disappearance of letters, both in and out of Pilgrim’s Oak.
Someone must have intercepted them. Looking back with clear hindsight there was no other conclusion. Once he’d allowed himself to accept that conclusion, it was equally clear that there was only one person who could have done it, had any reason to do it.
None of the servants. They would have no knowledge of letters from France, nor know the significance of such letters.
Not his mother. As far as he knew, she knew nothing about Hélène; but even if she had heard of her, she was beyond doing anything about anything, and had been ever since the shock of Justin’s death. Indeed, she seemed unaware of either of the subsequent deaths, of her husband and her daughter-in-law.
His father had been ill long before Rupert had come home, but he had still been head of the family and complete master in his own house. He had been determined that Rupert should take Justin’s place and marry Kitty for the benefit of both families, but Rupert knew that his strict moral compass would never have allowed him to do anything underhand. If he wanted something done or not done, he was completely honest about his wishes. He would never have resorted to stealing anyone’s mail.
Which left Fran.
Rupert knew it had to be Fran. She, too, had wanted him to marry Kitty. Partly because the idea was so important to her father but also because she wanted everything at Pilgrim’s Oak to remain as it always had been. He knew Fran thought it was unlikely she would marry now with her mother to look after, and that Pilgrim’s Oak would always be her home. The introduction of some strange young Frenchwoman could have changed everything.
With the news that Hélène was not married as he’d thought and knowing that he was now a widower, it suddenly seemed imperative to Rupert that he should tax Frances with her deception. It must be brought out into the open and dealt with if he were to consider bringing Hélène to Pilgrim’s Oak as his bride… if she would have him after all the misery he – and Fran – had caused her. The decision taken, he wasted no time in implementing it. He put Annette’s letter into his desk drawer and went to find Fran.
She was in the garden room arranging some early daffodils in a vase for her mother’s parlour. She looked up and smiled as he came into the room.
‘Aren’t these lovely,’ she said. ‘Quite a breath of spring, and there are hundreds more coming at the far end of the orchard.’
When Rupert didn’t return her smile, she said, ‘Rupert? What’s wrong? Has something happened? Mama…?’
Rupert didn’t answer any of her questions, he simply asked, ‘Frances, where are my letters?’
He saw the colour drain from his sister’s cheeks, but she looked at him steadily as she replied, ‘Letters, Rupert? What letters?’
‘You know perfectly well what letters,’ he snapped. ‘The letters that came to me from France.’
‘Letters from France?’
‘And the letters I wrote to the woman I love – in France.’
‘Rupert, I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about.’
‘Oh yes, Fran. I think you have. Did you destroy them once you’d read them? Burn them, perhaps?’
‘I wouldn’t destroy someone else’s post. What do you think I am?’
‘That’s what I’m asking myself,’ returned Rupert. ‘I know that my letters never reached Hélène, and I can only believe that those she wrote never reached me.’
‘There’s nothing surprising in that,’ snapped Frances. ‘International post is notoriously unreliable.’
‘The thing is, Frances, that since someone stopped monitoring our postbag, I have received two letters from France with very little delay. So’ – he fixed her with an unwavering look – ‘what’s happened to the other letters? I know they were sent, but I never received them. I also know that nothing I sent arrived in France. Only you could have intercepted them, Fran. While my father was ill and my mother indisposed and I was working with Foxton, Mitchell always brought the postbag to you. I’m asking you now for a straight answer. Did you take my mail?’
‘What if I did?’ Fran tossed her head. ‘You, the future Sir Rupert Chalfont, couldn’t possibly be allowed to marry some French chit of no family or consequence. Papa was totally against it and he was still the head of the family. It should have been completely impossible for you to defy him. I agreed with him. You had to marry a suitable bride, a lady of proper social status. You had to produce an heir so that the family’s future would be assured.’
‘And who were you to decide who was suitable?’ Rupert’s voice was icy.
‘Rupert!’ Fran’s tone was challenging. ‘If Justin had lived and married Kitty, it wouldn’t have mattered who you threw yourself away on. You were not Papa’s heir, but once you were, you should have recognised and accepted your duty to your family.’ She turned away and, snatching up another daffodil, crammed it into the vase. ‘It wasn’t even as if you didn’t like Kitty. She wasn’t some stranger foisted on you, she was a girl you’d known all your life. Someone you used to love. She certainly loved you!’
Ignoring this outburst, Rupert asked, ‘So what did you do with my letters, Fran? Did you read them?’
‘Certainly not,’ replied Fran hotly. ‘I am not in the habit of reading other people’s letters and I had no interest in what they contained.’
‘So you just destroyed them,’ Rupert said flatly.
‘No, I did not!’ Frances’s temper was rising. ‘I kept them all. You can have them,’ she added dismissively, ‘if you really want them, but they are of no consequence now, are they?’
‘Where are they?’
‘In a box in my room.’
Rupert kept a firm hold on his temper as he replied, ‘Please go and fetch them.’
‘I’ll get them when I’ve finished doing these flowers for Mama.’
‘Now, Fran!’ Something in his voice made her put down the daffodil she was holding and, without answering, walk out of the room and go upstairs.
Moments later she returned, meeting him in the hall, carrying a wooden box. She thrust it at him and, apparently entirely unrepentant, said, ‘I’m going up to sit with Mama. I hope you won’t upset her with this nonsense.’
Rupert gave no answer; he simply took the box and, going into his study, closed the door behind him. Frances was left standing in the hall with her heart thumping, her colour high and the knowledge that she had damaged, irreparably, her relationship with her brother.
Seated at the desk in his study; Rupert opened the box and, lifted out the letters it contained. Fran had been telling the truth. They were all sealed and clearly had not been tampered with. One by one he opened them, laying them aside in date order to be read as they had been intended. His own letters were there too, those that had carried his love to Hélène, promising to come back for her as soon as he could. Those he left until last. First he had to read what Hélène had written to him, full of love and interest to start with and then gradually begging him to write. He pictured her face, so beautiful, the way she had looked at him with shining eyes on that last day, and recognised her distress at his imagined desertion.
There was also a letter from Pierre. If only he had received that one, he would have left Pilgrim’s Oak and returned to St Etienne immediately. He could have set everything right, but as it was he’d begun to accept that Hélène had had second thoughts, had changed her mind, and finally he had allowed himself to be persuaded into marriage with Kitty.
He stared at the letters laid out before him, and his anger at what Frances had done fuelled his determination. He would write to Pierre as suggested and go at once to Paris. He would stay as usual at the Hotel Montreux and beg Pierre and Annette to keep Hélène safely hidden away until he got there. He told Pierre to leave a message for him at the hotel and he would contact him immediately he arrived.
Having sealed his letter, he addressed it to Pierre, put on his coat and walked to the village to the post office.
*
Rupert arrived at the Hotel Montreux with his man, Parker, and a quantity of luggage on the same day that his letter reached Pierre at Belair. He was welcomed with even greater enthusiasm than usual by Jacques Rocher when Parker corrected him for addressing Rupert as Monsieur Chalfont and informed him that his master was now Sir Rupert Chalfont, baronet.
‘Will you be making a long stay with us, Sir Rupert?’
‘I am undecided at present,’ replied Rupert cheerfully. ‘I trust there will be no problem if I make an extended stay.’
‘Certainly not,’ responded Rocher. ‘The room is yours for as long as you wish to honour us with your presence. The suite on the first floor, with a room across the landing for your man.’
‘Have there been any messages for me?’ Rupert asked.
‘No, sir, I fear not.’
‘Well, I’m expecting one in the next day or two, so please let me know as soon as it arrives.’
In her letter Annette had begged him not to go anywhere near Belair, where he might be recognised, and for the moment he was happy enough to accept this, but he knew that should there be no message in the next couple of days he would go to St Etienne and announce his intention there, and said as much in his reply.
Reading this, Pierre was extremely worried. It would be disastrous if Rupert Chalfont turned up at Belair before he had met and talked with Hélène. He took his worry to Agathe, who agreed with him that Rupert must not appear in St Etienne until everything had been resolved.
‘If he met with Monsieur Barnier…’ Her voice trailed off at the thought of such an awkward encounter.
‘We must write to Annette and let her know that he’s on his way and where he will be staying,’ said Pierre. ‘She can go to the hotel and meet him, and between them they can decide the best way forward.’
‘A letter may take too long,’ Agathe said. ‘One of us needs to go.’
‘I can’t,’ said Pierre flatly. ‘Monsieur St Clair has told me he needs me to drive him to Versailles tomorrow to visit Captain Georges. I believe he plans to stay overnight.’
‘Perhaps I might go,’ Agathe said thoughtfully. ‘I have not taken my day off yet this month, so perhaps I can ask Madame if I might take it tomorrow.’
Pierre agreed that it was worth a try and Agathe went to see Rosalie in her parlour.
‘I’m afraid it is not that convenient, Madame Sauze,’ she said. ‘My husband is going to Versailles to see our son and is planning to bring the whole family back here for an extended stay. I shall need you to oversee the preparations for their arrival.’
‘I quite understand, madame,’ Agathe said, ‘but I would only need one day. I hope to attend a funeral in Paris tomorrow, and would be back by tomorrow evening.’
‘I see.’ Rosalie didn’t look best pleased. ‘Is it someone close to you?’
‘My cousin,’ improvised Agathe, ‘but we were brought up together as children and so are… were very close.’
‘Well, I suppose you must go, but I do expect you to be back tomorrow night.’
‘Certainly, madame, that will be no problem. The funeral is at midday. I shall take an early train and be there in plenty of time.’
‘Fair enough,’ Rosalie agreed. ‘I don’t think Captain Georges and his family will be arriving until the evening of the day after, but I rely on you to leave instructions before you go and oversee everything when you get back.’
Agathe thanked her and went to tell Pierre that she had leave to go.
The following morning she went to the station. As she walked onto the platform she saw Simon Barnier getting into a first-class compartment. Instinctively she ducked back out of sight, pulling her hat down to shade her face before hurrying across the platform to board the train herself. She could only hope that if he were looking out of the window, he would pay no attention to an elderly lady getting into a third-class carriage further up the train. She was anxious that he should not recognise her. She sat back into her seat and closed her eyes, thinking. Why was he going to Paris? she wondered. It could of course be for any number of reasons, but she was disconcerted by his presence on the train.
When they finally arrived in Paris, Agathe waited in her carriage until she saw Simon Barnier walk past and greet a young man hovering on the platform. Only then did she step down from the train and make her way out of the station. As she emerged into the street, looking for the omnibus stop, she almost walked straight into him. Simon Barnier was standing at the kerbside while the young man summoned a fiacre. He turned with an angry, ‘Look where you’re—’, only then seeing who it was and saying, ‘Madame Sauze. What can bring you to Paris, I wonder?’
‘Good morning, Monsieur Barnier,’ she replied. ‘A funeral, I’m afraid.’
His eyes drilled into her. ‘Not in search of your niece?’
‘My niece, sir?’
‘The maid Annette.’
‘No, sir,’ replied Agathe. She was tempted to say more, but at the last moment held her peace. Better to say too little rather than too much.
At that minute the young man appeared with a fiacre. ‘You’ve taken your time, Eugène,’ snapped Simon. He looked back at Agathe. ‘I’m surprised that Madame St Clair can spare you to come to the city with her son and his family arriving so soon.’
‘I’m only here for the day, sir. I shall be returning on the evening train.’
Simon climbed into the cab and was driven away, moments later disappearing round a bend in the road.
I wonder how Monsieur Barnier knows so much about what’s happening at Belair, mused Agathe. I only heard of Georges’s arrival myself yesterday. He must have someone in his pay, keeping watch on the family. She found the idea didn’t surprise her; after all, he had tried to suborn Annette while Rupert was there.
Pierre had told her to go to the market, where Annette would be working on Benny’s stall.
‘It will give you a chance to speak to her without Hélène knowing anything about it. You must tell her to go to the hotel and find Rupert. Warn him not to come here. What they decide to do… well, they’ll have to decide themselves, but make sure Rupert understands what has happened and that if he is going to try to see Hélène, he must move softly, or that will be the end of any chance he has.’
Agathe found Annette looking after Benny’s stall and the two women greeted each other in delight.
‘I’ve come with a message,’ Agathe told her. ‘Rupert’s had your letter and is coming to Paris. He should arrive any time, but if he’s not here yet, you’re to leave a message for him at the Hotel Montreux.’ She gripped Annette’s hands. ‘Whatever happens, don’t let him go to St Etienne.’
‘I don’t suppose he’ll want to,’ Annette said. ‘He’ll want to see Hélène and she’s here.’
‘Still, we need to leave him a message as soon as possible. When will you go?’
‘As soon as Benny gets back,’ replied Annette. ‘I can’t leave his stall unattended.’
While Annette and Agathe were talking in the marketplace Rupert Chalfont was renewing some of his acquaintances in Paris. It was nearly nine months since he had been there, on his way to Lucas Barrineau’s wedding. His hope that there would be a message from Annette or Pierre when he arrived had been disappointed, and rather than wait around in the hotel, he sent Parker with a note to David Bertram, with whom he’d been at school and who was now an attaché in the British Embassy. Parker soon returned with a reply, saying David was delighted to hear Rupert was back in Paris, had immediately suggested that they lunch together and had suggested Le Chien Dansant, a restaurant in a side street close by the embassy and a favourite with them both. It was a bright spring day, the sort of day that clothed the city in sunshine and lifted the spirits with the promise of summer, and Rupert decided that the walk would do him good. He was in no particular hurry as he made his way towards the restaurant in the street off the Rue du Faubourg St Honoré. His thoughts were filled with Hélène. How long before he learned where she was? Before he saw her with his own eyes? As he turned into the side street he was unaware of a well-dressed gentleman coming towards him. He reached the restaurant, seeing the familiar dancing dog sign above the window, and pushed open the door to enter.
Simon Barnier had slowed to a standstill, hardly able to believe his eyes as he saw Rupert Chalfont enter the restaurant a little way ahead.
Surely he must be mistaken. Why would Rupert Chalfont be here in Paris? He should be home in England looking after his new wife, not dining in restaurants in Paris. Perhaps it was not him. Slowly he walked past the window and glanced in. A man was just getting to his feet to shake hands with his guest, and that guest, Simon was quite certain now, was Rupert Chalfont.
‘Eugène,’ he said, turning to the young man, who was still with him. ‘Did you see the tall man who went into Le Chien Dansant?’
Eugène nodded. ‘Who is he, monsieur?’ he asked.
‘Never mind who,’ snapped Simon, ‘but I need to know where he is staying. Get André straight away. I want him followed. Tell André to find out where the man is staying and then come and report back to me at the hotel. Go, now.’
Eugène scurried off in search of André, while Simon wandered slowly past Le Chien to the entrance of an apartment building a little further up the street from whose shelter he could watch the restaurant to make sure that his quarry didn’t leave before his tail was in place.
Once André had arrived and was installed in the apartment building’s porch, Simon left him, not wanting to be seen or recognised by Rupert when he finally emerged.
Due to his unexpected vigil, he had missed both his lunch and his appointment with the young lady whom he visited on his trips to Paris, and he knew she would not be best pleased. Mademoiselle Angélique knew how to please him, her erotic person and ingenious games providing him with the release he needed from time to time. He had assumed that once he was married to Hélène there would be no need of further visits to Mademoiselle Angélique; he would simply use Hélène in the same way – teach her what he liked and expect her to provide it whenever he chose.
Now, he returned to the Pension Marguerite, where he stayed on such visits, and thought about the day. First, there was the housekeeper, Madame Sauze. She was Annette the maid’s aunt and she was in Paris for one day. Then he’d seen Rupert, the foppish Englishman who had deserted Hélène last autumn. What were they both doing in Paris on the same day? Surely that couldn’t be a coincidence? There had to be something going on, something to do with Hélène. That old woman must know where she’s hiding, he thought. Perhaps she’d known all along. Well, once André had done his stuff and discovered where Rupert was staying, Simon could plan his next move. He only hoped that André made a better job of following Rupert than he had when he’d tried to follow Hélène from the Avenue St Anne. Simon had been furious when he’d heard that André had had her in his sights and then had somehow managed to lose her when he had been attacked by some cutpurse and left sprawling in the gutter, clutching his private parts.
Simon still wanted Hélène, to own her and bend her to his will. When she finally came back home she would be ruined, having run away and lived who knew where and with who knew whom. Her reputation would be in the gutter. Her only way back was to allow him to forgive her and marry him after all. He had been patient, and now here was that damned Englishman again.
*
The damned Englishman and his old friend David had a leisurely luncheon at Le Chien Dansant. The food, Rupert decided, was even better than he remembered. As always he enjoyed the French dishes that passed across the table, and the wine that accompanied them – so much more interesting than the plain English fare offered in restaurants at home – and it was some considerable time later that they left the restaurant and made their way back towards the embassy.
‘If you’re going to be in Paris for any length of time,’ said David as they paused to shake hands, ‘you must come and dine with us one evening. Christine would love to see you again, especially now you’re Sir Rupert.’ He saluted him with a mock bow and went into the embassy, leaving Rupert to walk back to the Hotel Montreux to see if any messages had been left for him.
An hour later André was able to report to Eugène that the man he’d been set to follow was staying at the Hotel Montreux off the Boulevard St Germain. A chat with one of the ostlers and an exchange of five francs had elicited the fact that the man was indeed Sir Rupert Chalfont and that he had come with his man and a quantity of luggage which seemed to indicate that he was not planning to return home in the near future.
Entirely unaware of anyone’s interest in his movements, Rupert wandered into the public lounge and sent Parker to ask if there had been any messages for him while he was out.
Moments later Jacques Rocher came in carrying a folded note on a tray.
‘A young woman, Sir Rupert,’ he said. ‘Not the sort of clientele we encourage, but when she said she had a message for you and we knew you were expecting one, we gave her admittance and took charge of her note. She said she has to speak with you, but as you weren’t here, we sent her away and told her to come back tomorrow.’
‘Pity you sent her away, Rocher. I need to speak to her.’
‘I’m sorry, Sir Rupert, but I wasn’t to know, and it doesn’t do the hotel any good to have the likes of her loitering about outside. Anyone seeing her might think it was a bawdy house.’
Rupert sighed. ‘If she comes here again, ask her to wait. If I’m not here and you can’t allow her to wait in the hallway to deliver her message, you must take her into the servants’ quarters and permit her to wait for me there.’