It was not long before Didier announced dinner and Rosalie led them all to the table. She had spent some time arranging it. The uneven number meant that the conventional seating must be a trifle disturbed. Emile, of course, sat at the head, flanked by Suzanne and Sylvie, and she at the foot, with Louis on her right and Simon on her left. Rupert was placed between Sylvie and Hélène opposite Georges, Lucie and Louise between Suzanne and Simon. It was not perfect but it was only an informal party and was the best she could do.

Rupert was delighted with his two dinner companions and he had inward satisfaction to see that Simon was trapped across the table between Louise, a child, and Rosalie, his hostess.

When the first course was brought in, both Rosalie and Hélène were amazed to see that the guests were being served not only by Lizette, newly promoted to the dining room and supervised by a dignified Didier, but by Annette. Neither commented, but Rosalie exchanged glances with Agathe Sauze, who had appeared in the doorway. Annette moved round the table, offering the bowls of soup that Rosalie was dispensing from a silver tureen. There was no sign of weakness, nothing to indicate, except for a certain pallidity of complexion, that two days earlier she had been prostrate in her bed. Rosalie could only applaud her courage and determination.

When everyone had been served, the servants withdrew, leaving the family to their dinner and conversation. When they had met in St Etienne, Rupert had quickly assessed the group getting into the chaise. Clearly the wan-faced young woman must have been the maid who had lost her baby. Hélène had said they were returning to Belair, so the girl must be recovered, but of course there was no mention of that in their conversation now.

A little later on, Emile came to his feet and raised his glass. ‘It is a pleasure to see you all here this evening,’ he began. ‘Our whole family, apart, of course, from our newly-weds, and some of our closest friends. It is also a pleasure to receive Monsieur Chalfont from England, a welcome guest at our daughter’s wedding and at our table tonight. I give you, “family and friends”.’

Not all here, Hélène thought with a pang of sadness. Papa never seems to remember Marcel, but perhaps he thinks it’s too happy an occasion to mention his loss. She glanced across at her mother, but Rosalie was smiling at Georges and raising her glass.

The toast was echoed round the table, and then once again the conversation became general until the ladies withdrew to the drawing room, leaving the men to their brandy and cigars.

‘Are you planning a long stay in the area, Chalfont?’ Simon Barnier asked. The abrupt and unadorned use of his surname, which at home in England would have been an indication of friendship between equals, made Rupert bristle, but he showed no sign of his anger, simply smiled and said, ‘My man will be arriving with my traps any day, monsieur, and when he is with me I shall decide where to go from here.’