When the post boy arrived at Le Coq d’Argent, Joseph Fermont directed him to Parker, who was outside in the yard, cleaning his master’s boots.

Parker took the telegram and saw that it came from England. How important is it? he wondered. Will it keep until Mr Rupert returns, whenever that is, or should I take it at once and hope to catch him before he sets out from Belair on his picnic?

Telegrams usually brought bad news, he thought. Why spoil the day? Surely another few hours would make no difference. He put the envelope into his pocket and got on with polishing the boots, but as the day wore on, he became more and more conscious of the telegram, rustling in his pocket, and at last he got to his feet and set off to walk to Belair.

As he arrived in the stable yard, the chaise was returning along the drive. It drew up in front of the house, and Henri the stable lad ran to take the horse’s head while Rupert handed Hélène down. He looked surprised as he saw Parker coming round the side of the house.

‘Parker?’ he said. ‘What’s up?’

‘Telegram for you, sir,’ Parker said, handing him the envelope.

For a moment Rupert looked at it, premonition flooding his mind, then he ripped it open and read the message…

JUSTIN KILLED IN ACCIDENT STOP COME HOME IMMEDIATELY STOP CHALFONT

… and the colour drained from his face.

‘Rupert?’ Hélène put her hand on his arm. ‘Rupert? What is it?’

‘My brother,’ Rupert said. ‘My brother!’ And he crumpled the telegram in his hand.

‘Let’s go indoors,’ Hélène said, and taking him by the hand as she would a child, she led him into the house.

Annette had climbed out of the chaise and turned to Parker.

‘You’re Mr Rupert’s man?’

‘Yes,’ he replied, and as he spoke he knew he should have brought the telegram straight away. He didn’t know what it actually said, but it was clear there was something wrong with Mr Justin.

Hélène had taken Rupert into the morning room where, when she had closed the door, they could be private. Once inside, she turned to face him and took both his hands in hers. His face was as pale as it had been the day before, but this time she saw tears in his eyes.

‘Tell me,’ she said softly.

‘It’s Justin,’ Rupert murmured. ‘Justin, my brother. There’s been an accident.’ His voice broke on a sob. ‘He’s dead.’

Without further thought Hélène gathered him into her arms, pressing her cheek against his, wet with tears. She said nothing. There were no words that she could say that would be of any use. She just held him close as his tears slid silently down his face. She had never seen a grown man cry, but he was her Rupert and she held him tightly to offer him comfort.

She could hear voices outside in the hall, but she did not let him go. She never wanted to let him go again. She knew he loved her and she loved him. He was hers and there would never be anyone else.