Rupert went to his room and, having dismissed Parker, closed the door behind him and sat down at the table to write a letter to Hélène. It was the first chance he had had to put pen to paper since he’d left France. How he missed her. He summoned a picture of her face, remembered the feel of her warmth in his arms with an almost physical ache. He longed to talk to her, to hear her voice, to explain the loss he felt at Justin’s death and be comforted by her presence. He couldn’t speak to her, so writing to her was the next best thing, and hoping she would reply at once, he picked up his pen.

Chapter 29

The morning after Rupert’s departure Hélène felt completely bereft. How could this strange yet charming Englishman have invaded her being to such an extent that she felt only half herself without him? He had promised to write as soon as he got home and had given his own direction at Pilgrim’s Oak so that she could write back to him. This correspondence had received the consent of her parents, though when Rupert had made his final farewell Rosalie had insisted that Hélène should not be the instigator of this exchange of letters.

‘It would be unbecoming and forward to write first,’ Rosalie explained when Hélène announced next morning she would write immediately. ‘You must wait to hear from him, and then, if he does write, you may answer.’

During the following week Hélène waited eagerly, checking the postbag for his letter, for she had no doubts that he would write as soon as he was able. In the meantime she began writing to him so that when the longed-for letter from England arrived, she would have the beginnings of a reply ready to send. She knew she must be patient and that Rupert would not fail her.

Indeed, he did not, and ten days after he had set out for England the letter arrived. Didier had brought the post in to her mother, who, seeing the letter with an English stamp, had summoned Hélène into her parlour.

‘I think the letter you’ve been waiting for has arrived, Hélène,’ she said with a smile. ‘I shall not insist on reading it,’ she went on, ‘as I trust Monsieur Chalfont to write only what is proper, but should you find anything improper, I must rely on you to tell me so that I can deal with the matter.’

She fixed Hélène with an assessing eye and Hélène held her gaze. ‘Of course, Maman,’ she said, and then, at a nod from her mother, she took the envelope and carried it away to her own room.

As she watched her leave, Rosalie wondered if she had been too lenient. Would she, she thought, have been allowed to receive uninspected letters from Emile before they were formally betrothed? Almost certainly not but, she decided with a sigh, the modern young lady seemed to be allowed far more licence than had been accorded to her, and she had no wish to read her daughter’s love letters, for love letters they were sure to be. She turned her attention to the rest of the post, while laying aside a letter addressed to Agathe Sauze.