With only eight at the table, her words were clearly audible to all. Hélène felt hot colour flood her cheeks and she glared at Clarice for mentioning what she had told her in confidence. There were immediate expressions of amazement and Rosalie stepped in at once and, addressing herself to Clarice, said, ‘Monsieur Chalfont has asked your father’s permission to address Hélène and I believe there is some sort of understanding between them, but there is no formal betrothal and any thoughts of marriage are a long way off.’ She smiled across at Hélène, hoping to soften her words. ‘We shall consider the matter seriously when he returns.’

‘But where is he?’ asked Clarice. ‘Why isn’t he here?’

‘Because his brother died,’ snapped Hélène. ‘He’s gone home to his family. Where else would he be?’

‘Where indeed?’ murmured Simon. ‘He has to claim his inheritance, after all.’

‘What did you say?’ demanded Hélène in unsuppressed rage. ‘That doesn’t matter to him!’

‘Oh, I think you’ll find it does,’ replied Simon equably. ‘Such things matter to everyone.’

‘His inheritance?’ Suzanne Barrineau queried and then, realising, went on, ‘Of course, this means he’s now his father’s heir. A good catch for the daughter of a Paris architect.’

‘Mother!’ exclaimed Lucas.

‘Suzanne, my dear,’ her husband spoke repressively from the other end of the table, ‘such things are hardly any business of ours.’ And before she could reply he eloquently changed the subject, asking Rosalie if his gardener might take cuttings from some of her roses to graft to his own.

After a moment the talk became general again and Rosalie rang for the dinner plates to be removed and the cheeseboard to be brought. For a long moment it was all Hélène could do to remain seated in her place. She glowered at Clarice along the length of the table. How could she? How could she have broken such a confidence? But then, Hélène suddenly realised, she had not actually said that the matter was for family ears only; her sister had assumed that everyone must know of the understanding, even if it were not a formal betrothal. Clarice gave Hélène an apologetic smile and, sighing, Hélène smiled half-heartedly in return.

No further mention was made of Clarice’s revelation, and when the ladies retired to the drawing room it wasn’t long before the gentlemen joined them. The evening had not been spoiled by the interchange, but it had cast a shadow.

No, Hélène decided now as she recalled her own feelings of dismay, that was not something more to lay on Rupert’s shoulders. Her final paragraph should be one to give him comfort.

I so wish I were with you to share in your grief. I send my love and shall count the days until you come back to Belair… to me. Your own Hélène.

*

In Pilgrim St Leonard, the inquest was little more than a formality. The succession of events that had led to Justin’s untimely death were fairly clear; there was no question of foul play or suicide. The coroner, local solicitor Martin Flugue, heard the evidence given by Frances, Fortune and Scott. It was accepted that Justin had slipped on the rocks, banged his head and while unconscious face down in the water had drowned, and a verdict of death by misadventure was brought in.