I shall be needed here for some while yet, my darling. There is much to do, as my father is not well and I have to take over the running of the estate. Justin had already begun to take my father’s place and now I must do the same. As I feared, it does mean that I shan’t be able to come back to St Etienne for a while yet, but I know you’ll understand why. Darling Hélène, remember how much I love you, how I long to hold you in my arms. You are my beloved and one day I shall bring you here as my bride; in the meantime I shall live for your letters. Believe me, I’m forever yours, Rupert.

Well, she thought with a sigh, I am disappointed. I really hoped he might be back soon, even if only for a short visit, but I suppose I do understand that his family must come first for the time being.

She read the letter again, several times, hearing his voice, cherishing his endearments, before she slipped it back in its envelope and put it into the cherrywood box she had bought especially as a repository for his letters. Two rested now beneath its smooth polished lid, and she turned the key to keep them safe.

I shall live for your letters, Rupert had said, and so after dinner that evening, Hélène sat down to write to him again.

*

What made Fran do it she wasn’t sure. It was simply an impulse and she followed it. The postbag from the village lay on the hall table. Mitchell had not yet sorted its contents and Fran, expecting there to be more letters of condolence to be answered, flipped it open and pulled out the letters it contained. There she saw it, a letter addressed to Rupert in flowery foreign script. It had a French stamp and a name on the back of the envelope. Hélène St Clair.

Fran glanced round, but there was no one to see her. Hurriedly she stuffed the letter into the pocket of her skirt and, pushing the rest of the post back into the bag, left it as she had found it, lying on the hall table. With another guilty glance over her shoulder, she hurried upstairs to her bedroom and closed the door behind her. She flopped onto the bed, almost unable to believe what she had done. She had stolen Rupert’s letter. She took it out of her pocket and looked at it. The envelope beckoned, as if urging her to tear it open, but with sudden resolution she resisted the temptation. She had the letter in her possession, but she wasn’t quite sure what she was going to do with it. Perhaps, after some thought, she could replace it in the postbag another day. No one would know when it had actually arrived, so if she decided to do that there was nothing to stop her and no one would suspect. In the meantime, she certainly wasn’t going to open it. It was clearly from the girl in France and Fran had no desire to know what she’d written to Rupert. It was one thing to divert the mail for a couple of days and quite another to read her brother’s private correspondence.