Rosalie replied that there was nothing and not to bother. If Rupert hadn’t written to either place by now, it was clear to Rosalie that he wasn’t going to. He had left Belair and Hélène behind, gone home to claim his inheritance, and he wasn’t coming back. She saw her daughter’s misery, but there was little she could do to alleviate it.

Since the dinner party revelation, word of her understanding with Rupert had become generally known and those in their social circle had accepted the fact that Hélène was spoken for. Rosalie wished with all her heart that Clarice had not spoken out as she had that night. If the understanding had been kept within the family, Rupert’s desertion would have passed almost unremarked. She had noticed that Simon Barnier, a frequent caller at Belair for some time, visited less often. Rosalie thought that this was most unfortunate; Simon would have been an eminently suitable match for Hélène had there been no Rupert Chalfont. He had returned from a sojourn abroad a year ago and had quickly made his way to the top of the list of eligible bachelors. Several young ladies had had hopes of him, but so far none had captured his heart. Rosalie had seen how he had looked at Hélène recently and wished she could see a reciprocal spark of interest in her daughter’s eyes, but she knew that at present Hélène only had thoughts of Rupert.

Well, Rosalie thought bitterly, he doesn’t seem to have any thoughts of her.

‘I don’t understand it,’ she confided to Emile. ‘I thought he was a man of honour… and that he really loved her.’

Emile shrugged. ‘He’s probably found a better prospect at home,’ he said. ‘He’ll be able to take his pick now that he’ll inherit a title.’

‘I thought Hélène was his pick,’ muttered Rosalie.

‘Well, Hélène’s young. If he has changed his mind, she’ll soon get over him.’

Rosalie wasn’t so sure, but she made a point of taking Hélène with her wherever she was invited. The girl was not wearing an engagement ring, there had been only an informal understanding; it was important that people realised Hélène was under no obligation to the Englishman who had disappeared home.

‘Why doesn’t he write?’ Hélène cried to Annette in the privacy of her bedchamber. ‘What’s happened to him?’

‘I don’t know, Hélène,’ Annette replied. ‘You could write again, I suppose.’ They had grown closer since Annette had become Hélène’s personal maid, and when alone together, they spoke as equals.

‘No.’ Hélène was adamant. ‘If he doesn’t want me after all, I’ll not chase him.’ She stuck by this resolve and whenever she went into company her pride kept her smiling. She was not the life and soul of the party, but neither was she seen to droop.

On one occasion when Annette was in the village running an errand for Rosalie, she was cornered by Simon Barnier.

‘You were going to keep me informed about the Englishman,’ he said, ‘but I’ve heard nothing from you.’