Within minutes Pierre appeared, crowbar in hand. ‘Get the door open somehow, Pierre,’ Rosalie instructed.

‘It’ll damage the door, madame,’ he said.

‘Just do it!’ snapped Rosalie and she watched as Pierre set to work, attacking the door about its lock.

Moments later, with a loud cracking of wood, the door flew open and Rosalie rushed into the room, closely followed by Annette. Hélène lay, a still form on the bed, the crumpled letter beside her. Annette went immediately to the bedside and gave a cry of relief when she saw that with the sudden invasion of her room, Hélène had opened her eyes and was staring unfocused at the crowd. She was pale and tear-stained, but she was struggling to sit up.

‘Hélène!’ Annette cried. ‘Thank God you’re all right.’

Rosalie picked up the letter and read it quickly. It explained everything. No wonder Hélène had been in despair. Not only had Rupert married someone else, he had done so without warning Hélène that he considered their engagement over. It was done and there’d be no going back. The mention of no letters was clearly an excuse to get him off the hook of an unwanted betrothal. Rosalie seethed with anger. And she had thought him an honourable man!

Seeing her daughter’s confusion, Rosalie shooed them all from the room before returning to the bedside to take Hélène’s hands in hers. She looked down at the tear-streaked face, the eyes swollen with crying, and, gathering her into her arms, rocked her like a baby.

At last Hélène broke free and scrubbed her eyes with the handkerchief her mother handed her.

‘He’s married,’ she said flatly. ‘Rupert’s married.’

‘I know,’ Rosalie said gently.

‘He says I didn’t write, but I did, several letters’ – her voice broke on a sob – ‘but he never wrote back.’

‘Perhaps he didn’t receive them for some reason,’ murmured Rosalie, though she didn’t believe that for a minute; he had just used that as an excuse.

Hélène latched on to this and said, ‘That must be the answer. I can write and tell him I did write.’

‘But if he didn’t receive your other letters, chérie, he probably won’t get that one either. And you have to accept,’ she continued firmly, ‘that it doesn’t matter now, one way or the other. He’s married to someone else and that’s an end to it.’ She knew it sounded unfeeling, but there was no way she was going to allow Hélène to write another word to the monster who had led her on in such a dishonourable way and then pushed her aside when someone else came along. ‘A better prospect,’ Emile had suggested and it seemed he was right. Hélène had been brushed aside for ‘a better prospect’, and Rosalie felt the rage build up inside her.

Well, she thought, she’ll not give him the satisfaction of any more tears. ‘Think kindly of me’! Huh, they would never think of him again.

‘Come along now, chérie,’ she said briskly. ‘You must get up and wash your face and then come down for lunch. This afternoon you must have a rest in the drawing room, ready for this evening.’