When Annette came back upstairs, bringing hot water to wash with and a soft, warm towel to dry her face, she found Hélène sitting, staring dry-eyed down at the garden.

‘He’s married,’ she said. ‘He’s married someone else, Annette.’

‘Then you must forget him,’ stated Annette firmly. ‘He belongs to her now.’ She poured the warm water into the china bowl on the dresser and, as if speaking to a child, encouraged Hélène to sponge her face and wash her hands. Then she made her sit down in front of the dressing table and released her hair, which she brushed soothingly until it was shining. Yvette had taught her well and it wasn’t long before Hélène, though still looking pale, was ready to go down to the dining room for the midday meal.

‘Are you all right?’ Annette asked as she paused on the landing. ‘Is there anything more I can do for you?’

‘No,’ Hélène replied quietly. ‘There’s nothing anyone can do.’

By the time she reached the dining room, Rosalie had spoken with Emile and impressed on him the importance of saying nothing about a letter coming, or anything that might upset Hélène’s fragile equilibrium, and the meal passed off easily enough.

‘Don’t worry about her,’ Emile said to Rosalie. ‘She’ll soon get over him. She’s a strong character – remember how she survived during the siege?’

Rosalie did remember; it was a memory she would have preferred to forget, for it still frightened her.

After luncheon, as she rested in front of the drawing room fire, Hélène considered whether she would write one last letter to Rupert, to tell him that she hadn’t cut him off. But the more she thought about it, the more she came to the conclusion her mother had been right. Whatever the rights and wrongs of the correspondence, Rupert was married; it was too late to alter that and he was lost to her.

Following her mother’s instructions, Hélène dressed to go out for the evening, in gown the colour of clotted cream that set off her gleaming dark hair to perfection. Annette had dressed it in a simple but becoming style and threaded cream ribbons through her curls to hold them in place. She looked at herself in the mirror, and seeing how pale she was, she pinched her cheeks to bring some colour to her skin.

Pierre drove them to Gavrineau, and when they walked into the drawing room to be received by Madame Barnier, remembering her mother’s advice, she held her head high and smiled as she greeted her hostess. From across the room Simon watched her, and the sight of her, elegant and upright in the simplicity of her cream dress, took his breath away. She had never looked more beautiful. As yet he knew nothing of Rupert’s marriage, but he was already determined to supplant the effete Englishman in her affections.

Chapter 35

The following days were difficult for Hélène. She managed to maintain a hard-won steadiness when she was in company, and even with her family, but once she had retired to her own bedchamber, she allowed her rigid self-control to drop and cried herself to sleep, her head buried under the pillow to prevent her sobs being heard. When she awoke, early in the morning, often before the daybreak, there would be one blissful moment before she remembered, and then the cloud of misery would descend upon her once again. Only Annette really knew of the despair that threatened to break her resolve.