The Chateau on the Lake (13 page)

Monsieur d’Aubery briefly touches his finger to my cheek. ‘Are you all right?’ he whispers.

I nod and cling tightly to his arm as he leads us away.

Sophie catches her breath on a whimper as half a dozen male servants hurry into the room and closely surround us.

‘What makes you think I’ll allow you to leave, Etienne?’ calls Uncle Auguste from the other end of the room. He laughs. ‘Perhaps I should lock you in the dungeon again?’

All at once I’m very afraid.

Monsieur d’Aubery stops walking. He elbows aside one of the manservants and turns to face Uncle Auguste. ‘You were an unpleasant youth and maturity hasn’t improved you.’ His voice is full of disgust. ‘You still hide behind the power your wealth bestows on you and prey on those weaker than yourself.’

‘So you remember the dungeon, then?’ Uncle Auguste smirks. ‘I remember how you snivelled. And how I laughed!’

‘A great deal of water has passed under the bridge since then, Moreau,’ says Monsieur d’Aubery. ‘A word of warning, though. Be careful. Be very careful. If you continue in this vein, you will regret it.’

Uncle Auguste takes an involuntary step backwards at the implied threat.

Monsieur d’Aubery takes my arm again. We continue the long, slow walk out of the drawing room. My knees tremble and the back of my neck prickles as if Uncle Auguste’s hot gaze is burning into me. If Monsieur d’Aubery weren’t gripping my arm so tightly, I would lose my nerve and run.

At last the door closes behind us and I breathe more easily out of my uncle’s presence. We walk through the château, surrounded by servants, and all the while my back is rigid. I wonder if my uncle is irate enough to have us apprehended. At last we reach the front door and our guard accompanies us in threatening silence down the steps to the carriage.

It isn’t until we have departed through the eagle gateposts that the tension in my muscles begins to ease. Tears roll down my cheeks. All my dreams of meeting my family are shattered and I feel ashamed to share the same blood as Uncle Auguste. A yawning emptiness opens up in my soul. Sophie’s hand creeps into mine and I clutch at it gratefully.

When I have composed myself, I study Monsieur d’Aubery’s profile as he stares out of the window. In the miserable time since my parents’ deaths, no one has really cared what happened to me but today Monsieur d’Aubery leapt to my defence, with no thought at all for his own safety, purely to protect me. Ever since we left London he has gone to great lengths to shelter Sophie and me from the consequences of our reckless actions. Perhaps he feels my scrutiny because he turns to look at me.

‘I apologise for subjecting you to such a disagreeable scene,’ I say, ‘and I am more grateful to you than you know for defending me. If you hadn’t fought off that madman, I dread to imagine what might have happened.’

‘I feared such a reception,’ he replies, and I’m surprised to see compassion in his eyes. ‘But it would have been wrong of me to forbid you to meet your uncle and grandmother, however unwise I believed it to be.’

‘What did that unpleasant creature mean by asking you if you remembered the dungeon?’ I ask.

Slowly, he drags his gaze away from the window. ‘I was six years old when I first met Auguste Moreau,’ he says. ‘My father and I were very close and I often used to accompany him on visits to tenants and neighbours. When he visited Château de Lys on business one day, I went with him. I was left to amuse myself in the gardens, and it was there that I met Auguste. He was about thirteen years old.’ A rueful smile passes over Monsieur d’Aubery’s lips. ‘I remember being fascinated by his face, which was covered in pimples.’

‘What happened?’ I ask.

‘He offered to take me on a tour of his home. We walked for miles along the corridors, looking into the maids’ bedrooms which seemed to be of special interest to him. In the kitchens he stole cake from the pantry and then he took me through the storerooms, down to the cellars. He showed me the dungeon, a miserably dark and damp cell with only a barred window slit.’

I shudder. ‘I saw one like that from the outside,’ I say.

Monsieur d’Aubery nods. ‘Auguste showed me that the moat was only a few inches below the window and told me how his ancestors used to imprison their enemies there. “When they opened the sluice gates the moat rose and filled the dungeon with water,” he said. “The prisoners drowned.” Then he rushed past me and slammed the gate shut behind him.’

I gasp in horror.

Monsieur d’Aubery swallows. ‘He laughed at me. “I’m going to open the sluices,” he said, and left me alone. I was terrified. I fancied I could hear the screams of drowning prisoners. I beat on the walls and shouted for Papa but he didn’t come.’

There’s an unexpected vulnerability in his voice. Tears start to my eyes and my heart aches for the small boy he had been. My own experience of being confined in the coal cellar pales into insignificance against his suffering.

‘You were barely older than my Henry,’ says Sophie, with a shudder.

‘They didn’t find me until dark. I couldn’t speak for a week afterwards.’

‘Didn’t you tell your father what Auguste had done?’

‘Not until years later. My father mentioned that the Duc de Limours, Louis-François, had died. It seemed that he was to be succeeded by Auguste. It was then that my father mentioned there had been an elder son, Philippe, who’d left the family many years before.’

‘Did he say why?’ I’m desperate to find out all I can about Papa.

‘Apparently Philippe had intervened when his father violently beat one of the estate workers, nearly killing him. Since the duc was unrepentant and refused to offer restitution to the man or his family, Philippe renounced his position as heir and threatened to leave for ever.’

‘Which, of course, he did.’

‘Your grandfather,’ says Monsieur d’Aubery, ‘wished to avoid a scandal so he had Philippe locked in the dungeon until he came to his senses. A week later he discovered his son had escaped. Philippe was never heard of in France again.’

‘Your papa made the right decision, Madeleine,’ says Sophie. ‘Imagine living with a family like that!’

‘We won’t have the opportunity, even if we wanted to,’ I say. Suddenly I’m overcome with melancholy and despair. Coming to France, to find the last part of the jigsaw puzzle about my family, has brought me nothing but misery and now uncertainty as to the future.

‘But you can be very proud of your father, Mademoiselle Moreau,’ says Monsieur d’Aubery. His voice is gentle and his expression so full of concern for me that my eyes well up again. ‘He was a man of great principle and forfeited a life of ease to do what he believed to be right.’

‘I am proud of him,’ I say. I look out of the carriage window, fighting back the tears, as we pass through the unkempt village of Villeneuve-St-Meurice, so very different from the village near Château Mirabelle.

We travel in silence, each of us absorbed in our thoughts. If Monsieur d’Aubery had not been with us, Sophie and I would now be in considerable difficulties. I owe him an enormous debt of gratitude. A shiver passes down my back as I imagine the absolute terror of being shut up in the dungeon of Château de Lys.

In the days following our return I’m full of restless malaise. One morning I take a walk before breakfast. The wind is bitingly cold but the skeleton trees are touched silver with frost and the beauty of the scene goes some way towards soothing my unhappiness.

I walk along the lakeside path until I come to the little boathouse. On the jetty I rest my forearms on the handrail while I study the view and reflect that it would be pleasant to take the boat over to the temple in the summer but, sadly, Sophie and I must be long gone before then.

As I pass the stables on my return Monsieur d’Aubery is riding Diable into the yard.

‘We are both early birds today,’ he says. ‘If you don’t mind me in my riding clothes perhaps we could breakfast together?’

My spirits lift immediately and I return inside to remove my coat. The cold has pinched colour into my cheeks I notice as I tidy my hair before the mirror.

I’ve already poured the coffee when Monsieur d’Aubery arrives in the dining room. We exchange pleasantries about our morning excursions and I thank him again for escorting us to Château de Lys. ‘I couldn’t sleep last night for mulling over our meeting with the Moreaux,’ I say. The bitter disappointment of it still hurts.

‘Best to put that loathsome uncle of yours out of your thoughts,’ he says.

‘I should not have liked to be there without your protection,’ I admit, remembering how fearless he had been, ‘and I understand now why you were insistent on accompanying us. I’d very much hoped for a warmer welcome.’

‘I’m sorry that your search has brought you nothing but unhappiness.’ His tone is sincere.

‘So it’s time to move on,’ I say, with a heavy heart. ‘I wonder if you would advise me how Sophie and I might find a cottage to rent?’

‘But is it wise for you to live alone?’

‘What do you mean?’

The tips of Monsieur d’Aubery’s ears grow pink. ‘If I’m not mistaken Madame Levesque is expecting a happy event?’

I remain silent for a moment. ‘How very perspicacious of you, Monsieur d’Aubery.’ It’s too late now to pretend that Sophie isn’t expecting, but since she’s married at least there’s no need to explain that the baby is Jack Fielding’s.

‘I have a proposition for you,’ says Monsieur d’Aubery. ‘It is, perhaps, not fitting that you and Madame Levesque should remain at Château Mirabelle but no one would look askance if you rented my grandmother’s old house.’

My spirits soar. There is no doubt that to be independent, but to remain within a stone’s throw of the only friend we have in France, would give me a great deal of comfort. ‘But we wouldn’t wish to be an embarrassment to you,’ I say. ‘As strangers, while the country is so unstable…’

‘We shall invent a connection between our families,’ Monsieur d’Aubery assures me.

‘Monsieur Viard has already asked where we come from.’

Monsieur d’Aubery puts down his coffee cup. ‘What did you tell him?’

I shrug. ‘Only that we were travelling on our way to visit my relatives. I didn’t know what you might have told him.’

Monsieur d’Aubery nods in approval. ‘I would trust Jean-Luc to the ends of the earth but he must never know you have come from London. One careless word could put us all at risk.’ He rubs his fingers over his chin while he thinks. ‘The difficulty is that he knows my family so it won’t be possible to pass you off as relatives.’

‘He asked why Sophie’s husband isn’t travelling with us. I’m afraid I told him that Charles Levesque is dead.’

‘How inventive of you,’ says Monsieur d’Aubery, eyes dancing with sudden amusement. ‘But perhaps we’d better agree on our story?’

When Monsieur d’Aubery smiles his whole face lights up in the most attractive way and his demeanour is not severe at all. I find myself watching, and liking, the way his well-shaped mouth curves as he speaks.

We discuss various ideas and finally decide that, if asked, we’ll say that Sophie is the daughter of a childhood friend of Monsieur d’Aubery’s mother, who lives in a village near Lyon.

‘And since she is such a recent widow, she needs a complete change of scene because Lyon holds such sad memories for her. That should serve the purpose, don’t you think?’

Monsieur d’Aubery nods in agreement. ‘It’s as well to say as little as possible. Now, when we have finished our breakfast, shall I take you to see the house?’

 

 

Half an hour later we approach the little house along its gravel drive.

‘I have asked Madame Viard to arrange for the shutters to be opened,’ says Monsieur d’Aubery.

The house has windows to either side of the front door and pale green shutters that are folded back against the creamy stone of the walls. The roof is of slate, like the château’s, and, although not large, the house has elegant proportions. Clipped box trees are placed either side of the porch.

‘It’s beautiful,’ I say.

‘I used to love visiting my grandmother here when I was a boy. Then it always smelled of lavender polish and
gâteau à la vanille
.’ He smiles at the memory.

The front door is ajar and we enter a square, stone-floored hall. The doors are open and I step into the drawing room. A pair of tall windows afford a view of the lake and reflected light floods the room, even though there is no sunshine today.

Monsieur d’Aubery whisks two of the dustsheets away to reveal a lady’s satinwood writing desk and a daybed upholstered in rose silk. ‘If the furniture is not to your liking, I’m sure we could find other items for you.’

I stroke the inlaid veneer of the pretty little desk and pull open one of the drawers by its tiny ivory knob. ‘I wouldn’t want to change a thing.’

Monsieur d’Aubery smiles again. ‘Let me show you the rest.’

As we walk through the house, despite the chill in the rooms, excitement bubbles in my breast. There is a dining room, also with a lake view, a study and morning room, and the usual kitchen offices at the back. A staircase leads to four bedrooms with attics above. The garden is bounded by stone walls and there’s a small orchard at the end.

Standing by the window looking at the silvery expanse of the lake, I know that I want to live in this perfect little house so much that it hurts.

‘I would be pleased if you and Madame Levesque would rent it,’ says Monsieur d’Aubery. ‘It distresses me to see it empty. I remember it as such a happy place.’

‘It is impossible not to love it,’ I say.

He clears his throat and mentions a rent that seems to be absurdly low. ‘I prefer it to be lived in and kept aired, especially during the winter months. Naturally, for that sum, I would include sufficient wood for the fires and my carriage is at your disposal.’

‘You are too kind,’ I say, really meaning it.

‘May we shake hands on our agreement?’

Monsieur d’Aubery’s hand is warm as I clasp it and all at once the miserable disappointment of my meeting with Auguste Moreau seems less sharp. ‘Thank you,’ I say, elated that Sophie and I will live in this charming house.

As we walk back I reflect that my opinion of Mr d’Aubery has quite changed from the first time I met him. I’m grateful to him for his kindness to Sophie when he found her collapsed in the street and for his fierce defence of me at Château de Lys. I’ve seen how kindly he helped grieving Madame Gerard and her family. Even his anger towards me, born out of fear for my safety after the king’s execution, seems more understandable when I consider the suffering he has endured after the untoward deaths in his own family. He is not always the arrogant man I had believed him to be and his stern expression and sometimes overbearing manner hide a generous heart.

 

 

A few days later we move our scant possessions into the little house and Sophie professes herself as pleased with our new home as I am.

Madame Viard stands in the hall directing operations as two maids make up the beds with clean linen and give a final polish to the windows. A basket of provisions has been sent from the kitchens and these are now arranged in the larder. Fires burn brightly in every hearth and the slightly musty odour of a house closed up for too long has been replaced by the scent of lavender and beeswax.

‘I hope you will find everything to your satisfaction,’ says Madame Viard after she has shooed the maids outside.

‘I’m sure we shall,’ I say.

She looks around the hall, her eyes missing nothing. ‘A pretty house,’ she says. ‘I would be happy to live here myself. Is there anything else you require, Mademoiselle Moreau?’

‘There is one thing,’ I say. ‘When is market day?’

‘Morville on a Thursday. If you’re wanting a lift Jacques will take you in the cart together with the cook, Madame Thibault.’

After she has gone, Sophie and I rearrange the chairs in the drawing room so that we have a view of the lake and she sets out her pencils and sketchbook on a table while I examine the books on the shelves beside the writing desk in the study.

I hear footsteps on the gravel outside and am delighted to see Monsieur d’Aubery approaching the front door. Hastily I glance in the hall mirror and pat my curls into place before opening the door.

‘Welcome!’ I say.

‘I called to see if you are settled or if there is anything you require?’ He lifts his head and sniffs. ‘Lavender! Grandmother always kept that scent in this house.’

‘The furniture is newly polished. Please, come into the drawing room.’

‘Good afternoon, Madame Levesque! You’re ready to start a masterpiece, I see,’ he comments as he enters the room.

Sophie looks up from her sketchpad and gives him a brilliant smile. ‘Hardly a masterpiece but this view of the lake with its little temple is so peaceful that I shall enjoy the labour, whatever the result.’

‘Will you stay for tea?’ I ask. ‘We have no maid so I’ll see to it myself.’

‘Then I shall come with you to carry the tray.’

Laughingly, I protest but secretly I’m pleased when he insists.

The coals are glowing in the kitchen range and before very long the kettle is singing and the cups are set out on a tray. It amuses me to see a former comte filling up the sugar bowl and pouring boiling water on to the tea leaves. We return to the drawing room and make toast by the fire.

‘Perhaps next time you come to call I shall be able to offer you
gâteau à la
vanille
,’ I say.

‘I can see I will have to pass by at four o’clock every day,’ says Monsieur d’Aubery with a smile. ‘I was also going to tell you that…’

There is a loud rat-a-tat on the door and I hurry to open it.

Monsieur Viard stands on the step. ‘Maman told me you were both safely ensconced in your new home. I was passing and couldn’t help glancing in at the window and seeing you all so snug around the fireside.’

I hold the door wide open in welcome.

Monsieur Viard beams and follows me into the drawing room, where he looks far too large to fit its neat proportions. ‘Madame Levesque… Etienne.’ He bows. ‘I hope you will forgive the intrusion?’

‘You’re very welcome,’ says Sophie. ‘I’ll fetch another cup and we shall make you hot buttered toast.’

Monsieur Viard holds his hands out to the fire. ‘Well, this is very agreeable!’

It pleases me to have the company of two such personable men. Both of them are fine-looking; Monsieur d’Aubery leaner, darker and more intense than Monsieur Viard, who always has a ready smile to bestow. Sunshine and shadow, I think to myself, both pleasing in their different ways.

‘Jean-Luc, when you arrived I was about to mention that I have employed a new carpenter to replace Antoine Gerard,’ says Monsieur d’Aubery. ‘And he’s happy for Victor to be his apprentice.’

‘But that’s wonderful!’ I say. I’m delighted that he hasn’t forgotten the Gerard family. ‘I had an idea about them, too,’ I say. ‘I was wondering whether to call on Madame Gerard to see if she could spare me her eldest daughter to be our maid?’

Monsieur d’Aubery’s expression is doubtful. ‘Babette is very young and untrained.’

‘I’m used to girls of that age and shall train her myself. Then, when we’ve moved on, she’ll be useful at Château Mirabelle.’