The Chateau on the Lake (20 page)

I can’t help looking at his bare foot. There is sand on the sole and his toenails are rimmed with grey mud from the lake. Fine black hairs grow on his toes. I glance away, curious but at the same time made slightly uncomfortable by such intimate knowledge of him.

Sipping my wine, I watch the birches dancing in the breeze and wonder if these same trees witnessed the seduction and rape of frightened young girls. I shudder as I’m suddenly reminded of the sylvan grove at Vauxhall Gardens where Papa was murdered protecting my honour.

Jean-Luc refills his glass and leans back, regarding me through half-closed eyes. ‘You’re looking very pensive, Madeleine.’

‘I was thinking of my father,’ I say, before I can stop myself.

‘The school teacher from Lyon.’

I nod, my eyes welling up as I picture again the terrible scene that deprived me of both my parents.

‘Tell me about him.’

‘He was a man of honour.’ Surreptitiously I wipe a tear away with my finger. ‘He always stood up for what he believed in.’

‘So he supported the Revolution, then?’

I banish the memory of blood spurting from Papa’s heart and blossoming on his shirt as he lay on the ground. ‘He never had any time for the greedy rich and always believed hard work should be rewarded.’

‘I should like to have met him.’ Jean-Luc smiles. ‘I could have taken him to the Jacobin Club with me.’

The sense of aching loss that I always carry in my breast intensifies then and my throat closes as I try not to weep. I turn my face away as tears overflow, rolling down my face and dripping off my chin.

‘I didn’t mean to make you cry,’ says Jean-Luc.

‘I still miss him so!’

And then Jean-Luc catches me in his arms and holds my head against his broad shoulder. ‘You have a good cry,’ he says, rubbing my back.

Eventually the storm of weeping is over and I’m embarrassed that my tears have soaked his shirtfront. I pull away, unable to look at him.

‘Let me see.’ Jean-Luc holds me at arm’s length and tips up my chin. He dabs at my cheeks with his handkerchief. ‘That’s better.’ He continues to hold my chin, studying my face. ‘You’re very lovely,’ he says.

‘My eyes must be all red…’

Before I can draw breath, he leans forward and kisses me.

Frozen with surprise, I feel the prickle of his stubble on my chin as his full mouth presses against mine. It isn’t unpleasant, not at all, but I’m completely taken aback. Then he buries his hands in my hair and I can’t move away, at least, not without shoving him in the chest and I’m not quite sure that I want to do that.

Gently, he releases me. ‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘I caught you unawares, didn’t I?’

I nod, my fingers pressed to my lips.

‘Are you angry?’

‘No.’

‘Good. Then I suggest we finish our picnic.’

He refills my wine glass and this time I drink.

Jean-Luc, apparently entirely at ease, makes light conversation while I relive his kiss, all the while attempting to understand how I feel about it.

‘Madeleine?’

I jump and see that Jean-Luc is regarding me with amusement.

‘I said, the wind is getting up. It looks as if it might rain.’

Glancing up at the sky I see that grey clouds are rolling across the sun. I begin to pack the remains of the picnic into the basket but as I fold up the tablecloth I notice that there are splashes of paint on the table underneath and pause, staring at it.

‘What is it?’ asks Jean-Luc.

‘Paint,’ I say. ‘Your mother mentioned that Monsieur d’Aubery’s wife came here to paint on the day she disappeared.’

‘She often used to come here. Or so she said.’

‘What do you mean by that?’

‘Perhaps it was a pretext to enable her to meet her lover without causing suspicion?’

‘Do you think she had a lover?’

Jean-Luc packs the empty wine bottle into the basket. ‘I was never quite sure why Etienne married her. Of course, she came with a good dowry but it wasn’t necessary for him to marry for money. The marriage was an unfortunate mismatch.’ He stares out over the lake, a slight frown between his eyebrows.

‘Your mother showed me her portrait. She was very beautiful.’

‘But also shallow and frivolous.’ He turns to look at me. ‘On the afternoon she disappeared I was in the woods. A horseman galloped past and out of the château’s gates with a cloaked figure sitting behind him.’

‘Isabelle?’

‘I prefer to believe she ran away with her lover rather than that Etienne found them together and…’ He leaves the sentence unfinished.

‘And what?’

‘Etienne is always so certain that he’s right in everything he does and, as an only child, Isabelle had been very indulged. She wanted to live in Paris while Etienne wanted to be here. They often had bitter quarrels.’ Jean-Luc looks directly at me. ‘It’s a sight to behold when Etienne’s temper is unleashed.’

At once I remember the ferocity of his rage when he grabbed Auguste Moreau by the throat. Might he have lost his temper with Isabelle and perhaps killed her by mistake? It’s an unbearable thought, as unbearable as the thought that he still has a wife. ‘And no one has ever seen Isabelle again?’

Jean-Luc shakes his head. ‘No, but if she ran away with a lover, she’d hardly return here to pay a social call, would she?’ He sighs. ‘Still, enough of all that. This picnic was to have been a light-hearted occasion.’

I glance up at the sky again. ‘We’d better hurry.’

We walk briskly down the stony path to the beach and Jean-Luc pushes the boat into the water before climbing aboard. The surface of the lake is choppy now as the gusty wind whips up white horses on the unfathomable water.

The kittens, Minou and Mouche, gambol around the garden, play-fighting and chasing butterflies on the mignonette. Sophie makes a pretty picture as she sits, with head bent over her sewing, on the garden bench in the dappled sunshine.

I’m hot from watering my vegetable garden. ‘The lettuces are coming on well now,’ I say, sitting down beside her. I lift up one of the tiny garments she’s placed in a neat pile and examine the dainty stitches.

‘I hope your hands are clean!’ she says in a mock-severe tone.

‘You’ve made far too many nightgowns for one baby to wear.’

‘They aren’t all for my baby,’ she says. ‘I had plenty of linen left over and I thought I’d make some for the orphans and the poor. Heaven knows, I’ve nothing else to do with my time other than grow fatter.’ She stretches and rubs at her back.

‘Uncomfortable?’

‘A little.’ She rests her hand on her abdomen. ‘He’s growing so fast now.’

Taking my hand she presses it to the mound of her stomach and I feel a hard little lump. Suddenly it moves and she laughs. ‘There, did you feel that?’

‘I did. He’s going to be strong if he kicks like that.’ It’s a curious thought that a new life is forming so close to us but out of sight.

‘He had hiccups early this morning, making it impossible for me to sleep.’ She smiles indulgently.

I say nothing, anxious that already she appears to have formed a bond with this child and fearful for her distress when she is parted from it.

The garden gate clicks and I see a man dressed in loose blue work clothes with a battered straw hat pulled down over his eyes. My heart does a somersault when I realise that it’s Etienne.

‘Please excuse my attire,’ he says. ‘I’ve been working in the vineyard.’

‘You look like a
sans-culotte
!’ I say. ‘But then, I suppose I look like a peasant in my old gardening dress.’ I’m quite unable to find anything interesting to say, only drinking in the sight of him, looking at the way stubble shadows his chin and thinking how handsome he is, despite his shabby clothes.

‘But why are
you
working in the vineyard?’ asks Sophie.

‘So many of the men have gone to fight that I’m needed there.’ Etienne sighs. ‘Everything is growing so fast now that there’s too much work for the few men and boys that remain.’

I’m curious. ‘What are you doing to the vines?’

‘They need to be tied in and trained to grow neatly along the wires.’

I notice that there is a pruning knife in his belt and his hands are engrained with dirt, just like a peasant’s. ‘Couldn’t the village women do that?’ I ask.

He stares at me in amazement. ‘Women help with the harvest, but this is man’s work.’

‘Is it any more difficult than gardening? Surely,’ I say, ‘the women could be trained to do that? Many of them would welcome the extra income while their husbands are away.’

Etienne steps over to my vegetable plot and studies the neat rows of lettuces. ‘You seem to be managing very well.’ He looks up at me and smiles.

I glance away, fearful he’ll see the yearning in my eyes.

‘The reason for my visit is to ask if you would both care to come and take your dinner with me tomorrow?’

‘That would be delightful,’ says Sophie.

I can’t help the smile that spreads across my face.

‘And now I must go home and wash off the day’s grime,’ he tells us.

‘I’ll come to the front gate with you.’

Etienne bids Sophie good evening and we walk around the side of the house and up the lavender walk to the front gate.

‘Until tomorrow then,’ he says. He makes no move to open the gate, as if he wishes to delay our parting as much as I do.

I snap off a head of lavender, bruise it between my fingers and sniff the aromatic oil. I hesitate then decide to go ahead. ‘There’s something else I wanted to ask.’

‘Yes?’

‘Is there an orphanage near here?’

Etienne gives me a searching look. ‘An orphanage?’

I nod and attempt to look nonchalant. ‘Sophie has made a number of baby nightgowns. She thought they might be of use to the orphans.’

‘Oh, I see. Well, there is one half an hour away on the road to Orléans.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Good evening, then.’

‘Goodnight, Etienne.’

He walks away and I close the gate behind him.

 

 

The following morning Sophie and I visit the stables where Colbert has the
charrette
waiting for us. The piebald cob has his nose in a bucket of water but, as soon as we are settled, Colbert flicks the reins and we start off.

‘I haven’t left the house in months,’ says Sophie.

‘You’re sure it won’t be too much for you?’ I ask.

‘Babette tells me the road to Orléans is much better than the rough country lanes to Morville. Besides, I should like to give the nightgowns to the orphanage myself.’

She becomes quiet, concentrating on the road ahead, and I can’t help wondering if she’s aware of my ulterior motive for this journey. We can’t put it off any longer; it’s time to find a prospective home for her baby.

The orphanage is a dark stone building set back from the road behind iron gates. Colbert drives into the weedy forecourt and pulls up in front of the house.

‘There are bars at the windows,’ whispers Sophie as I help her to descend.

‘The children must be kept safe,’ I say but, privately, I can’t help thinking that it’s a sinister-looking place.

A young serving girl opens the door and bids us wait on the wooden bench in the hall. The sound of children singing drifts down the stairs and Sophie smiles faintly.

Footsteps tap briskly along the corridor and an imposing woman approaches, dressed in black with her grey hair tucked severely into her white cap.

‘Good morning, Mesdames. I am Madame Boudin,
directrice
of this institution. How may I help you?’ I see the woman’s sharp eyes glance at Sophie’s swollen abdomen.

Sophie stands up. ‘I have made some nightgowns for the orphans,’ she says and holds out her parcel.

‘How kind! We are always in need of more clothing for the children.’ The
directrice
takes the proffered parcel but Sophie doesn’t let it go. ‘Is there something else?’ Madame Boudin enquires.

‘Yes. I should like to see the children.’

There is a momentary silence. Then: ‘Of course, Madame. We are always happy for our benefactors to see the work we do here. Please, come with me.’

She crosses the tiled floor and opens a door. Girls in identical grey dresses, sitting at long trestle tables, glance up at us as we enter. An older girl stands on a raised platform with a birch rod in her hand, supervising her charges.

Sophie puts her hand over her nose at the unpleasantly greasy smell arising from the mounds of hair in various colours heaped on the tables before the girls.

‘There is still a demand for human hair to be made into wigs,’ says Madame Boudin, ‘but fashions are changing rapidly and before long we may need to find other work for the girls.’

We watch the orphan girls for a moment as they collect and comb the hair, tying it into neat switches of uniform length and colour. The girls work quickly, without speaking, some of them frowning in concentration.

Madame Boudin nods to the supervisor, who bobs her a curtsey.

We follow the
directrice
from the room and she leads us upstairs.

‘The boys work in here,’ she says, opening a door. There are more trestle tables but this time they are laid out with heaps of straw, which the boys are stuffing into large canvas bags. Some of the inmates are sewing together the open ends of the bags to make mattresses. The air is full of dust and I sneeze three times in succession. Several of the children have reddened eyes and runny noses, I observe.

The next part of the tour takes us to a room crammed with children too young to work. A few toys are scattered on the floor: a doll with one arm missing, a pile of bricks and a spinning top. A gaunt woman with a hare-lip supervises them, along with a couple of nursery maids.

We proceed in silence to the attics where there are thirty or so cots filled with infants up to two years old. A number of older, grey-uniformed orphanage girls are feeding and changing the wailing infants under the watchful eye of a matron.

‘All the girls are trained to earn their living in the outside world doing domestic work,’ said Madame Boudin, raising her voice over the noise. ‘We do all our own cleaning and cooking and laundry. The girls gain plenty of experience as nursery maids and then the boys, as soon as they are old enough, are apprenticed to cloth weavers, blacksmiths and carpenters.’

‘Admirable,’ I say, faintly.

Sophie leans over a cot and picks up a baby of perhaps five or six months old. He regards her gravely and she tickles his ribs but he doesn’t smile. ‘Do the children ever find new families?’

Madame Boudin sighs. ‘Regrettably, very few of them. There is too much poverty for people to take another child into the family. But not all these children are orphans or foundlings. Some are here because their parents cannot afford to feed them. Others are crippled or not in full possession of their faculties. It’s a constant difficulty for us to raise enough funds to support our inmates.’ She looks speculatively at Sophie. ‘That’s a good-natured child. He rarely cries. I don’t suppose you’d like to take him home with you?’

‘I cannot,’ says Sophie, placing the baby back in his cot.

‘Can you make a donation? Or perhaps you have friends who may help us?’ Madame Boudin pleads.

‘I’m far from home and have no friends nearby.’

Reaching into my pocket, I pull out a handful of coins. Madame Boudin puts them in her pocket. Silently we walk downstairs to the hall. The young maid materialises and opens the door.

‘Thank you for bringing the nightgowns,’ says Madame Boudin. Her gaze drops to Sophie’s stomach again. ‘Perhaps we’ll see you again before long.’

As we drive out through the gates Sophie’s hand creeps into mine. She looks at me with tear-drenched eyes. ‘Oh, Maddy! How could I have even imagined I would abandon my baby in an orphanage?’