The Chateau on the Lake (21 page)

Still in a reflective mood following our visit to the orphanage, Sophie and I walk out as dusk is falling. Château Mirabelle soars in front of us, floating on a sea of mist curling up from the parkland. The moon is a narrow crescent of silver suspended in the deepening blue of the sky.

‘It’s lovely, isn’t it?’ says Sophie. ‘Such a shame that there isn’t a family to live in it.’

‘There might have been be if Isabelle were still here.’

‘Poor Etienne,’ says Sophie. ‘He’s been left in a terrible quandary, not knowing if his wife is dead or alive. Unless he
did
murder her, of course.’

‘He didn’t!’ I snap. But should I put my belief in him?

‘It wouldn’t have been very clever of him to leave her body somewhere it could be found. Either way, he cannot marry again,’ Sophie pronounces.

‘I’d prefer not to discuss this.’

She catches hold of my arm and makes me look at her. ‘I don’t want you to suffer the same pain as I did by loving the wrong man, that’s all, Maddy.’

I nod at her in the gathering darkness but do not say I fear that it’s already too late.

The maid leads us into the drawing room, which is blazing with candles, and our host hurries forward to greet us. Etienne wears his pale blue silk coat and the silver buckles on his shoes gleam.

‘I’m so glad you came,’ he says, kissing our fingers. ‘May I introduce Monsieur and Madame Rochefort?’

I hadn’t expected any other guests. I see that my pink muslin dress is a much plainer affair than the full-skirted and flounced evening dress worn by Madame Rochefort. Her powdered hair is dressed in elaborate curls and decorated with feathers and seed pearls. Clearly Madame has no intention of following the simpler revolutionary fashions.

Madame Rochefort inclines her head to Sophie and then stares at her with eyebrows raised. Sophie’s dress, even though loose and unwaisted, cannot begin to conceal the curves of eight months of pregnancy.

Older by some years than his wife, Monsieur Rochefort is also formally dressed and wears a powdered wig and extravagantly embroidered waistcoat.

Once Sophie and I are seated side by side on gilded chairs, she catches my eye. ‘I’d never have come, in my condition, if I’d known Monsieur d’Aubery had guests,’ she whispers.

‘Perhaps he doesn’t realise that women who are increasing aren’t invited to formal dinner parties,’ I whisper back.

We make polite conversation, side-stepping questions from Madame Rochefort about our families and where we have come from.

Then the drawing-room door opens again and Jean-Luc enters. His white silk stockings are pristine, as usual, and his brown hair is arranged in carefully disordered curls. He gives me a mischievous smile and then turns to Etienne. ‘Apologies for my late arrival,’ he says, ‘but I’m able to accept your invitation after all.’

‘Did the Jacobin Club cancel their dinner then?’ asks Etienne.

Monsieur Rochefort’s eyebrows rise so high that they almost disappear under his wig but he refrains from commenting.

‘There’ll be plenty of other occasions for a Jacobin dinner in the future. It’s been some time since I’ve been invited to dine in such charming company,’ says Jean-Luc. He looks directly at me. ‘Ladies, what a vision of loveliness you are!’

Madame Rochefort simpers and pats her powdered curls into place while Monsieur Rochefort makes a face as if he has a bad smell under his nose.

Jean-Luc catches my eye and it’s hard for me not to laugh as he copies Monsieur Rochefort’s expression.

The maid brings a tray of glasses and we sip sparkling wine while Etienne leads us to talk of less controversial subjects than the Jacobin Club. After a while a footman announces dinner and we remove to the dining room.

There is a delicious aroma of roast chicken and I’m suddenly hungry. We’ve rarely eaten meat in the past weeks, unless Victor brings us a rabbit. Fortunately, Etienne turns a blind eye to poaching, especially while his workers are short of food.

The dinner is not extravagant but Madame Thibault has made the best of simple ingredients. By the time we finish our cauliflower soup, however, it’s plain to me that Monsieur Rochefort must once have been an aristocrat. No wonder he has no love for the Jacobins.

‘Château Beaubourg is rapidly falling into disrepair since the younger men joined the army,’ he complains. ‘And now that the Convention has imposed such fierce taxes on the estates I’ve little money left to employ even the ageing men who remain.’

‘The old order is changing,’ says Jean-Luc, leaning back in his chair, ‘and for the better, I believe.’

Underneath the table I feel his foot touch mine and when I glance at him he sends me a secret little smile. It’s impossible to resist smiling back but I draw my foot away and tuck it under my chair when I see that Etienne is watching us.

‘I’ve been out in the vineyard every day,’ he says. ‘If every able-bodied man who remains in the area doesn’t work on it now, the harvest will be negligible. And I need the income from this year’s vintage to carry out essential roof repairs and to pay the new taxes.’

‘Are you censuring me for not joining you in the vineyard, Etienne?’ asks Jean-Luc.

Etienne doesn’t reply directly.

‘I cannot imagine you setting aside your embroidered waistcoats and silken stockings to don ragged work clothes.’

Jean-Luc regards his friend with a lazy smile. ‘Don’t forget
someone
has to keep the accounts up to date if the estate isn’t to go to rack and ruin.’

‘
You’ve
been working in the vineyard, Comte?’ asks Madame Rochefort. ‘With your own hands?’

Etienne laughs ruefully and holds them out for inspection. ‘As you can see.’

‘Good God, D’Aubery,’ says Monsieur Rochefort, ‘you’ll have the women working there next!’

‘Mademoiselle Moreau has already suggested that.’ Etienne lifts his glass to me. ‘I’ve thought it through and it’s an excellent idea.’

A glow of pleasure makes me smile back at him.

‘Well!’ says Madame Rochefort. ‘You certainly won’t find
me
working like a slave in the fields, Edouard.’

‘No, I don’t suppose I shall, my dear.’ Monsieur Rochefort looks amused.

‘Mademoiselle Moreau,’ says Etienne, ‘I wonder if you would act as my ambassador and sound out the village women to see if they would be interested in your idea?’

‘I’d be happy to,’ I say, pleased that he has entrusted the task to me.

We discuss the work the women might do until Jean-Luc interrupts us.

‘I hoped you might open a bottle of the Château Mirabelle ’89 tonight, Etienne,’ he says. ‘A portentous year, wasn’t it? The year the Revolution began.’

Monsieur Rochefort opens his mouth as if he is about to make a disapproving comment but then thinks better of it.

Covertly, I watch Etienne and Jean-Luc as they talk, discerning a subtle undertone of discord between them. It’s not the first time I’ve noticed this since Etienne returned from his trip to the coast and found me in Jean-Luc’s arms. On the surface, their differences appear to arise because Jean-Luc is more involved with the politics driving the Revolution forward, while Etienne is only interested in maintaining the estate. Nevertheless, I can’t help wondering if there is another cause for the tension between two old friends.

Several bottles of wine later, the candles have burned out in the chandelier, dripping wax on to the table below. Sophie, barely keeping her eyes open, has withdrawn from the conversation. Monsieur and Madame Rochefort, however, appear to be firmly entrenched for a long evening.

I’m sleepy and a little light-headed too from drinking more wine than I’m used to. ‘We keep country hours and it’s time Sophie was in bed,’ I say, ‘so we must thank you for your hospitality and take our leave.’

‘Of course,’ says Etienne. ‘We would not wish to overtire Madame Levesque.’

‘I shall escort you both back to the house,’ says Jean-Luc.

We say our goodbyes. As Etienne bends over my hand to kiss it, I have to restrain myself from reaching out to touch his dark curls. It’s a constant ache in my heart that there can be no future together for us.

‘It’s been delightful,’ he says, still in possession of my hand and his gaze holding mine.

Jean-Luc is watching. Regretfully, I release my fingers.

A few moments later we are outside in the cool night air.

Jean-Luc holds up a flickering lantern to guide our way. ‘Old Rochefort is a pompous fool. He represents everything the revolutionaries despise. I don’t know why Etienne invited him tonight. We never liked him even when he was a boy.’

‘Perhaps,’ I say, ‘Etienne clings to his old acquaintances to discover how other former nobles are managing? It’s a delicate path to tread since the Revolution.’

‘He should be careful if he doesn’t want to lose Château Mirabelle,’ says Jean-Luc. There is a sharp edge to his voice. ‘I’ve warned him but he doesn’t listen.’

My head is swimming from the wine and I stub my toe in the darkness, causing me to stumble.

‘Steady!’ Jean-Luc grips my arm, drawing me close to his side. His thigh brushes against mine as we walk. Muzzy-headed, I welcome the strength of his arm and lean on him for support.

We walk the rest of the way in silence.

‘Thank you for lighting our way,’ says Sophie.

‘The pleasure is mine.’ Jean-Luc squeezes me against his side again and whispers in my ear, ‘Goodnight,
mignonne
.’

‘Goodnight, Jean-Luc,’ I say.

He lifts my hand and presses it lingeringly to his lips. ‘Until tomorrow.’

His footsteps crunch away over the gravel and we watch until the light from his lantern fades into the distance.

I yawn, suddenly very sleepy.

‘Do look!’ says Sophie.

The sharp brightness of the scimitar moon is reflected in silver on the still black water of the lake and we stand motionless to wonder at the beauty of it.

‘I watch the waxing and the waning of the moon every night from my bedroom window,’ says Sophie, her voice quavering a little. ‘Two more full moons and my baby will be here. And then what will I do?’

The question shimmers in the air between us, the silence stretching to breaking point until an owl hoots in the trees above.

I tuck Sophie’s arm firmly through mine to still her trembling. ‘It’s growing cold,’ I say. ‘Let’s go in.’

 

 

The next morning I fetch a handful of corn to sprinkle on the ground for Agnes and Alouette. My head throbs from the previous night’s wine and I blush as I remember how Jean-Luc had to support me home and the warmth of his breath on my cheek as he whispered in my ear. He’s handsome and attentive. If only I could stop thinking of Etienne, perhaps I’d give him more whole-hearted encouragement.

Agnes doesn’t come running as usual when I scatter the corn and I call out to Victor, who is building a picket fence so that the chickens cannot ravage our precious vegetables. ‘Have you seen Agnes?’

He puts down his saw and we look in all her favourite places. I peer into the chicken coop while Victor lifts the lid on the nesting box.

‘She’s here!’ he says. Agnes puffs up her feathers and aims a peck at his fingers. Very gently, he reaches under her and extracts a prize. We look at each other in delight.

‘I must show this to Sophie,’ I say, cradling the warm egg in my hands.

Babette has finished her duties so we sit at the kitchen table for our daily reading lesson. She’s making good progress and her confidence is growing.

‘It won’t be long before I can read to my little brothers and sisters,’ she says, face glowing with pleasure. ‘Perhaps I can teach them to write, too.’

‘That’s my hope for the future,’ I say. ‘If every child who learns to read and write teaches another three or four, that would be a big step towards the whole population becoming literate, and education and betterment being available to all.’ I reflect that Babette’s achievement gives me a far greater sense of satisfaction than anything I previously felt at the progress of my pampered pupils at Papa’s Academy for Young Ladies.

After the lesson is finished, I accompany Babette back to the village. The sun is still hot and we walk side-by-side, keeping to the shade of the trees.

When we arrive at the cottage, her younger siblings are playing with their hoop outside and crowd around her, clamouring for their supper.

‘But can you not see we have Mademoiselle visiting us?’ she says. ‘Now play quietly and I’ll call you when supper is ready.’

Babette’s mother smiles a welcome and pours us a cup of water to slake our thirst.

The baby whimpers on his mother’s shoulder and Babette gathers him into her arms and props him on her hip as she starts to prepare a chickpea stew.

‘Madame Gerard,’ I say, ‘I’ve come to ask your help. Monsieur d’Aubery is working in the vineyard so he couldn’t come himself.’

‘I’ve heard that,’ she says, shaking her head in wonder. ‘Who’d have thought that the master would end up working in his own fields?’