The Chateau on the Lake (23 page)

‘What a picture!’ he says, studying the golden cake and the glossy crimson cherries resting on the starched white linen. He falls on the cake and devours it in seconds, eyes closed in appreciation.

‘Here, have mine,’ I say.

He needs no further urging but eats the second slice more slowly, savouring every morsel, sighing when it’s all gone. We sit together quietly, eating the cherries and enjoying the peace.

Somewhere in the distance I hear a murmur of sound and then a snatch of song.

‘What’s that?’ I ask.

Etienne cocks his head to listen, frowning in concentration. ‘Singing. Is it soldiers?’ He stands up rapidly and runs to the open door.

I follow him and we see a column of women processing along the lane towards us, followed by a gambolling tribe of ragged children, all singing the
Marseillaise
at the top of their voices.

‘I thought it might be soldiers,’ said Etienne, relief plain to see in his face, ‘coming to take whatever provisions they could find from the village and the château.’

The women, a dozen of them, come to a stop before us.

Madame Gerard steps forward. ‘We’ve come to work,’ she says.

Etienne goes to shake her hand. ‘You are all most welcome.’

A short while later the women are moving slowly across the vineyard removing some of the leaves from the canopy of vines to allow the sun to reach the budding fruits.

I watch them for a while, pleased to have played my part in finding a way to help both Etienne and the village women.

 

 

A few days later I return to the vineyard. A baby wails as I walk past the
chai
and there are several small children playing in the doorway with Widow Berger minding them. She waves at me as I pass. The younger village women are already at work and I seek out Madame Gerard.

‘How is it?’ I ask.

She pushes away a lock of damp hair that has escaped from her sunbonnet. ‘No one is complaining.’ I see that there are freckles sprinkled across her cheeks. ‘Not too much anyway. It’s hot, and bending makes your back ache.’

‘I’ve come to help,’ I say.

‘You, Mademoiselle?’

‘It would be terrible to allow the harvest to fail if we can prevent it.’

We work alongside each other for the next couple of hours and Madame Gerard is right; it is backbreaking work. It’s also a fine balance between leaving enough of the canopy to prevent heat stress on the vine and allowing the fruit to ripen and sweeten without risking mildew.

In the middle of the day, when the sun is at its highest, we hear a bell ringing and go down to the
chai
where Madame Thibault and a kitchen maid are ladling out bowlfuls of soup. Madame Gerard and another woman retreat behind a makeshift curtain to nurse their babies.

The men huddle together at the far end of the table. Uncertain of my reception amongst the women, I take my soup and place myself next to some of the older children. Lisette Marchand shyly asks if she may sit beside me.

The young woman opposite me at the table nudges her neighbour and whispers something under her breath as she looks over my shoulder.

The chatter and laughter fade away and I see that Etienne is standing in the doorway. He walks down the room, exchanging a few words with everyone.

‘I didn’t expect to find you here,’ he says when he reaches me. The sun has touched his high cheekbones and his loose blue trousers are powdered with dust.

‘I want to help.’

‘Thank you. We need every pair of hands available.’ He smiles as he watches some boys running around whooping as they play tag. ‘Even Emile has a part to play.’

He moves on and it is only when he has spoken to all the workers that he collects his own bowl of soup and sits down with the men.

I finish my soup, disappointed that he doesn’t talk to me again.

Madame Thibault brings out platters of cherries and the girls hook them over their ears like earrings, while the boys challenge each other to see how far they can spit the stones.

All too soon we finish our meal and are wending our way back up the slope to continue work.

At the end of the day, on my way home, I pass the walled vegetable garden and see that the door is slightly ajar. Inside the ground is overgrown but I notice that Marcel has planted some seeds, albeit in haphazard rows, before he was called to work in the vineyard again. I bend over and pull up a handful of groundsel and dandelions. The weeds are thick and lush while the seedling lettuces and bean plants are frail, but the saving grace is that the weeds have at least sheltered them from the sun.

An hour or so passes. Finally, when I stand with my hands on my hips to ease my aching back, I realise that I’ve cleared several rows. The sun is beginning to set as I dip a watering can into the cistern of water beside the greenhouse and then start to walk slowly up and down the rows, watering the thirsty plants.

At last it’s too dark to see and I slip out of the walled garden and close the door behind me.

I close the schoolroom for the summer to allow the children to help in the vineyard. The days turn into weeks, all blending together in a blur of heat and backache, thirst and blisters, as we continue to tie in the vine shoots and trim back the wilder excesses of the tendrils, to allow the strength of the plant to go to the grapes. Once the grapes begin to swell we remove some of the smaller fruits to allow the others space to grow. Etienne tells me this is called the ‘green harvest’.

And then there’s the watering. We must prevent the vines dying from drought, but too much water might result in grapes without sufficient sweetness and flavour. Our palms blister and then grow calluses as we draw up the buckets countless times from the well and put them on a cart drawn by the piebald cob. We take it in turns to lead him up the hill, which the children think is a fine game as they hitch a ride, and then we deposit the contents of the buckets, one by one, along the rows of vines, leaving dark stains on the dusty soil.

At the end of each day Jean-Luc has fallen into the habit of coming to meet me to accompany me back to the house and I’ve begun look forward to his lively company. Today is Saturday and Jean-Luc sits at a table in the
chai
with his account book and a strongbox as the women queue up to collect their earnings. At first I demurred when Etienne asked me to join the women in the queue, but he insisted and I cannot deny that the extra money is useful since my supply of gold coins is dwindling.

The men, as usual, are paid first. The children, pleased to see their mothers again, gambol noisily around our feet while we wait our turn.

‘What a relief to be out of the sun,’ I say to Madame Gerard and Emile’s mother, Madame Porcher.

‘I don’t remember a summer as hot as this for many a year,’ says Madame Porcher, her face shiny with sweat.

Madame Gerard takes baby Albert from Widow Berger with a tired smile and settles him on her hip. ‘Still, the master has promised us a share of the profits when the wine is sold.’

‘But that’s at least a year away,’ says Madame Porcher. ‘Emile!’ She turns to shout at her son, who is climbing on a stack of oak barrels. ‘Get down from there at once or I’ll give you a clout round the ear!’

‘At least Victor and Babette are bringing home a wage now,’ says Madame Gerard. ‘And Albert,’ she kisses the baby’s cheek, ‘will be weaned in a few months. I must speak to Madame Viard about finding some work in the kitchens for me.’

‘It’s all right for the master though, isn’t it?’ says Madame Porcher, her mouth twisted by resentment. ‘He’s got a cellar stacked to the roof with earlier vintages he can sell, not to mention a palace full of gilded furniture and priceless paintings, any one of which would feed the whole village for a year.’

‘But he’s a good master, isn’t he?’ I say, quick to rush to Etienne’s defence.

Madame Porcher shrugs. ‘Well enough, I suppose, if we can be sure he’s not a murderer.’ Her eyes gleam with spite. ‘No one ever did find out what happened to that wife of his, did they?’ She looks at me speculatively. ‘But I suppose he’s told you all about that, you being so friendly with him and all?’

‘I know his wife is missing,’ I say, stiffly.

‘And unfortunately for you, the position of the next chatelaine isn’t available until Isabelle d’Aubery is found, either dead or alive. But perhaps you’ll settle for Jean-Luc Viard as second best, eh?’

Heat races into my cheeks and Madame Gerard puts a hand on Madame Porcher’s arm. ‘Claudette!’ she murmurs.

Then the queue shuffles forwards and Claudette Porcher turns away to talk to another of the women.

Scarlet-faced, I stare at my feet while I reflect that Madame Porcher speaks only the truth.

‘I’m sorry, Mademoiselle,’ whispers Madame Gerard. ‘Claudette has always looked for something to complain about, even as a girl. You’re new here and people are suspicious of strangers, especially in these times of war and want.’

Albert begins to wriggle in his mother’s arms and then to cry and there is no more conversation.

At last it’s my turn to receive my wages and Jean-Luc checks his ledger for the number of hours I’ve worked and then places a pile of coins on the desk for me. ‘I’ve nearly finished here,’ he says. ‘I’ll walk you home.’

I tuck the coins in my pocket and step aside while the last two women are paid.

I watch Jean-Luc as he closes his ledger and locks the cashbox. He has a commanding presence and looks every inch the gentleman in his well-tailored coat.

He must sense me looking at him because he glances up and smiles. Tucking the cashbox under his arm, he strides towards me.

‘Shall we go?’ He rests his hand on the back of my waist to guide me and I notice Claudette Porcher watching us with a cynical expression. She raises her eyebrows and nudges her companion with one elbow.

A fiery blush stains my cheeks again, just as Etienne steps out of the shadows by the door of the
chai
. He looks weary and sports a smudge of dust on his jaw. His shirtsleeves are rolled up and he wipes the perspiration from his forehead with a sun-browned hand. ‘Good evening, Mademoiselle Moreau. And Jean-Luc.’

‘And to you, Etienne,’ says Jean-Luc, taking my arm in a proprietorial way.

I glance back over my shoulder as we walk away and see that Etienne is still watching us, his face closed. An ache in my breast makes me yearn to go to him but that way lies only misery.

As we walk through the fields Jean-Luc stops to pick me a bunch of hedgerow flowers, presenting them with a flourish. ‘Beautiful flowers for a beautiful lady.’

I take them from him and sniff their sweet scent. I must not allow myself to think of Etienne but concentrate instead on Jean-Luc, an eligible man whose attentions make me feel cared for.

At the house we stop by the gate and he kisses me gently. I don’t resist. If Etienne’s weary face weren’t constantly in my mind’s eye, perhaps I’d even respond with fervour. Maybe I will next time. As Sophie keeps reminding me, I must look to the future.

‘Until tomorrow, Madeleine,’ says Jean-Luc. In the sunshine, his hazel eyes are flecked with green, I notice.

Impulsively, I reach up and press a swift kiss to his lips, grateful for his attentiveness. He laughs and tries to catch me in his arms but I slip away from him and shut the gate between us. ‘Until tomorrow,’ I echo, and go inside.

Sophie has prepared dinner and we eat in the garden, now burgeoning with summer flowers, and talk over the small events of the day. Afterwards I water and weed my vegetable plot and then wander over to the château and the walled vegetable garden.

I water the beans, walking slowly up and down the rows, swinging the watering can rhythmically. I notice the pretty scarlet flowers unfolding and smile in satisfaction at the sight of the frilly little lettuces growing visibly every day.

I love this secret time: the stillness in the air, the damp scent of the earth rising from the ground and the residual heat of the day emanating from the brick wall that surrounds the garden. I allow my thoughts to drift, remembering the musky scent of Jean-Luc’s hair pomade when I kissed him. Could my friendship with him grow into something more? To lose the aching void inside me and be really happy again, I must find a husband and make a family of my own. Perhaps Jean-Luc could be the one I seek?

The metallic click of the latch on the garden door makes me look up, startled. Framed in the doorway is a black figure silhouetted against the orange globe of the setting sun. I recognise his profile straight away and my heart leaps with pleasure.

‘So it’s you who is keeping the garden!’ says Etienne. ‘I thought it must be Marcel.’

‘I don’t believe he’s been here since you asked him to return to work in the vineyard.’ A warm glow of pleasure at Etienne’s unexpected presence spreads through me and all my resolutions to put him out of my thoughts evaporate like mist in sunshine.

Etienne looks at the weed-free beds and the sturdy little plants. ‘You’ve wrought miracles,’ he says.

Glowing with pride, I walk him up and down the rows. ‘They aren’t straight,’ I say. ‘Marcel must have been drinking when he sowed the seeds. I found a whole stack of empty wine bottles behind the greenhouse. And half a dozen full ones.’

‘He’s a disgrace,’ says Etienne, scowling. ‘I only keep him on because it would be shaming for Jean-Luc and his mother if I turned him out.’ He sighs. ‘My father would never hear a word against him, though. He said Marcel used to be a good worker, if a little dour, and hinted at some sadness that made him turn to drink.’

Etienne pulls up a large dandelion and stuffs it absentmindedly into his pocket. ‘I think we deserve a drink at the end of another day of hard work, don’t you?’

We walk through the lengthening shadows and I show him Marcel’s hidden cache. Inside the greenhouse we find a chipped wine glass and a corkscrew. While Etienne opens the bottle, I rinse the glass in the cistern and dry it on my skirt. We carry our prizes over to the iron bench, the metal still warm from the sun.

‘Marcel must have stolen this,’ says Etienne, examining the label on the wine bottle. ‘It’s the Château Mirabelle 1789.’ He smiles wryly. ‘At least we know it’s decent quality.’

I hold the glass up to the sun and see how the pale liquid becomes infused with gold. I sip the wine, allowing it to roll around my tongue, and savour the crisp, refreshing fruitiness of it before handing the glass to Etienne. I feel at peace.

We sit in companionable silence, our faces gilded by the light of the setting sun as we take it in turns to sip from the glass. The sky is a deep orange now, streaked with gold and peach. All around us the cicadas are beginning their evensong, rasping away in the vegetation.

Etienne turns slowly to face me, frowning slightly. ‘You are particular friends with Jean-Luc, I think? I know that he calls you by your given name.’

I’m unsure how to answer. ‘He’s always very friendly.’

‘Yes, I’ve noticed.’

The green paint is flaking off the decorative ironwork scroll that forms the arm of the bench and I run my hand over it, feeling the edges sharp against my fingers. And I close my eyes in sorrow as I remember again how Etienne held me before he went away and how, when he returned, he found me in Jean-Luc’s arms.

‘Aren’t we friends, too?’ asks Etienne.

‘Of course.’ I wish with all my heart that we could be more than mere friends.

‘Then, would it be presumptuous of me to ask you to call me Etienne?’

The air is heavy with the honeyed scent of the jasmine that scrambles up the wall behind us. I’m drowsy and loose with wine and that sweet sensation when your muscles are relaxing after physical exercise. ‘Not at all,’ I say. ‘If you will call me Madeleine.’

He smiles at me with such warmth that it’s hard not to reach out and touch his hand beside mine on the bench. Instead, I focus on the sun as it slides down behind the wall. Then the golden light rapidly fades and the sky, a milky haze at the horizon, deepens to sapphire blue above. And then it’s dark.

‘I suppose we should go in,’ murmurs Etienne after a while.

I don’t want to go indoors. I want to stay here in the warm darkness with him. I want him to explain why he didn’t tell me himself that he had, or has, a wife. And I want him to kiss me.

‘We should go in,’ says Etienne again.

‘In a moment,’ I say, but the spell is broken and I cannot bring myself to ask him why he has never told me about Isabelle. I take a last sip of the wine and hand the remainder to him.

He drains the glass and stands up. ‘Come on,’ he says, his voice soft in the dark, ‘I’ll walk you home or Sophie will be anxious.’

Reluctantly, I stand up.

The moon is a pale disc above us and two or three bright stars glimmer in the heavens. Silently, we step through the door in the wall, leaving behind our secret world, and walk side by side in the silvery moonlight while my heart aches with longing for him.

A lamp is burning in the porch of the house to light me home.

‘Goodnight, Madeleine,’ says Etienne, and before I can answer, he has gone.

I remain in the porch, listening to the sounds of the night and watching the moths singeing their wings in the flame, just as I risk burning myself if I approach the flame of my love for Etienne.

Sighing, I turn the door handle to go inside. It’s then that I sense someone watching me from the trees nearby. I peer into the darkness and see the outline of a man leaning against an oak tree.

‘Etienne?’ I whisper. Forgetting all thoughts of caution and decorum, I run towards him.

In the blink of an eye the shape melts into the shadows.

My fingers reach out to touch the rough bark of the oak but there is no one there.

An owl hoots mockingly from the branches above.

 

 

Sophie and I sit in the sun, shelling peas. Agnes and Alouette are crooning gently nearby as they take a dust bath under the hedge.

‘It’s so peaceful here, isn’t it?’ says Sophie. ‘I was thinking about London and the noise and the smell of summer drains.’