The Chateau on the Lake (25 page)

‘My father had a school in a small town outside the city,’ I say, not wishing to disclose any more than is necessary.

‘You have no family left?’

‘Sadly, that is so.’ I’m made uncomfortable by her questioning gaze.

‘But you have both settled in well here?’

‘I love it,’ says Sophie.

‘And you, Mademoiselle Moreau? Have you also made a new beginning at Château Mirabelle?’

I concentrate on rethreading my needle. ‘We’re fortunate to rent such a charming house.’

We’re silent for a while until Madame Viard leans over to inspect my stitches. ‘Very neat work,’ she says. ‘My son speaks highly of your natural grace and talents, and I see that he is right.’

Sophie glances at me with her needle poised in mid-air.

‘How kind of him,’ I murmur, wondering where this conversation is leading.

‘I hear from Jean-Luc that the mayor will soon be calling for more volunteers for the army,’ says Madame Viard. ‘A mother can be very proud of a son who is serving his country, but nonetheless I should not care to see my Jean-Luc go to war. His role here as estate manager is too important for him to be spared, don’t you agree?’

‘Of course,’ I murmur.

Madame Viard holds up the section of the flag that she’s just completed. ‘Perhaps you both hope to make your home permanently here at Château Mirabelle?’

‘I can imagine nothing we should like better,’ says Sophie.

I shrug. ‘As to that, who knows what the future will bring?’

‘Who knows indeed?’ Madame Viard smiles at me as she nips off a thread with her sharp little teeth.

One evening the following week the carriage draws up outside our house and Jean-Luc and Etienne make a deal of fuss over Sophie, settling her comfortably inside.

‘I feel as excited as a girl going to her first ball,’ she says.

Colbert has been given strict instructions to avoid all potholes and the carriage makes stately progress on its way to Morville. The road is unusually busy and we’re overtaken by a number of horses, carts and
charrettes
. Pedestrians crowd the roadside, all heading for town.

We rattle over the stone bridge as dusk descends and the sky fades from lavender to indigo. Colbert drives us to the bustling courtyard of the Lion d’Or.

It’s only a step to the market square and an orchestra welcomes us, playing slightly off key but with a great deal of enthusiasm. Children run about squealing with excitement and the citizens are dressed in their best clothes, many of them wearing red caps or tricolour sashes.

Tables and chairs have been set out around the square and we sit as far away from the band as we can so that we don’t have to shout at each other. The remaining sultriness of the day can still be felt in the warmth of the cobbles beneath our feet and the air is smoky with the aroma of cooking sausages.

The Hôtel de Ville is bedecked with red, white and blue bunting, and the flag that Sophie and I helped Madame Viard to make flutters proudly from the flagpole.

‘It looks very fine, doesn’t it?’ says Sophie to Jean-Luc.

‘Excellent! The mayor was delighted to receive it.’

‘The sausages smell delicious.’ Sophie looks at the cloud of smoke rising from the brazier set up outside the church.

‘Shall you eat one if I fetch it for you?’ asks Etienne.

‘Yes, please!’ she says.

Etienne disappears to join the multitude gathered around the glowing brazier and Jean-Luc orders jugs of wine from one of the serving maids.

‘The church is no longer boarded up,’ I say.

Jean-Luc nods. ‘There’s a new priest now; one who supports the Revolution.’

I glance at Citoyenne Mathieu’s house across the square. The door to Père Chenot’s garden is firmly closed.

We sit at our table listening to the laughter and the voices simmering with excitement all around us, and watching the children running about without a care. Flickering lanterns are strung between the plane trees and bedeck the roof of the
lavoir
, where the young have congregated to flirt with each other, unimpeded by their parents’ censure
.
As the sun sets a boy carrying a glowing taper moves from one table to another lighting the candles.

Etienne brings sausages and coarse bread wrapped in newspaper. His hair and clothes smell of hot smoky fat and I help him to tear the paper into four makeshift plates.

‘This is unbelievably delicious,’ says Sophie, her lips glistening with grease as she devours a sausage.

Jean-Luc’s sausage disintegrates as he bites into it and a chunk bounces off his chest, smearing the front of his silken waistcoat before falling to the ground. He swears under his breath. ‘Wretched peasant food! Look at my waistcoat… it’s ruined!’

I dip my handkerchief into a glass of water and wipe away the worst of the staining. ‘It really needs soap to take out the grease but that looks better.’

Jean-Luc captures my hand in his and kisses it.

I realise that Sophie is watching us with an indulgent smile while Etienne’s face is pinched with disapproval. Pulling my hand away, I’m relieved when the orchestra strikes up a noisy military march full of crashing cymbals and banging drums.

After a while the orchestra begins to play dance music and we watch young couples leave the
lavoir
and begin to dance in the square, swiftly followed by their parents and even grandparents.

‘Shall we?’ Jean-Luc rises to his feet and holds out his hand to me.

We take our places amongst the other dancers and it is soon apparent that this is nothing like an elegant, formal dance in a London drawing room but an opportunity to forget the troubles of the world and lose ourselves in the moment. Two fiddlers stand at the front of the orchestra and enter into a competitive frenzy of speed, their bows scraping up and down almost too fast to be seen. Whirling around, I see Babette, her cheeks flushed and her eyes bright, dancing with Victor, and Madame Gerard is holding hands with her children as they spin in a circle, shrieking with glee.

Several dances later, laughing and breathless, we withdraw and Jean-Luc kisses me swiftly on the lips as we return to our table.

I can’t help noticing Etienne’s eyes upon me as I fan my overheated cheeks and drink my wine.

‘Oh, I should so like to dance!’ says Sophie wistfully.

‘Perhaps if we wait for a more restrained tune we might take a turn together around the dance floor?’ says Jean-Luc.

‘Then I shall make a note on my dance card,’ jokes Sophie, clapping her hands. ‘And since it’s dark no one need notice my condition.’

A portly man in a white wig approaches our table, his hand held out to Jean-Luc and a wide smile on his face. His yellowing teeth are slightly crossed at the front. ‘Was that you I saw dancing with a pretty lady, Viard?’

‘Indeed it was,’ says Jean-Luc. ‘May I present the lady in question, Mademoiselle Moreau? Madeleine, this is Monsieur Prudhomme, Mayor of Morville.’

He bows to my curtsey. ‘And I believe you are one of the ladies we have to thank for the new flag for the Mairie?’

‘Together with my friend Madame Levesque here.’

‘It was an honour to work on the flag,’ says Jean-Luc.

Mayor Prudhomme nods at Sophie. ‘Naturally.’ He turns to Etienne. ‘And I hear you are attempting to save the grape harvest at Château
Mirabelle by employing the village women, d’Aubery?’

‘Indeed.’ Etienne’s voice is carefully neutral but I know him well enough to realise that he doesn’t like Prudhomme any more than I do.

‘Well, we shall see.’ The mayor puffs up his chest, full of self-importance.

Prudhomme puts his arm around Jean-Luc. ‘Will you be at the Jacobin Club tomorrow evening?’

‘Most definitely.’

‘Good, good.’ The mayor makes a small bow to us all and saunters away to greet the people at the next table.

‘For one with such influence, he is a most unassuming man, don’t you think?’ asks Jean-Luc.

Etienne’s lips thin to a line. ‘As the son of a pork butcher, he has worked assiduously to rise in society.’

Not wishing to fan the flames of potential discord I turn my attention to the moths fluttering around our candle flame. I’m relieved when the orchestra begins to play a lilting melody.

Jean-Luc stands up and bows to Sophie. ‘A
boulangère
. I believe this dance is mine. Shall we?’

Giggling a little, Sophie stands and makes her curtsey to him.

Etienne holds out a hand to me. ‘Madeleine?’

I hesitate, but where is the harm in dancing with him in a public place? I rest my hand on his arm.

He holds me lightly, the heat of his fingers searing through the thin muslin of my gown as he leads me towards the dancers. The lingering taint of sausage fat on his clothing cannot disguise the clean, soapy scent of his warm skin beneath.

The violinists play a sweet, melancholy air as the women dance around the circle, taking each man in turn by the hand and twirling him around, gradually returning to their partners. I’m circling with a man I recognise as the greengrocer. Two more steps and Jean-Luc is smiling at me and then I pass on to another man I don’t know. Then Etienne’s hand is in mine and we twirl slowly in the warm darkness, as lightly as thistledown on a summer’s breeze. His breath is a soft sigh on my cheek as we move together and then apart. I close my eyes, wishing time would cease to exist and that I might remain for ever in this bubble of happiness.

The dance tune fades to a close. Etienne continues to hold my hand for a second or two after the music finishes but then he leads me back to our table.

‘What a wonderful evening!’ says Sophie.

‘Isn’t it?’ I say, still feeling the lingering warmth of Etienne’s fingers.

‘And it’s not over yet,’ he says. ‘They’re preparing to light the fireworks.’

‘Not too tired, Sophie?’ I whisper.

She shakes her head, kneading her back. ‘Though I rather wish I hadn’t eaten all of that sausage.’

A sudden lightning bolt makes us gasp and look up. A vast shower of white stars is falling slowly from the velvet black of the sky above. Another series of explosive bangs follows, so loud that Sophie and I clap our hands to our ears, while some of the children scream in fright. Burning streaks of red, green and gold shoot across the sky, illuminating the night.

‘Isn’t it beautiful!’ says Sophie, gazing heavenwards as a crackling starburst of violet drifts towards the earth, leaving a trail of sparks.

Great fizzing fountains of gold and silver erupt twenty feet into the air and whistling wheels of brilliant light whirl around, spitting sparks in all directions.

I clap my hands and laugh aloud. Then I feel the pull of Etienne’s gaze and turn slowly to look back at him, the laughter fading from my face. The naked longing in his eyes makes me catch my breath. I cease to hear the crowd exclaiming as each new wonder bursts in a spectacular display of colour and light and see only Etienne. I stare back at him, speechless and unable to move for the yearning that tingles in my veins.

Jean-Luc touches my hand and says something that I can’t hear over the crackling of firecrackers. There’s a final rapid-fire of explosions and then only silence, while smoky drifts of gunpowder enfold us.

The crowd cheers and claps and whistles and the orchestra starts up again and children, fuelled by excitement, chase each other across the square while their parents call after them.

Sophie is leaning back in her chair, her eyes closed.

‘Did you enjoy that?’ Jean-Luc asks me.

‘Very much, though perhaps it’s time to take Sophie home.’ I touch her wrist gently. ‘Are you all right, Sophie?’

She opens her eyes and nods. ‘It was wonderful but I’m suddenly very tired.’

Etienne rises to his feet. ‘Let me escort you back to the carriage.’

There is a press of conveyances leaving the courtyard and plenty of good-natured jostling as we wait our turn to exit through the archway. Progress is slow until we pass the bottleneck of the river bridge but at last we are on the open road.

Sophie winces as we jog over every rut.

‘This evening has been too much for you,’ I say.

‘I wouldn’t have missed it for anything.’ she says, and smiles wryly. ‘I’m almost certain that my baby is coming.’

A cold wash of fear runs down my back. ‘Oh, Sophie!’

Jean-Luc sits bolt upright and stares at her in horrified fascination. ‘Good God, is that my fault for dancing with you?’

She laughs. ‘Not at all.’

‘We’ll take you home as quickly as possible,’ says Etienne calmly.

I hold Sophie’s hand and she squeezes mine tightly. It seems an eternity until the carriage draws up outside the house.

‘Thank you for your kind attentions,’ Sophie says to Etienne and Jean-Luc as she descends from the carriage. ‘I would be grateful if you would send a message to Widow Berger. I don’t want Madeleine to walk to the village in the dark.’

‘Absolutely not!’ says Etienne. ‘I’ll fetch her myself.’

‘Is there anything I can do?’ asks Jean-Luc.

Sophie shakes her head. ‘Nothing. Now it’s all women’s work. But thank you for a lovely evening.’

‘Well then,’ Jean-Luc rubs his hands together nervously, ‘the next time we meet I hope to see you cradling your baby in your arms.’

‘Indeed.’

The men leave and I smile brightly at Sophie, suddenly alarmed because I have no idea what to do. I’ve never been called upon to assist at a birth before.

‘It’ll be all right, Madeleine,’ says Sophie gently. ‘It took two days for Henry to present himself to the world so there’s plenty of time for the midwife to arrive.’

‘Tell me what to do.’

‘Set a pan of water to boil and help me to put clean sheets on the bed.’

‘You sit here quietly and I’ll do that.’

She nods and looks at me with a beatific smile. ‘Soon my baby will be here. I shall tell Charles I have adopted him, an orphan of the Revolution. Nothing and no one will ever make me give him up.’

 

 

An hour later Sophie is resting in bed. All the pans, jugs and tureens are full of hot water. Towels are folded beside the bed, along with a pile of clean rags. Her pains are coming regularly every ten minutes or so but she’s riding the discomfort as well as can be expected.

Another hour later the pains are every two minutes apart and Widow Berger still hasn’t arrived. Sophie is groaning and writhing on the bed. ‘It’s happening so quickly this time, Madeleine!’

I give her sips of water and stroke her hair, soothing and calming her as best I can without letting her see how very anxious I am.