The Chateau on the Lake (26 page)

Sophie groans and retches into a basin. ‘I knew I should never have eaten that sausage,’ she says as I wipe her face.

‘Where is Widow Berger?’ I pull the curtain aside for the tenth time and peer out into the dark, really frightened now.

‘Madeleine!’

I turn back to Sophie to find that her eyes are closed. She reaches blindly for my hand and grips it so hard I think my fingers will break. Her knees are drawn up to her chest and she grunts, her whole body tensed. At last she lets out her breath in a long sigh. ‘It’s coming soon,’ she says, falling back against the pillows.

‘It can’t be! Widow Berger isn’t here yet.’ There’s an icy knot of terror in my stomach. I snatch open the casement and look outside yet again. An owl hoots in the oak tree but there is no sign of the midwife.

Sophie is labouring with heavy panting breaths.

‘What shall I do?’ I ask. My voice is high with fear. What if Sophie or the baby should die because I do the wrong thing?

Sophie groans but then her pain appears to ease again. ‘So thirsty,’ she whispers.

I help her to sip water and she nods gratefully. ‘You need to take a look,’ she says. ‘It won’t be long now.’ She pulls up her nightgown and I peer between her thighs but there’s nothing to see in the guttering candlelight.

Sophie grips my wrist. ‘Another pain.’ She grunts as her body convulses. After a few moments she lets out her breath in a sigh.

‘Look again,’ she says.

Feeling utterly helpless, I lift her nightgown with trembling fingers and catch my breath. ‘I can see the top of the baby’s head!’ Not knowing what else to do, I wipe the sweat off her brow. I start to pray.

‘Maddy, fetch a towel!’ Sophie draws her knees up and takes a deep breath. Her face is screwed up as if in extreme pain and she lets out a yell. ‘I can’t push the baby out!’

‘Yes, you can!’ I say, though it looks an impossible task. ‘Now push! Harder, harder! That’s it!’

Sophie shuts her eyes and her face turns scarlet. Her whole body is shaking with the effort. She lets out a bloodcurdling scream and slowly the baby’s head appears, the hair darkly matted with blood.

I stare at it in horror, wondering if she is going to bleed to death.

Sophie rolls her head wildly on the pillow. ‘It hurts!’

‘It won’t be long now,’ I say, stroking her hand and hoping I’m right. All the while I’m bargaining with God, praying that he won’t desert us in our hour of need.

‘It’s coming again,’ groans Sophie. She tenses all her muscles, bears down and then gives an almighty yell.

The baby slithers out and, with a gasp of surprise, I catch it in the towel.

Sophie sighs and collapses back against the pillows.

Into the ensuing silence comes the high-pitched wail of a newborn.

Sophie pushes herself up again, her face slick with sweat. ‘Is it all right?’

The infant cries in lusty protest and, fearing she’ll catch cold, I wrap her in the towel so that only her angry little face is showing. ‘Sophie, you have a beautiful daughter.’ Tears running down my face, I hand the wailing infant to her mother.

A sob rises in my throat and I have to sit down to quell the trembling in my knees. A moment ago we were two in the room and now we are three. I have seen something so momentous that I can’t quite grasp it yet but I know that nothing will ever be the same again. I wipe the tears of emotion from my cheeks but they continue to fall.

Sophie, her face luminous with love, kisses her daughter’s forehead and rocks her against her breast. A small fist frees itself from the wrappings and Sophie catches hold of it, kissing each of the perfect, tiny fingers. ‘My precious little darling,’ she croons. ‘Quiet now and all will be well. Shush, sweetheart, I’ll never let you go.’

‘She’s so beautiful,’ I say. ‘And she has your dimples.’

‘So she has!’ Sophie laughs and kisses her baby’s button nose. ‘I shall name her Marianne, since it’s Bastille Day.’ Slowly, Sophie counts the toes on each little foot. Finally, she begins to unwrap the towel, using it to wipe the infant’s face and head. Suddenly she becomes utterly motionless and then looks up at me, her eyes round and tragic.

Fear grips me. Is the child not perfect in some way? ‘What is it, Sophie?’

Now that the baby’s head has been rubbed dry it’s clear that she has a head of bright, copper-coloured down. Anyone who has met Jack Fielding will know instantly who fathered Sophie’s child.

The following afternoon little Marianne won’t settle. Sophie is exhausted and I suggest she tries to sleep while I take the wailing baby downstairs. I’m walking round and round in the drawing room, rocking her in my arms, when I see Etienne at the open window.

‘I’ve come to meet the new arrival,’ he says.

I usher him into the drawing room and he bends over to look at the screaming infant’s scarlet face.

‘It makes me feel so helpless,’ I say. ‘Even the kittens run away, terrified by the noise she makes.’

‘Poor little cabbage! May I hold her?’ He takes the baby from me, holds her awkwardly against his chest and walks up and down, singing ‘
Au clair de la lune
’ to her.

My heart melts to see him holding Marianne so tenderly.

After several minutes the baby’s cries lessen and then cease. Very carefully, Etienne sits down on the sofa. ‘I daren’t move in case she wakes,’ he whispers.

We sit side by side, watching the baby sleep, while Etienne strokes her copper hair.

‘How is Sophie today?’ he asks.

‘Tired but relieved that the birth is over.’

‘You must have been worried last night,’ he says. ‘Once I discovered Widow Berger had gone to the celebrations in Morville last night, I didn’t waste time coming back to tell you that I was going to have to return there to find her. In retrospect, I should have sent a woman from the village to sit with you.’

‘No harm was done,’ I say. ‘And Widow Berger pronounced both mother and child well.’

Etienne nods but his expression is distracted. After a moment he says, ‘Forgive me, I have no wish to pry, only to help, but I must ask you…’

‘Yes?’

‘Will Sophie’s husband accept the child when she returns home?’

I hesitate. Clearly Etienne has worked out the difficulty for himself. ‘I strongly doubt it,’ I say. ‘Sophie tells me she and her husband had not shared the marital bed for some time.’

‘I confess I’d wondered previously about the child’s paternity because of Sophie’s absolute insistence on leaving England, even though she had to leave her son behind. And I knew she’d been devastated by the end of her affair with that scoundrel Jack Fielding. And now that Marianne is here and her hair is the exact colour of Fielding’s…’

‘In the circumstances Sophie believed she had no other option but to leave the country.’ I sigh. ‘Etienne, please don’t think too badly of her. Charles Levesque is a monstrously bad and violent husband and he taunted her about his mistresses. All she craved was a little attention, some love…’

‘I do not condemn her. God knows, this is an imperfect life and sometimes we have to shift for ourselves as best we can in difficult circumstances.’ His voice is bleak. ‘People often judge without knowing all the facts.’

I hold my breath, wondering if he will tell me about Isabelle at last. But he says no more, only strokes Marianne’s cheek as she slumbers.

‘The question is,’ he says quietly, ‘what is Sophie going to do about it?’

‘I don’t know. I’d imagined we’d find a family to adopt the baby but I don’t know where to begin. We visited the orphanage but, having seen it, we cannot abandon Marianne there. Sophie had planned to tell her husband she’d adopted the baby in France, but there’s her red hair to consider… Charles may not have heard the rumours about his wife’s red-headed lover but someone will soon tell him if she takes Marianne home. He’d have no hesitation in casting Sophie out then and she’d never see Henry again.’

‘It’s a terrible situation for her.’ Etienne is silent while he thinks. ‘Perhaps my old friend Dr Dubois might be able to help. He may know of a lady who longs for a child but has been disappointed.’

‘Sophie is in no mind to ask you such a thing at present; she loved Marianne from the moment she saw her.’ I touch the baby’s tiny hand and, still sleeping, she clasps my finger. ‘But I’d be grateful if you’d make enquiries because she’ll have to make a difficult decision before long.’

 

 

Later that morning Jean-Luc brings flowers for Sophie but I’m too tired to make the effort to talk to him and he soon gives his excuses and leaves.

Sophie insists on feeding Marianne herself, even though Widow Berger offers to find a wet nurse.

‘Charles made me send Henry to a nurse in the country almost straight after he was born but I will keep my daughter close,’ she says, smiling down at the infant greedily sucking at her breast.

My heart is breaking when I see the love in Sophie’s eyes because I know how impossible it is for this child ever to be a part of the Levesque family.

Babette, although young, is experienced with babies and remains calm and unruffled in the face of a fretful infant. I shall be able to continue working in the vineyard and the vegetable gardens for a few hours a day while Sophie is lying in, confident that Babette is on hand.

 

 

Marianne is asleep and I’m sitting at Sophie’s bedside while we sip our coffee together one morning when Babette arrives. She’s panting and out of breath. ‘It’s Père Chenot,’ she says.

Instantly I feel a tremor of unease. ‘What is it?’

‘His sister has betrayed him.’

‘Citoyenne Mathieu?’ I remember the mean-spirited woman who was so unkind to her brother and who had been barely civil to me.

‘Père Chenot was giving Mass to two old women in his garden shed…’

‘His shed! But why?’

‘He was under house arrest so couldn’t visit them in their own homes and, of course, he’s forbidden to enter the church or to take services.’

‘But couldn’t his parishioners take Mass in the church now that the Convention has sent a new priest?’ asks Sophie.

‘Not everyone likes the new priest.’

‘So what has happened to Père Chenot?’

‘He’s in the gaol in the Mairie. He’s to be tried today. Madame Porcher says they’ll find him guilty.’

‘Tried?’ I say. ‘But he’s just a harmless old man! What threat can he possibly be to the revolutionaries?’

‘Madame Porcher says he’s committed a crime against the Revolution.’

‘But the punishment for that is death!’ Sophie frowns. ‘Perhaps Jean-Luc would speak to Mayor Prudhomme?’

 

 

A short while later I ring the doorbell and a maid tells me that Jean-Luc has already ridden into Morville. I stand on the step, undecided as to what to do, when I remember it’s Thursday. ‘Is Madame Thibault here?’ I ask.

‘She’s in the kitchen, Mademoiselle, if you would like to see her?’

I follow the maid down the kitchen passage and find Madame Thibault dressed in her market day hat.

‘Ah, Mademoiselle Moreau!’ she says. ‘You will accompany me to Morville today?’

Ten minutes later we are in the
charrette
on the way to the market.

‘Have you heard that Père Chenot is to be tried today?’ I say.

Madame Thibault glances at me. ‘I heard.’

‘It’s shocking.’

‘Shhh! Don’t let anyone hear you say that!’

‘But I thought you liked Père Chenot?’

‘That’s as maybe but I don’t want anyone thinking I support what he did or I’ll be under suspicion, too. And you’d be wise to keep quiet on the subject.’

‘Is it really as bad as that?’

White-faced, she nods and refuses to discuss it any further.

Morville is even busier than is usual on a market day. I call into the Lion d’Or but Jean-Luc is nowhere to be found, though I recognise his chestnut gelding in the stables. I walk amongst the market stalls, keeping my eyes open for him while I make my purchases.

Standing in the bread queue I notice Madame Thibault in earnest conversation with a soldier near to the
lavoir
. He has a recent, disfiguring scar down one cheek.

The cook glances up as if she feels my gaze on her and hurries away.

Once I have a loaf tucked under my arm, I purchase the available grocery items on my list and look again for Jean-Luc. Before long I come to the conclusion that he cannot be in the square or, since he’s so tall, I’d see his head and shoulders above the crowd.

A large group of people are gathering on the opposite side and the sound of hammering can be heard above the bustle of the crowd. I draw closer and stand on tiptoe but I still can’t see what is going on. The Hôtel de Ville is nearby and several people are gathered together at the top of its steps and looking over the crowd. I hurry to join them, hoping for a better view.

‘What’s happening?’ I ask one of the men. He’s wearing a red cap and a revolutionary cockade is pinned to his coat.

‘They’re building a scaffold to hang the priest and the old women.’ He spits on the ground.

‘But there’s to be a trial…’ I say, shocked.

The man shrugs. ‘That was early this morning. Guilty, of course.’ He smiles, displaying blackened teeth. ‘Caught red-handed they was, when a loyal citizen called the authorities. They never even put up a fight, so the Mayor’s decided to be merciful and hang them straight away.’

‘Merciful?’ My voice is incredulous.

‘Gets it over with, doesn’t it?’

I’m saved from answering because the doors to the Hôtel de Ville open behind us. A dozen soldiers appear and I’m forced to flatten myself against the wall as they march past. The frail figure of Père Chenot follows, hobbled by chains and roped to two elderly women. The women weep, their grey hair loose upon their bony shoulders and their skirts dirty and torn.

Tears well up in my eyes but I dare not call out to Père Chenot. I’m upset to see that a purple bruise stains his jaw. Perhaps he senses my gaze because he glances up and sees me. As I reach out a hand to him, he shakes his head.

Another dozen soldiers march behind, prodding the prisoners with their rifles.

A group of well-dressed men follow, led by Mayor Prudhomme. Jean-Luc is close behind the mayor. He catches sight of me and steps back to allow the rest of the committee to continue down the steps.

‘Madeleine, what are you doing here?’ he hisses, grasping me by my wrist.

‘I came to ask if you could help Père Chenot?’

‘Help him? He’s on his way to the hangman.’

‘He’s an old man!’

Jean-Luc’s lips fold in a tight line. ‘That doesn’t absolve him from his crimes. He’s had warnings and he deliberately set out to flout the law.’

‘But…’

Jean-Luc shakes my wrist. ‘Madeleine, say no more. You put yourself in grave danger. Do you want to find yourself on the gallows beside him?’

‘I haven’t done anything!’

‘Please, I beg you, keep your voice down!’ He glances fearfully over his shoulder. ‘People are already looking. If you’re suspected of sympathising with the priest, I won’t be able to save you, even though I’m on the mayor’s committee.’

The shock I feel on hearing this gives way to apprehension when I notice that several of the men on the Mairie steps are watching me through narrowed eyes. Suddenly I’m aware that Jean-Luc is not making vain threats.

Jean-Luc glances at the mayor and his men as they follow the soldiers. ‘Come with me, Madeleine, and I warn you that you’d better look as if you are wholly in favour of these proceedings or it will be the worse for both of us.’ He pulls sharply on my wrist and I am pulled along behind him until we catch up with the mayor.