The Chateau on the Lake (28 page)

‘No, indeed,’ I say with relief, though Sophie is too besotted by little Marianne to notice if I’m late home. In any case, I suspect she would encourage any dalliance between myself and Jean-Luc.

Then we are outside in the balmy night air, climbing into the carriage.

Dusk is descending and I watch the countryside roll past while I mull over the evening’s conversations. I don’t like Jean-Luc’s toadying support of Mayor Prudhomme and wonder how he reconciles his revolutionary theories with his privileged position as Etienne’s estate manager.

‘You’re very quiet,’ he observes.

‘This evening gave me a great deal of food for thought,’ I say.

Jean-Luc takes my hand. ‘Soon we’ll all have a golden future to look forward to,’ he says. ‘And I dare to hope that I can persuade you to remain at Château Mirabelle to share that future.’

A pulse beats in my throat and I am unable to look away. Is this merely an expression of friendship or am I correct in reading into it something more?

Jean-Luc smiles and I’m relieved when a moment later the carriage turns into the drive, devoid of its high gates now. Soon we draw up outside the house. The porch lantern has been lit for me and a candle burns in the window of Sophie’s room.

Jean-Luc accompanies me as far as the porch.

‘Goodnight, Madeleine,’ he says softly. He makes no attempt to kiss me since Colbert is nearby, watching us as he holds the horses’ heads. ‘You look beautiful tonight,’ he whispers, ‘and I was proud to take you to meet Mayor Prudhomme.’

‘It was kind of you to invite me,’ I say.

‘Until tomorrow, then.’

I open the front door and Minou and Mouche come to wind themselves around my ankles, mewing for attention. I wait while Jean-Luc returns to the carriage. Once it has rolled away into the dark, I go upstairs.

Sophie’s door is ajar. She’s sitting on the bed with Marianne lying on her knees. ‘Did you have a good evening?’ she asks, eager for information.

‘Mayor Prudhomme is too full of his own opinions for my taste.’

Marianne gives a sudden cry and I pick her up so that her little head nods against my shoulder. I pat her back and bury my nose in the milky-sweet softness of her neck.

‘And Jean-Luc?’ asks Sophie. ‘He had a smile in his eyes when he came for you this evening.’

‘He indicated that he has hopes I’ll stay at Château Mirabelle.’

‘Maddy!’ Sophie claps her hands together.

‘I do find him very personable…’

‘But?’

I shrug. ‘I’m not sure. His close acquaintance with Prudhomme and his committee makes me uncomfortable.’ I kiss Marianne’s downy head. She bats at my cheek with a tiny fist and all at once I’m overwhelmed by a flood of love for her.

‘Maddy, your life will pass by while you wait for a man you can never have,’ Sophie says warningly.

I cradle Marianne against my breast, tears starting to my eyes.

‘Maddy? You’re crying!’

‘I’m so confused.’

‘Come here.’

Hugging the baby tightly, I sit on the bed beside Sophie and she wraps her arms around us. ‘Maddy, never forget, no matter what happens,’ she says, ‘you will
always
have Marianne and me.’

I sleep badly, my head full of disturbing dreams of soldiers marching into Château Mirabelle and searching for hidden food stores. Awaking with a start at cockcrow, I lie in bed remembering the events of the previous evening. Suppose the mayor takes it into his head to make an inspection today and finds Madame Thibault’s sack of flour?

I dress quickly and let myself out of the house. If I hurry, I might catch Etienne before he takes his morning ride.

The sun is a golden orb floating in a hazy sea of pearlescent sky and my spirits lift at the beauty of it. Underneath my feet the grass is wet with dew and the hem of my skirt is soaked before I have gone more than a few yards. I love this time of day when the world is unsullied and full of hope.

As I approach the stables I hear the squeak of the winch and the clatter of a bucket as Jacques draws water from the well. He catches sight of me and waves.

‘Good morning, Jacques!’

Etienne must have heard my voice because he opens the door of Diable’s box to greet me.

‘You’re bright and early today,’ he says. ‘Have you come to join me on my morning tour? We can have Minette saddled in a matter of moments for you.’

‘I need to talk to you,’ I reply.

‘We could talk and ride at the same time.’

I glance across the park at the ethereal beauty of the mist rising from the ground and long to feel the wind in my hair. My resolve to avoid Etienne’s company fades. ‘I’ll speak to Colbert about Minette while you finish saddling Diable.’

Colbert is in the tack room and I tell him what I need. He frowns at me but goes to saddle the chestnut mare. A few minutes later I follow him into the yard.

Etienne glances up as he tightens Diable’s girth and then straightens his back and takes another look. He gives a shout of laughter as I walk towards him. ‘I didn’t recognise you,’ he says. ‘I thought you were one of the village boys.’

‘I haven’t time to return to the house to put on your sister’s riding habit,’ I say. ‘And Colbert’s spare
pantalon
fit me moderately well. It’s early enough in the day that no one will see. I’m afraid he disapproves, though.’

‘It will remain our little secret.’ Etienne turns to the groom. ‘Won’t it, Colbert?’

Colbert grins and retreats to the tack room.

We mount our horses and leave the stable yard. It’s a strange feeling sitting astride Minette but it’s far more comfortable than using the sidesaddle, especially when we gallop across the park.

Slowing to a walk, we enter the sheep meadow and see a fox slink across the grass ahead of us and slip silently into the hedgerow. We guide the horses down towards the wide expanse of the river on the opposite side of the field. The water, a deep olive green, flows sluggishly and dried mud cakes the banks.

‘The river is so low there won’t be sufficient force to drive the watermills,’ says Etienne. ‘The hot summer has given us a badly needed good harvest of wheat this year, but it will be wasted if the grain stays in the granaries instead of being milled.’

‘It’s still hard to find bread to buy. And that’s what I wanted to speak to you about. You know that Robespierre’s latest directive is that hoarding food is punishable by death?’

Etienne raises his eyebrows. ‘How does that concern me?’

‘It concerns you if your cook is buying flour on the black market,’ I say, ‘and if the mayor implements a search of Château Mirabelle.’

Etienne draws on the reins and pulls Diable to a sudden halt.

‘I went to the market with Madame Thibault and while we were there I saw her talking to a soldier,’ I explain. ‘Later, she told me that she’d arranged to buy a sack of flour from him, flour confiscated from insurgents. I didn’t think too much of it until I heard Mayor Prudhomme talking last night.’

‘You were with Prudhomme?’ A frown creases Etienne’s forehead.

‘Jean-Luc and I were invited to dine with him in Morville.’

‘I see.’ All expression is wiped from his face.

‘Etienne, I’m worried. Prudhomme is going to send soldiers to search Château Beaubourg for hoarded supplies. There was something about the way he said it… I believe he is seeking any excuse he can find to make an example of Edouard Rochefort.’

‘It is true Edouard has never gone out of his way to endear himself to the majority,’ says Etienne with a faint smile.

‘I think Prudhomme intends to inspect Château Mirabelle, too. And if he finds Madame Thibault’s sack of flour…’

‘Let’s return there at once.’ Etienne’s expression is grim. ‘I’m going to speak to Madame Thibault and then warn Edouard Rochefort.’

 

 

The following day, one of the kitchen maids runs up the hill to the top of the vineyard shouting, ‘Come and get it!’ while she bangs a metal ladle on a cooking pot.

The women and older children put down their buckets and pruning knives and we amble down towards the
chai
in a chattering group.

The rich scent of sheep fat pervades the heated air, becoming stronger as we approach the glowing fire pit. Smoke billows on the breeze and another kitchen maid flaps her apron at it. Madame Thibault is cutting thick slices from the roasting meat, her brow beaded with sweat.

The younger children race about between our legs, squealing with pleasure.

‘It’s too hot to run, Solange,’ says Madame Gerard, catching up one of the little girls clamouring for her attention.

Etienne is standing outside the wide doorway greeting everyone as they enter the cool dimness of the
chai
.

I linger behind after Madame Gerard and Madame Porcher have gone inside. ‘Did you manage to warn Edouard Rochefort yesterday afternoon, Etienne?’ I ask.

He nods. ‘I did, but he didn’t take a blind bit of notice. His exact words were that he wouldn’t be threatened by “the trumped up son of a butcher with airs above his rank”. He said he’d have Prudhomme whipped at a cart’s tail if he so much as set foot inside Château Beaubourg.

‘You’ve done all you can,’ I tell him. I lift my head to sniff the air. ‘The roasting meat smells delicious.’

‘I thought slaughtering one of my sheep was a worthwhile sacrifice to make, in the circumstances.’

Inside the
chai
, long tables have been laid with white cloths and decorated with bunches of wild flowers and bowls of salad. Golden-crusted loaves of bread formed in the shape of bunches of grapes are piled up in great pyramids and earthenware jugs of wine and water are placed at intervals along the tables.

Widow Berger holds court at one end of the
chai
and exchanges pleasantries with the mothers as they collect their children. Sophie is helping her today, with Marianne wrapped in a shawl tied across her chest.

‘She’s sleeping, in spite of all the noise,’ I say, kissing her forehead.

‘I’ve just fed her,’ says Sophie, smiling indulgently at the sleeping baby. ‘And now it’s time for us to eat.’

Madame Gerard, with baby Albert in her arms, comes to greet Sophie. ‘Babette never stops talking about Marianne,’ she says. ‘And I have to agree, she is very pretty. Not like this great lump!’ She ruffles Albert’s fair hair and he crows in delight.

‘What a handsome little fellow!’ says Sophie, tickling him under his chin.

Etienne follows the last of the workers into the
chai
and raps on the table for everyone to pay attention.

Gradually the babble of voices ceases and he steps forward.

There is a ‘Huzzah’ from Emile, quickly muffled by his mother’s hand.

Etienne smiles. ‘The men here know what it is to work hard in the vineyard, but this year, since so many of the usual workforce have joined the army, it would not have been possible to keep the vines productive without the help of the women and the older children of the village.’

One of the men waves a fist in the air and shouts, ‘Long live women!’

Etienne laughs. ‘Indeed. Where would we men be without them? It has been a long, hot summer and you have all risen magnificently to the challenge. This celebration is to thank you for what you have achieved so far. I shall delay you no longer. Please, enjoy your dinner.’

A buzz of conversation and laughter breaks out as everyone finds a place. Etienne comes to sit beside me and Sophie is on my other side. Madame Gerard and Claudette Porcher sit opposite us.

Madame Thibault and the kitchen maids move amongst the tables passing round platters of thickly carved meat, running with pink juices and studded with garlic and rosemary.

‘Such a feast!’ says Madame Gerard. ‘And it’s not even the end of the harvest.’

‘It’s all right for him,’ says Madame Porcher, nodding at Etienne, ‘born into luxury and probably ate his bread and milk off a silver spoon when he was a babe. I expect he has such fine meals all the time while we struggle to feed our children.’

Etienne pretends not to hear. ‘May I pour you some wine, Madame Porcher?’

Grudgingly, Claudette Porcher pushes her wine glass towards him and turns away rudely once it is filled.

‘Etienne, have you seen Jean-Luc?’ I whisper.

He shakes his head. ‘He had a meeting at the Jacobin Club last night and went out early this morning, before I could tell him about the celebration dinner today. In any case, I prefer him not to know about Madame Thibault’s sack of flour.’

‘Far better he isn’t troubled by the knowledge,’ I agree. ‘He thinks a great deal of Mayor Prudhomme and I shouldn’t wish him to find his loyalties divided.’

The roast lamb is delicious and after the juices have been mopped up with crusty bread there are second helpings for all who wish it. Wine flows freely. The plates are collected and great wheels of glistening apple tarts are passed down the table, followed by ewe’s milk cheese served on a bed of vine leaves.

One of the old men, made merry by the wine, stands up and begins to sing. A moment later another joins him and before long the rest of us are joining in with a rousing chorus. Sophie and Madame Gerard sway in time to the melody with their babies in their arms.

‘I think we can agree that the party is a success,’ I say.

Etienne’s smile warms my face, just as if the sun had shone upon me. ‘It was worth butchering one of my sheep to see them all having a good time,’ he says. ‘And Madame Thibault has excelled herself.’

‘She was so upset yesterday morning when she realised the implications of buying that sack of flour, I wasn’t sure she’d be in a fit state to cook,’ I say. ‘But then she rallied and was up half the night baking all this bread from it. I doubt many of the people here today have ever eaten so well in their lives.’

‘They deserve every mouthful,’ says Etienne.

A shadow falls over us then and I glance up to see Jean-Luc. I notice that he carries with him the acrid scent of bonfires and there is a smudge of dirt on his usually pristine coat.

‘What’s been going on here?’ He turns to look at those of the company who are still singing, the children playing on the floor and the piles of dirty plates.

‘I called for a celebration dinner to show my appreciation of the workers’ efforts in the vineyard,’ says Etienne.

‘But the grapes won’t be harvested for another month or more!’ Jean-Luc sits down on the bench beside me.

‘Then we’ll have another celebration.’

‘No matter.’ Jean-Luc shakes his head. ‘I come on more important business. Mayor Prudhomme asked me to accompany him and his men to Château Beaubourg early this morning.’

Etienne looks at Jean-Luc, his face guileless. ‘Why was that?’

‘He’d received a report that food was being hoarded there and wanted a reliable witness.’

To avoid meeting Jean-Luc’s eyes, I gather up some of the remaining bread, a couple of slices of lamb and some salad, and put the plate before him. Absentmindedly, he spears a chunk of lamb and eats it.

‘And did you find such a hoard?’ asks Etienne.

‘We did,’ says Jean-Luc, tearing apart the thick chunk of crusty bread and biting into it.

‘And the Rochefort family?’ I ask, suddenly afraid for them.

‘Gone. Somehow they must have got wind of the mayor’s intention to search the château. One of the servants said he heard a deal of shouting in the stables and then horses galloping away from the back while we were searching the kitchens. And Madame Rochefort’s maid said her mistress had fled in her nightclothes and taken her jewel case with her.’

‘Did Mayor Prudhomme send a man after them?’ Etienne’s face is tight with tension.

Jean-Luc shrugs and reaches for more bread. ‘Of course, but they were nowhere to be found. And they’ll not be back.’

‘Surely they’ll have to return eventually?’ I ask.

‘I doubt it. Once the food hoards were located, the mayor directed the servants to share the items equally amongst themselves, but then matters spun out of control.’

‘In what way?’

‘Edouard Rochefort was not liked. The villagers and his servants were angry when they realised that, while they starved, Rochefort and his family feasted on white bread, coffee, fine brandy and sweetmeats, so they took matters into their own hands and put Château Beaubourg to the torch.’