The Chateau on the Lake (30 page)

‘She’s cruel and selfish and you owe her nothing at all.’

‘But is she cruel?’ I ask, unhappily. ‘When Auguste expelled us from Château de Lys I wondered…’

‘What?’ demands Sophie.

‘I saw something in her eyes, sorrow or regret, perhaps. I wondered if she was too frightened of Auguste to welcome me.’

‘Surely you can’t mean to help them, not after the way they treated you?’

‘It’s not my decision, is it?’ I look at Etienne.

He sighs. ‘You would like me to extract your uncle and your grandmother from the dungeon and escort them to safety?’

‘I know it’s a great deal to ask.’

‘Such an undertaking would be fraught with danger. After my friends died I vowed never to act as escort again, not while France is at war with Britain.’

‘I don’t want to expose you to such a risk.’ I shudder at the thought. ‘But if we can at least rescue them from the dungeons then they’ll have to make their own arrangements.’

Etienne drums his fingers on the table and sighs again. ‘I shall leave early tomorrow morning.’

‘
We
shall leave early tomorrow morning,’ I say, firmly.

‘Certainly not.’ His expression is uncompromising.

‘Madeleine, you cannot go unchaperoned,’ says Sophie, ‘and I cannot accompany you since Marianne is too young to travel.’

‘Then Babette shall come with us.’

Sophie opens her mouth to argue but we hear the garden gate open again.

The rays of the setting sun slant low across the path and I squint into the light to see Jean-Luc walking towards us.

‘Good evening! It’s as I suspected, Madeleine,’ he says, sitting down beside us.

‘You’ve spoken with Mayor Prudhomme?’ I ask.

He nods. ‘It’s too late to fetch Victor back.’

‘Oh, no!’

‘He’s already on his way to Paris.’

‘Victor is
where
?’ asks Etienne.

‘He was pressganged into the army this morning,’ I say. ‘Madame Gerard and Babette were most distressed.’

‘But Victor isn’t old enough to go soldiering.’

‘Mayor Prudhomme has his quota to fill,’ says Jean-Luc. ‘The Committee of Public Safety has invested in him unlimited powers and authority to act as he sees fit in his district, in line with the Committee’s directives.’

‘Poor Victor!’ says Sophie.

‘So you and I may be next?’ says Etienne.

Jean-Luc shrugs. ‘Let’s hope it won’t come to that.’

Etienne stares at the sunset. ‘Well,’ he says at last, ‘there’s no benefit in worrying about what may never happen and there are other matters on my mind at present.’

‘Yes?’ says Jean-Luc.

‘I go to Paris again to arrange the sale of our wine. I would have left it until after the harvest but Madeleine has been called away to visit her sick grandmother. I shall accompany her there tomorrow morning.’

‘Your grandmother?’ asks Jean-Luc, studying my face. ‘You haven’t mentioned her before.’

I shake my head. ‘We aren’t close but she has no one else.’ I pick up the letter. ‘She has asked for help.’ If I’m going to tell lies, I find it’s always better to keep close to the truth.

‘Where does she live?’

‘A small village between Pithiviers and Fontainebleau.’

‘A day’s travel then. How long will you be away?’

‘That depends on how Madame Moreau fares,’ says Etienne. ‘I shall continue on to Paris and on my return escort Madeleine back here.’

‘Will you take your maid, Madeleine?’ asks Jean-Luc, frowning.

‘But of course.’

‘I would have offered to accompany you myself but I have an important meeting with the committee tomorrow.’

‘We will have an early start,’ says Etienne. ‘I suggest you retire early tonight, Madeleine.’

‘I will,’ I say, ‘but first I must tell Babette that I need her to come with me.’

‘I’ll do that,’ he says. ‘I’ll tell her that you require her services by seven o’clock tomorrow morning.’ He stands up. ‘We should go, Jean-Luc.’

At seven o’clock the following morning, Babette and I arrive at the stable yard. Etienne is adjusting Diable’s girth while Colbert hauls buckets of water for the horses’ last drink before we depart.

The carriage sets off at a steady pace with Etienne and Diable leading the way. The weather is dry so we need not fear becoming trapped in mire, which is a blessing, but the constant motion as the carriage jolts over the road, the mud baked hard by the sun, is unpleasant.

Babette, pale-faced and her eyes red from weeping, sits beside me staring out of the window. She makes no complaint about the rough journey but every now and again she wipes tears from her cheeks.

When the sun is high we stop in a small town to allow the horses to drink from a trough in the market square. It’s hot and noisy and crowded with soldiers and horses.

Babette scans every uniformed man who walks past, her face full of hope, as Etienne leads us into the inn on the square. We find a table in the crowded taproom. There are a few groups of farmers and their wives but most of the customers are soldiers. Some are playing cards or dice and most are drinking and making ribald comments to the barmaid.

Babette whispers to me and then slips away to the privy.

‘I’m hungry,’ says Etienne. He calls to the barmaid and asks for a platter of bread and cold meats.

‘But no, M’sieur,’ says the barmaid. ‘There is nothing I can offer you. The troops are billeted in the town.’ She rolls her eyes. ‘How those men can eat! Our kitchen stores were empty after twenty-four hours and all supplies within ten miles have gone. Even our children go hungry,’ she says indignantly.

Etienne shakes his head in sympathy. ‘We have travelled a long way already today. Might you be able to find us a pot of coffee?’

The girl simpers at his winning smile and taps her nose. ‘I’ll see what I can do, M’sieur.’

‘I’ve brought some bread and cheese in my basket,’ I say.

‘How sensible! Then we’ll travel a little further and make another stop,’ says Etienne. ‘In any case, the horses will become tired in the heat.’ He smiles wryly. ‘Besides, if you bring out a picnic here, I expect the soldiers will descend like a biblical plague of locusts and devour it in seconds.’

Five minutes later we are sipping scalding coffee and energy begins to course through my veins again.

I glance towards the door, wondering if Babette is unwell as she’s not yet returned, when I see her talking earnestly to a young soldier.

‘It’s Babette, not I, who needs a chaperone,’ I say to Etienne, pushing back my chair.

He rests his hand on my wrist. ‘Stay here,’ he says.

My gaze follows his retreating back while I savour the warm touch of his fingers. As he approaches Babette, the young soldier puts his arm around her and plants a kiss firmly on her mouth. She pushes him away.

Etienne speaks curtly to the soldier. I can’t hear what is said but the boy, for he is little more than that, steps back sharply. Etienne takes Babette’s arm in a firm grip and leads her back to our table.

‘I wasn’t doing anything wrong,’ she says, her cheeks scarlet with mortification. ‘I only asked if he’d seen Victor.’

‘Unfortunately, young men see it as an open invitation if a pretty girl approaches them,’ says Etienne gently, ‘especially if she’s alone.’

‘Don’t worry, Babette,’ I say, ‘there’s no harm done.’

We return to the carriage and continue our journey.

In the evening we come to another town and I heave a sigh of relief as I recognise it as the place we stayed when we last visited Château de Lys. A faded inn sign that depicts a cockerel hangs above an archway. We drive underneath it and into the cobbled courtyard.

An ostler hurries to take the horses and Babette and I climb stiffly down from the carriage. The aroma of some kind of meaty stew drifts from the kitchen window and mingles with the reek of fresh horse dung. Suddenly, I’m ravenously hungry.

The innkeeper appears from the kitchens, wiping his hands on a grimy apron as he directs us to the dining room. We take a table by the window and a young woman lights the candles and brings us bread, a carafe of rough country wine and bowls of mutton stew. There’s a contented silence until after we have mopped up the last of the gravy with coarse brown bread.

Babette, worn out by the long journey, begins to nod and I send her up to bed, secretly pleased to be alone with Etienne.

‘I’m anxious about tomorrow,’ I admit as we linger over the last glasses.

Etienne stares into the dregs of his wine and I study his long fingers as he twirls the glass. I grip the stem of my own glass to prevent myself from reaching out to touch him.

‘I’ll find a way inside,’ he says. ‘Perhaps I can bribe a servant into unlocking the dungeon. You will stay here.’

‘I’m coming with you!’

Etienne catches hold of my wrist and his eyes glitter in the flickering candlelight. ‘This isn’t a game, Madeleine. It’s dangerous.’

His hand is warm on my skin and I can feel the slight roughness of his work-hardened palms. ‘I’m coming with you,’ I insist. ‘And don’t glare at me like that, Etienne.’

‘You are an impossible female!’

‘Perhaps no one will notice us if we look like servants?’ I shiver as Etienne rubs his thumb in tiny circles against the inside of my wrist. ‘I could borrow Babette’s cap,’ I say, as if his touch isn’t making me melt with desire, ‘and my dress is plain enough to pass under an apron borrowed from the kitchen.’

Etienne sighs.

‘Then that’s settled,’ I tell him.

‘If you must come, you will do as you are told and we will leave here before first light.’ He stands up and gathers my hands to his chest. ‘Now go and get some rest!’

‘Goodnight, then.’ I meet his eyes, so dark that I could lose myself in their obsidian depths. I don’t want to leave and he makes no move to let go of me.

At last, he touches the back of one finger against my cheek in a feather-light caress. ‘Until the morning, then. Goodnight, Madeleine.’

I drop my gaze. ‘Goodnight, Etienne,’ I whisper, and turn reluctantly away.

 

 

It’s still dark the following morning when we leave the inn, although faint streaks of pale blue are beginning to lighten the sky in the east. A cock crows nearby but no lights show in the tumbledown houses as we walk through the sleeping village of Villeneuve-St-Meurice and up the steep hill towards the château.

The stone eagles atop the gateposts still guard the drive. The magnificent wrought-iron gates are gone, however, torn from their hinges by revolutionaries, no doubt, to melt down for arms.

We creep past the gatehouse, where not a soul stirs, and begin the long trek up the carriage drive. The sun is only just peeping above the horizon and the grass is beaded with dew. Deer graze on the parkland in the grey early-morning light, lifting their heads to stare at us as we walk silently past. Ahead of us, the forbidding grey bulk of Château de Lys sits squarely on top of its hill.

A shudder runs down my back at its inhospitable appearance and my steps falter. How can we possibly hope to enter such a fortress and release Auguste and Grandmother Moreau?

‘Madeleine?’ Etienne’s voice is low. ‘You can change your mind, if you wish.’

‘I will not,’ I say. Damn the man! Does he always sense what I’m thinking?

Five minutes later we reach the drawbridge. The massive stone walls and turrets that loom so far above us are reflected darkly in the moat. A dejected-looking swan drifts by, its head bowed. The water level in the moat is low and the barred windows to the dungeons are safely above the waterline. At least the Moreaux are unlikely to drown but I wrinkle my nose at the stench of the brackish water.

Etienne nods at the great oak doors. ‘Look,’ he says, softly, ‘they’re open.’

We walk silently over the wooden drawbridge and I expect at any moment that someone will shout a challenge. Crossing the gravel forecourt as quietly as we can, we climb one of the curved stone staircases to the balustraded terrace and head for the entrance.

The studded doors are flung wide. Entering the vestibule we find a set of inner doors.

Etienne grasps hold of one handle, turns it and lifts his eyebrows in surprise as the door swings open. ‘Someone is very careless,’ he murmurs.

As we tiptoe over the inlaid marble floor of the hall, he catches hold of my sleeve. ‘I can’t remember the way to the dungeons, he whispers, ‘but if we can find the kitchens perhaps we can find a way down.’

‘We know it’s not that way,’ I nod to the corridor leading off the hall to our right, ‘because we went that way last time.’

Moving stealthily along the left-hand corridor, our feet sink into the thick pile of the carpets. Paintings depicting hunting scenes punctuate the walls, interspersed with boars’ heads and sets of antlers. We peer into a vast, empty ballroom with a polished oak floor and glittering chandeliers suspended from the painted and gilded ceiling. Next we find a library and, in another life, another place, I would long to spend time curled up in one of its comfortable velvet chairs, leafing through the leatherbound volumes. But cobwebs festoon the ceilings and the furniture is grey with dust. I infer that my Uncle Auguste isn’t a great reader.

Etienne opens another pair of doors and we step inside.

I catch my breath at the splendour of the enormous dining room. The walls of the chamber are covered with red silk damask. The black marble chimneypiece is exuberantly carved and the gilded mirror that sits above it reflects the swagged and braided silk at the windows. Glittering chandeliers a yard in diameter hang from the high ceiling over a table surrounded by enough chairs to seat a hundred people.

A repugnant smell of putrefaction pervades the air. The table is dressed for a party but the chairs are not neatly tucked under the table and the imposing flower arrangements positioned along the length of the table consist of roses with browning petals and dead foliage. The water in the crystal vases is green and slimy.

Etienne makes a sound of disgust and I turn to see him peering at a silver platter.

‘What is it?’ I ask.

‘Maggots.’

Sickened, I touch my hand to my mouth. It’s only when I step nearer to the table that I see pyramids of apricots and grapes tinged with powdery green mould and a half-eaten jelly that has collapsed into a yellow puddle and overflowed the dish. There are traces of decomposing food on the delicate porcelain plates. Crystal glasses have been overset and red wine stains bleed into the starched linen cloth. Flies crawl over the surface of the remains of a weeping cheese.

‘What happened here?’ I whisper.

Etienne shrugs. ‘It looks as if the guests simply walked away and the servants never cleared the table.’ Then his eyes widen as he looks over my shoulder. He puts his fingers to his lips.

My heart in my mouth, I spin around and see that two men are sitting on the floor in the far corner of the room. I dare not move in case they notice me but then I see that there are several bottles beside them on the parquet floor.

‘Drunk?’ I mouth to Etienne.

He nods and we steal from the room, closing the door softly behind us.

At the far end of the corridor, the luxurious carpet gives way to bare floorboards as we find ourselves in the servants’ passage. A few paces further on is the kitchen.

An immense pine table dominates the room, crowded with piles of unwashed dishes, chicken carcasses and mouldering crusts. A myriad of copper cooking utensils are arranged on the shelves of the dresser, ranging from one large enough to boil half a pig to one small enough for a single egg.

All at once I stop dead and clutch at Etienne’s sleeve. Curled up on the floor before the great hearth lies a turnspit dog. He opens one eye and emits a throaty growl.

‘Good dog!’ I say warily, as he sprints towards us, hackles raised and teeth bared.

Etienne snatches up an abandoned ham bone from the table and holds it out to the dog, who sniffs at it warily. ‘Open that door,’ Etienne whispers.

I unlatch the door to a store cupboard and Etienne throws the bone inside. The dog follows and Etienne closes the door smartly. I’m not quite sure but I think he smirks.

Then I gasp as a voice behind me says, ‘Who are you?’

A girl is staring at us from the doorway. She’s very thin and her hair hangs down in greasy locks around her sallow face.

‘Where’s the cook?’ asks Etienne. ‘I’ve a delivery for her.’

The girl shrugs. ‘Asleep upstairs, I shouldn’t wonder. We don’t have to get up early to wait on the master no more.’ She goes to the hearth and picks up the poker. ‘You’re very early.’

‘It’s a busy day for us,’ says Etienne briskly.

‘It’s strange,’ the girl says. ‘Since the changes I don’t have to rise before first light to kindle the fires but I still wake early. I’m not used to such a soft bed.’ She stirs the embers into sulky flames, takes a handful of kindling from the hearth and feeds it into the fire.

‘What has changed then?’ I ask.

‘Everything,’ she says simply. ‘It started when the master held a grand dinner. All of us servants worked for days to prepare the state dining room and cook the food.’ Her eyes gleam. ‘I’m only a scullery maid but I saw roasted venison, whole suckling pigs, dishes of partridges, great hams, soups, custards, jellies and tarts, all carried up to the dining room. There was a coach and horses made from sugar to amuse the guests. Beautiful it was.’ Her voice fades away.