The Chateau on the Lake (35 page)

The rackety tattoo of my heart slows a little and I lick my dry lips. If I can’t exit through the door, I must go up the stairs into the turret room. Although I can’t escape from my prison, at least there will be more space there. I will be able to breathe freely.

The winding stairs are so narrow that they brush my shoulders on both sides as I climb. Shuddering, I emerge into the small, circular chamber. Dust motes float in a shaft of light and I hurry to open one of the windows and lean out to draw in the fresh air.

The lake shimmers in the sunlight. On the opposite shore I see the house, with the gentle slope of the vineyard rising behind it. I yearn to be in the safety of the garden with Sophie and Marianne instead of trapped here in the tower like Rapunzel.

A movement in the distance catches my eye. Full of dread, I recognise the faraway figure of Jean-Luc in his cornflower blue coat as he walks up the path to the house. A moment later the front door opens and he goes inside. My stomach clenches in fear for Sophie and Marianne.

Helplessly, I continue to stare while tears roll down my cheeks. Now that I know how ruthless he is, I fear the worst.

Ten minutes later my breath catches in my throat when Jean-Luc emerges from the side gate. I watch him hurrying away along the lakeside path back towards the château until he is no longer in my view.

Time passes slowly as I agonise about Sophie and wrack my brains thinking of ways to outwit Jean-Luc when he comes back for me. Discarding every idea as impractical, it’s impossible for me not to despair. I have no weapons and the turret room is bare.

At last exhaustion overtakes me. I sink to the floor and wrap my arms around my knees. My aching head begins to nod and I rest it upon my folded forearms. Before long, I sleep.

When I awake, the light has already begun to fade. A fly is buzzing against one of the windows, as desperate to escape as I am. I open the casement and let it free. A breeze wafts in through the open casement, carrying with it a hint of smoke. Rooks are circling in the sky and settling into the chestnut trees as dusk approaches.

I remember Jean-Luc telling me that he and Etienne used to climb out of the turret window with their bows and arrows to shoot at the birds. I lean out over the rotting window frame and see there is a ledge eighteen inches wide some six feet under the window. It’s a long way beneath it to fall to the ground. My heart begins to skip and flutter at the very thought of attempting to escape that way.

How did the youthful Jean-Luc and Etienne reach the ledge? I hang on to the worm-eaten mullion of the window, praying it won’t splinter under my weight, and stretch right over the sill. Stone dragons embellish the walls of the tower, their wings spread and tails entwined. There are several bands of decorative stonework below the window, carved into a rope pattern. It is deep enough for a boy’s, or a woman’s, toes to find a foothold.

Either I can wait for Jean-Luc to arrive and hope there will be a chance for me to escape or I can climb out of the window. Either way I’ll probably die. The villagers’ party will soon be over and time is running out. Panic rises in me. I
have
to take the only choice that gives me a slim chance of survival.

I don’t allow myself to think of what else might happen. I clamber on to the sill, my legs dangling over the edge. I roll on to my stomach, gripping the mullion so tightly that my knuckles turn white, while my feet flail around searching for the first foothold. I stub my toe and realise I’ve found it. I hook one arm around the mullion and loose the other hand, stretching below the sill until I can grab hold of a dragon’s head.

Gradually, I lower myself over the sill, stretching down with my other foot until I find the next foothold. I snatch hold of the dragon’s wing and, one foot after the other, work my way down until at last both feet are resting on the ledge. I face the stonework with my arms outstretched and fingers clawed. I begin to edge along, inch by inch. Flattened against the wall, my cheek is grazed by the abrasive stone. My eyes are closed. I dare not risk looking down.

Time ceases to have any meaning for me as I concentrate on my task. I hum ‘
Au clair de la lune’
as I step, crab-like, along the ledge, refusing to think of anything at all but Etienne’s face when he crooned the melody to Marianne.

After an aeon my fingers touch a projecting piece of stone and I risk a fleeting glance sideways. A dragon! Above it is another tower, identical to the one I have left behind. I grasp the dragon’s forked tail and shuffle closer. Using the beast’s great, clawed foot as a step, I heave myself upwards until I can grab its wing. My feet find toeholds on the carved rope and I climb up until I’m facing a closed window. Humming loudly, I bang on the frame with my fist. It is as rotten as the one in the schoolroom turret but it doesn’t budge.

The trick to staying sane is not to think of what might happen if I fall but to concentrate fiercely on just one second at a time. I continue to thump the window frame until the timber splinters and the casements swing inwards. I climb up the last foothold and launch myself over the windowsill. I land on the floor inside in an undignified, quaking heap. After a moment I pick myself up and take a deep breath.

This turret, although the same size as the one over the schoolroom, is an entirely different kettle of fish. The walls are lined with duck-egg blue silk and there is a soft rug on the parquet floor. An easel stands beside the window and paints are laid out on a side table. Can this be the turret above Isabelle’s room?

I hurry down the spiral staircase and cautiously open the door. Isabelle’s bedchamber is unchanged since my last visit. It’s still and shadowed and there’s a faint scent of roses. Her portrait still hangs on the silk-covered walls and I pause for a moment to look at it. She regards me with cool blue eyes but now, unless I’m being too fanciful, it seems to me that there is a hint of an encouraging smile lurking at the corners of her mouth. I smile back at her and then tiptoe across the thick carpet and let myself out into the silent corridor.

Stealthily, I continue until I come to the main staircase. I take the stairs two at a time but stop, panic-stricken, at the sound of laughter when I’m halfway down. Two women stagger across the hall, chattering excitedly, their arms piled high with silver dishes. A small boy trots behind, carrying a velvet cushion. I hold my breath but they don’t see me.

After they have left by the front door I hurry down the rest of the stairs to the hall. The door to the dining room is ajar and a buzz of voices comes from within. Peering through the narrow gap I can see that the grand dining table is covered with the remains of Jean-Luc’s promised feast. Several men are asleep with their heads on the table. Two small boys squabble as they have a tug-of-war with a large crystal vase, the flower arrangement trampled underfoot.

Shrill laughter comes from a knot of women intent on pulling down the silk curtains, and others are piling up the silver serving platters and wrapping them in their aprons to carry them away. Marcel Viard lies unconscious on the floor in a puddle of vomit, a bottle of brandy clasped in his fist.

Backing away, I cross the hall, slip out of the front door and run down the steps. Outside, it’s dusk and the air is full of smoke. A great bonfire is blazing away in the centre of the knot garden, watched by a chattering crowd. The carriage drive is thronged with people running hither and thither. Paintings, furniture and ornaments are being passed out of the drawing-room windows and carried away by villagers. I seethe with anger as I realise that Jean-Luc’s plan is succeeding. The estate workers have lost their allegiance to Etienne and are stripping the château in an orgy of avarice. There is nothing I can do except run away as fast as I can.

I come to a skidding halt on the gravel when I see that servants are pouring out of the full-length doors from the library, carrying armfuls of books and throwing them on the bonfire. Emile Porcher is amongst the watching crowd, whooping in delight as a shower of orange sparks shoots up into the darkening sky.

Rage at the desecration of Etienne’s books makes me step forward again but then my blood turns to ice in my veins. Jean-Luc is standing with his back to me, rallying the crowd.

Waving his fist in the air, he shouts, ‘We must never allow that traitorous oppressor Etienne d’Aubery to return to Château
Mirabelle. No longer shall you endure him sitting like a king in his castle while your children starve!’

Bertille Dufour steps forward. ‘He’s a murderer, everyone knows that, and if the mayor doesn’t hang him, we will!’ she yells.

‘And that Moreau whore of his by his side,’ shrieks Claudette Porcher.

‘He’s a spy,’ shouts Jean-Luc, ‘and traitors to the Republic deserve to die!’

Terrified that they’ll see me, I turn tail and sprint in the opposite direction.

 

 

I’m out of breath when I reach the house. I throw open each door in turn, shouting Sophie’s name, but there is no sign of her. I peer into every cupboard and look under the beds but she is nowhere to be found.

I stand stock still at the top of the stairs, holding my breath and listening. The silence sings in my ears. I can’t leave until I’ve found her. Perhaps she’s hiding in the woods with Marianne, waiting for me to come and find her?

Hastily, I pack a bag, cramming in clean shifts, combs and shoes, all mixed up with a supply of baby napkins and nightgowns. As an afterthought I throw in Sophie’s sketchbook before changing my torn and filthy dress.

As I close the kitchen door behind me, I catch a glimpse of something white under the apple tree. I squint into the gloaming. Hesitating a moment, I hurry to investigate. My heart lifts as I see that Sophie is sitting on the rug, her back against the trunk of the apple tree and her head bowed.

‘Sophie! I’ve been so worried. Didn’t you hear me calling you?’ She doesn’t respond and sudden apprehension makes my stomach lurch as I realise there’s something about her posture that isn’t right. Crouching down, I touch her shoulder.

Her head lolls and she slips sideways.

Despite the failing light I see that livid bruising marks her throat like some terrible necklace. Crying out, I cup her chin in my hands and lift her face.

Her swollen tongue protrudes through blue lips and she stares back at me with bloodshot, lifeless eyes.

Horror and disbelief overwhelm me. I let out a howl of anguish and gather her cold body into my arms, rocking her against my breast. Sophie has been my friend for nearly all my life and I cannot imagine a world without her.

I don’t know how much time passes. Except for the silvery moonlight, it’s dark when I wipe my eyes and lay her carefully on the ground. I close her eyelids, fold her hands over her breast and cover her with the blanket, tucking her up as carefully as if I were putting a child to bed.

And then I remember Marianne.

Frantically, I run around the garden, looking under bushes and even disturbing the chickens in the coop, but I cannot find her. I haven’t heard her cry, not once. Defeated, I can only assume that Jean-Luc has strangled the baby too and concealed her tiny body. My hatred for him burns with a steady, white-hot flame.

I must lose no more time in warning Etienne that Jean-Luc has betrayed him. My best chance of finding him must be at his house in Paris. If I can reach Orléans I can take the diligence from there. Snatching up my hastily packed bag, I kiss Sophie’s shrouded form for the last time and set off along the lakeside path towards Château Mirabelle.

The lake is inky black but the reflection of the moon touches it with liquid silver. I’ve almost reached the boathouse when a figure carrying a lantern comes into view on the moonlit path. Is it Jean-Luc come to look for me?

If I run, I can reach the boathouse in time to hide. I throw my bag into the long grass, sprint ahead, open the boathouse door and slip inside.

I stand stock still while my eyes adjust to the moonlight filtering through slipped roof tiles. A moment later the jetty judders beneath my feet.

Someone is coming.

Flattening myself against the wall, my hand brushes against rough timber. It’s a ladder. Suddenly I remember Jean-Luc climbing this same ladder up to the cushion store. Quick as a flash, I unhook it and climb up to the little platform overhead. I pull the ladder up behind me, just as the boathouse door creaks open.

I lie flat, my face pressed into thick dust, praying I won’t sneeze.

‘Mademoiselle Moreau?’

It’s a woman’s voice.

I’m hardly breathing. My muscles are rigid and every nerve is straining.

‘Don’t think I didn’t see you. I know you’re there,’ says the voice. ‘Perhaps I should call you
Miss
Moreau?’

I stifle a gasp.

‘I was on my way to the house to hide your friend’s body when I saw you.’ A throaty chuckle comes from below. ‘Oh, yes, Jean-Luc told me all about you,’ says Madame Viard. ‘You stupid little bitch! If you’d married him you could have saved him from being sent to be a soldier and been mistress of Château Mirabelle yourself. But you’re not good enough for my beautiful boy.’

I lift my head a little and see Madame Viard below, holding her lantern aloft.

‘I shouldn’t like to be in your shoes,’ she says, ‘when I tell him you’ve escaped from the turret.’ She chuckles in a way that makes my blood run cold. ‘He’ll know the best way to hurt you. There’s no longer any need for
me
to whisper in his ear to encourage him to destroy his enemies.’

It’s pointless trying to hide any longer and I sit up. ‘So it was you who corrupted him? You’re the puppet-mistress behind the murders he committed?’

‘I always intended my boy to be master of Château Mirabelle. After all, he has noble blood,’ says Madame Viard, ‘and as the comte’s eldest son the château should be his.’

‘It could never have been inherited by a bastard.’

‘Don’t you dare call him that! Jean-Luc’s father loved me. And if it hadn’t been for his whey-faced wife, he’d have married me. I should have done away with her years ago. Life would have been very different for us then.’

I shake my head. ‘He’d never have married you.’

She rests her hands on her hips. ‘Get down here, you little trollop,’ she spits.

‘My, what a fishwife!’ I say. ‘It’s plain to see that, despite your genteel ways, the veneer is very thin.’

‘You’ll be sorry for that!’ She kicks at the walls of the boathouse, levers off several pieces of timber and then disappears under the platform.

It’s quiet for a while and then Madame Viard reappears. ‘This’ll teach you a lesson!’

And then I smell smoke. Light dances up the wooden walls and reflects on the water in the dock. Within seconds I hear flames crackling. Fear grips me as I realise she’s used the lantern to set a fire underneath the platform.