The Chateau on the Lake (37 page)

Dread has me in its grip now as I realise the full implications of my plight. I’m alone in a strange city where the slightest suspicion that I am not what I seem could find me in a tumbril on its way to an appointment with Madame Guillotine. It will be dark in a few hours and I have nowhere to go.

Then I remember something Etienne said to me before he left to escort my uncle and grandmother to London.
‘If I should not return, go to Armand Dubois.’

I rummage in my bag and find a stub of pencil and Sophie’s sketchbook. The book falls open at a drawing of little Marianne and it makes me catch my breath with a sudden sharp stab of loss. I leaf past it to tear out a clean page and write a note for Etienne telling him that I will return but also that I shall visit Dr Dubois.

I slip the note under the door and hurry away.

It’s not hard to find the Seine and follow it until I come to Pont Neuf. I cross the bridge and Rue Dauphine is directly in front of me. A young maid is hurrying towards me with a basket on her arm and I stand in her way so that she has to stop.

She looks up at me with frightened eyes and I remember that I’m dressed as a youth.

‘I beg your pardon,’ I say, ‘but can you direct me to the house of Dr Dubois?’

‘Dr Dubois?’ She points down the street. ‘The one with the black door.’

I thank her and she scurries off.

Dr Dubois’s home is a solid three-storey townhouse. I ring the bell and, while I wait, study the polished brass plate engraved with the doctor’s name.

A maid, neatly turned out in a clean apron and cap, opens the door.

‘Is Dr Dubois at home?’ I ask.

She shakes her head. ‘But no, M’sieur.’

A blush rises to my cheeks and I speak in as gruff a tone as I can manage. ‘When will he return? It’s most urgent that I speak with him.’

The maid shrugs and sticks out her bottom lip. ‘Who can say? Tomorrow, perhaps?’

All hopes of a safe refuge flee and there’s a tremor in my voice as I ask, ‘Do you know where he went?’

The maid looks at me curiously. ‘Are you quite well, Monsieur?’

I grip the doorpost with trembling fingers. ‘May I have a glass of water?’

‘I don’t think…’

‘Please.’ I don’t have to feign dizziness. Terror digs sharp claws into me as my last hope fades.

‘Wait here!’ The door closes in my face and I sink on to the step, my head between my knees, while pinpricks of light dance behind my closed eyelids.

I don’t have long to wait. An elderly housekeeper opens the door and helps me to my feet.

‘You know Dr Dubois, you say?’ she asks me. Her face is pinched with suspicion.

I nod. ‘He treated my cousin Sophie Levesque earlier in the year when she had an infection of the lungs. We were staying with Monsieur d’Aubery at his house in Rue de Richelieu.’

‘Monsieur d’Aubery?’ The housekeeper’s expression lightens. ‘Ah, I know him. He has been here many times to visit Dr Dubois. And you are…’

‘Mmm…’ I stutter. I hadn’t prepared a new name for myself to go with my disguise. Then I have it. ‘Michel Moreau,’ I say. The housekeeper’s face fades in and out and I close my eyes.

‘You’d better come in for a minute, Monsieur Moreau.’

A short while later I’m ensconced in a comfortable armchair with a fragrant tisane at my side.

‘When you are feeling better I shall bring you notepaper and you may leave a message for the doctor,’ says the housekeeper. She withdraws from the room and closes the door behind her.

Shivering with delayed shock, I sip the tisane, my teeth chattering against the edge of the cup. I put it on the tray, bury my face in my hands and weep. I’m frightened and grief-stricken over Sophie and Marianne and terrified that Etienne is already on his way to Château Mirabelle. If he arrives there with no warning he’ll face certain death. During the past year I’ve lost everyone I’ve ever loved and to lose Etienne now, knowing at last that he no longer belongs to another woman, would be unendurable.

When there are no tears left, I wipe my swollen eyes on my cuff and curl up in the armchair, trying to shut out the world.

 

 

It’s dark when voices awaken me. I stretch out my cramped limbs and stand up, anxious that it’s grown late and I must still find somewhere to stay. The voices outside the room grow louder and I peer into the hall and see Dr Dubois’s broad back as he talks to his housekeeper.

‘I cannot see anyone now, Madame Brochard.’

The housekeeper catches sight of me. ‘Ah, there he is!’ she says. ‘Monsieur Moreau, I was just telling Dr Dubois that I hadn’t the heart to awaken you when you were sleeping so deeply.’

I step forward. ‘Dr Dubois, may I speak with you in private?’

He turns to face me. ‘I have a patient waiting, Monsieur. Come back tomorrow, will you?’

‘Please, Dr Dubois! I’ll not take a moment but it’s a matter of life and death.’

‘That’s very dramatic.’ A frown creases his forehead. ‘Have we met before?’

I hesitate, glancing at Madame Brochard.

He stares at me and then asks, ‘Do you have a sister?’

I shake my head.

‘I see. Madame Brochard, please will you prepare the guest room with all haste while I speak with Monsieur Moreau?’

‘Very good, Dr Dubois.’

After the housekeeper has bustled away, Dr Dubois waves me into the waiting room again and closes the door behind us. ‘Well?’ he says. ‘It is Mademoiselle Moreau, I presume?’

I nod.

Dr Dubois smiles, humour sparkling in his grey eyes. ‘You had me fooled for a moment. May I ask why you’re dressed in this fashion?’

‘I thought it would be safer.’

‘Safer?’

‘After I escaped from Château Mirabelle I was obliged to travel to Paris alone. It’s imperative that I find Etienne and warn him that his home has been taken over by the villagers. His estate manager has denounced him as a spy.’

The smile fades from Dr Dubois’s face. ‘Is this true?’

‘Of course it’s true! But I couldn’t find Etienne at his townhouse. I was so sure he would be there by now and I’m frightened we might have missed each other on the road between Orléans and Paris. If he goes home…’ My chin begins to quiver as I fight back tears.

‘But I know Jean-Luc Viard,’ says Dr Dubois. ‘He’s Etienne’s friend.’

‘It’s a long story but we’re wasting precious time! When is Etienne expected to arrive in Paris? Or has he already left?’

Dr Dubois grasps my shoulders. ‘Stay calm, Mademoiselle Moreau! Etienne is here.’

My jaw drops. ‘Etienne is
here
? But your housekeeper never said…’

‘I brought him with me a few minutes ago.’

‘Thank God!’ I sigh in relief. ‘Where is he? I must talk with him.’

‘That may not be possible,’ says Dr Dubois.

‘But I’ve told you, I
must
see him!’

‘Mademoiselle, Etienne is in no condition to talk to anyone. I have removed a musketball from his shoulder but unfortunately the wound had already festered.’

I swallow. ‘Is it serious?’

‘He has a high fever.’

‘I must go to him at once!’ My voice is shrill with anxiety.

The doctor looks at me for a moment. ‘Come with me, then.’

I follow him along the servants’ passage where he opens a cupboard and takes his time withdrawing a long roll of canvas from amongst a motley collection of boxes, vases and old travelling capes.

I have to bite my tongue to stop myself from shouting at him to hurry up.

He picks up a lamp from a shelf by the back door and we go outside into the night. He lights our way along a gravel path running through a garden. Low hedges, wet with dew, brush against my knees and the scent of moist earth and damask roses overlays the city stench. Before us a low building is silhouetted against the moonlit sky.

A figure looms out of the shadows, making me jump.

Dr Dubois holds up his lamp and I recognise the other man as Etienne’s groom.

‘How is he, Colbert?’ asks Dr Dubois.

‘Still asleep.’

‘Then we shall carry him upstairs.’

I follow Colbert and Dr Dubois into the stable. Etienne’s carriage is stowed at one end and his horses are in the loose boxes, jaws working as they munch their hay.

Dr Dubois unrolls the canvas on to the clean straw underfoot. There are wooden poles slotted through loops either side of the narrower ends.

Colbert opens the carriage door.

Etienne is slumped inside.

Pushing past Colbert, I bend over Etienne. He has a ragged cut on his cheek and his left arm is tied up in a sling. He smells of brandy, and sweat, and the metallic tang of blood. I smother his burning forehead with kisses, stroking his face and whispering words of love, but he remains motionless.

‘Etienne!’

He sighs at the sound of my voice but doesn’t awaken and I’m frightened again.

‘Please step down,’ says Dr Dubois, ‘and allow us to remove him from the carriage.’

Reluctantly, I hover impatiently while Colbert and Dr Dubois manhandle Etienne on to the stretcher. ‘Be careful!’ I say as his arm falls and his knuckles scrape along the steps. I lift his hand and place it across his chest.

‘Shall I fetch a footman?’ asks Colbert, eyeing the doctor as he catches his breath.

Dr Dubois shakes his head. ‘The servants would recognise your master and I don’t care to risk the news travelling abroad that I am harbouring a noble under my roof.’

I glance anxiously at Etienne, who lies unmoving on the stretcher. ‘Shall I go on ahead and see if the coast is clear?’

‘Take the lamp but don’t worry about Madame Brochard,’ he says. ‘She’s faithful to the end.’

The two men carry the stretcher behind me with its precious burden. At the back door I hold up a hand to stay their progress as a maid hurries past with her coal bucket and then beckon them to follow me.

We arrive at the top of the stairs and the doctor indicates the guest room with a nod of his head. Once inside, Etienne is laid upon the bed.

Dr Dubois lifts Etienne’s wrist and takes his pulse. ‘I’d hoped the fever would pass now the ball has been removed,’ he says. ‘Being jolted about in a carriage hasn’t helped him but I thought it better to bring him here rather than to leave him in an inn.’

‘Please, let me nurse him,’ I say.

Colbert looks at me and frowns as he peers at my clothes. ‘That’s my coat!’ Then his eyes open wide in surprise. ‘Well, by all that’s holy! Is it really you, Mademoiselle Moreau?’

I hold a finger to my lips.

‘What’s going on?’

‘Terrible things have happened at Château Mirabelle and I came to warn Monsieur d’Aubery.’

Dr Dubois holds up his hand. ‘Later. My first concern now is for my patient. Mademoiselle, you will please turn your back while Colbert and I undress him. Once he is comfortable you may sit beside him.’

I move out of the way while the men strip off Etienne’s blood-stained clothing and place him, naked, in bed and cover him with a sheet. Fresh blood seeps through the bandage from his shoulder.

‘I must change the dressing tomorrow,’ says Dr Dubois, ‘but for tonight I shall leave him undisturbed. Colbert, your work is done for the present and you may sleep in the loft over the stables.’

I rest my hand on Etienne’s forehead again. ‘He’s so very hot, Doctor.’

Before long I have a small table set up beside me with a basin of water, lavender soap and clean cloths. I fold the sheet down to Etienne’s waist and sponge his face and neck. He mutters and a flash of white shows through his slightly parted eyelids but still he does not wake.

‘I gave him a substantial dose of laudanum to dull the pain while we travelled,’ says Dr Dubois, ‘so he may sleep for some time.’

‘I shall remain with him until then,’ I say.

Dr Dubois purses his lips and then shrugs. ‘There are blankets and pillows in the armoire and I will send up some supper for you. After you’ve eaten you should rest while your patient sleeps. Call me if there is any change.’

‘Thank you, Dr Dubois.’

He bows and closes the door behind him.

The housekeeper brings me a tray of soup, bread and a slice of apple tart, together with my bag of belongings. As soon as the door closes behind her I fall upon the tray, suddenly realising how long it has been since I last ate.

Ten minutes later I dab my mouth with the napkin. Perspiration beads Etienne’s forehead and heat radiates from his body. I squeeze out the sponge and start to wipe him again. The cut on his cheek has begun to heal, but the surrounding skin is still inflamed. I rinse the cloth and slowly wipe it over his throat, tracing it down the cords of his neck to the delicate skin in the hollows above his collarbones. Blood stains his bandages. Etienne’s chest is lightly covered in silky black hair and I cannot supress a shiver of desire as I see, lower down, that it forms a dark whorl around his navel and then disappears beneath the sheet.

Concentrating only on this task, refusing to imagine what might happen if he doesn’t recover, I gently wash each well-muscled arm, first the skin of his forearms browned by the sun and then the paler skin above. The reek of stale sweat and blood is gradually replaced with the clean scent of lavender soap.

One by one I wipe his fingers, washing away crusts of dried blood. The skin on his hands is rough from working in the vineyards and his palms are heavily callused. I fold the sheet upwards and wash his feet and legs, drying carefully between his toes. At last, I dab him dry with a clean towel.

I pour a clean basin of water for myself and, hesitating only a moment to check that Etienne still sleeps, strip off my borrowed clothes and wash myself from head to toe. Reluctantly, I dress again in the same soiled shirt and trousers, feeling that it would draw too much attention if I appeared in a dress now.

I pull the armchair close to the bed and watch Etienne sleeping. It’s strange to be able to study him in such detail, to learn every plane of his face, to see the faint blue veins in his eyelids without him watching me. I press my lips to his cheek. ‘Goodnight, my love,’ I whisper.