The Chateau on the Lake (7 page)

A week later, Sophie and I are in my cell at Soho Square, poring over the packing list suggested by our travelling friends
.
We’re arguing over the necessity for a rhubarb grater and two pairs of leather sheets when the maid comes to tell us that a gentleman has called to see us. Hurrying down to the drawing room, I’m surprised and secretly rather pleased to find Mr d’Aubery.

‘Forgive me for calling on you unexpectedly,’ he says, ‘but I’ve heard a disturbing rumour.’

‘Whatever can that be?’ I ask. Mr d’Aubery is looking very handsome today in a chocolate brown velvet coat, a colour that matches his eyes.

‘Lady Georgiana tells me that you plan to visit France.’

‘I intend to seek out my father’s family,’ I say.

‘And I shall accompany Madeleine,’ says Sophie.

‘I cannot permit this extremely foolhardy course of action.’

The smile fades from my face. ‘I
beg
your pardon? By what authority do you forbid us?’

‘Miss Moreau, France is in turmoil.’ He speaks slowly as if we are dimwits. ‘There are riots in the streets. Strangers are regarded with suspicion. And for two young Englishwomen…’

‘We both speak the language fluently,’ says Sophie. ‘We have French names and there is no reason for anyone to suspect we are not citizens of the Republic.’

‘I beg to differ, Madame Levesque,’ says Mr d’Aubery. ‘Your spoken French has a Huguenot accent. And yours, Miss Moreau, although you are fluent… there are times when you use an outmoded vocabulary. It may be enough to draw attention to you.’

Stung by his accusation, I say, ‘I converse regularly with the French community here in London and no one has ever mentioned that before.’

Mr d’Aubery shrugs. ‘Do you have the necessary travel papers, proving that you are French citizens?’

I glance at Sophie. We hadn’t thought of that. I tell him, ‘It has become impossible for me to remain at the Academy any longer now that my parents are dead, and I have no remaining family in this country. I understand from the Marquis de Roussell that my father was the son of the Duc de Limours and that I have an uncle. Surely you can understand now why I must go to France?’

‘De Roussell told you that?’

‘He recognised my father’s ring. As I believe did you.’

Mr d’Aubery looks at me impassively.

‘Didn’t you?’ I insist.

‘Your father had no wish to discuss the matter.’

‘Nevertheless, I intend to visit Fontainebleau and meet the only family I have left.’

‘This is not the time for such a visit. I implore you to reconsider.’

I lift my chin and fold my arms.

‘Who travels with you?’

‘We have no need of a great retinue of servants,’ I say, forestalling him before he can argue the point. ‘We shall not seek out any trouble,’ I say. ‘My intention is only to carry out my lifelong desire to meet my relatives and to for us to broaden our education by travel.’

‘I beg you to desist.’

‘Our minds are quite made up,’ I said firmly.

He rubs his hands wearily over his face. ‘If you are so determined,’ he says after a long pause, ‘and since I expect to return to France in the next fortnight, then I had better accompany you as far as Paris. I would never forgive myself if I discovered that your obstinacy had led you into difficulties.’

A great sense of relief washes over me. Despite my brave words it had occurred to me that this was not the best time to be travelling to France, but Sophie has no choice. Now we shall not have to make the journey into the unknown by ourselves.

Sophie lets out a cry of delight. ‘Mr d’Aubery, that is the very thing! Think how merry we shall be all together.’

Mr d’Aubery sighs. ‘I suggest I arrange false identity papers for you both and we shall all travel from Dover on the same packet.’

Mr d’Aubery comes for me at first light one raw January morning.

I have slept poorly, worrying about the wisdom of venturing into a strange land in the company of a man who is reputed to have murdered his wife. Eventually, however, I decided that nothing in his demeanour leads me to believe he is likely to murder us. Besides, Sophie’s plight permits no delay.

‘I’ll ask you once more,’ says Mr d’Aubery, ‘are you quite sure you wish to make this journey?’

The severity of his expression causes me another pang of doubt but I’ll not back down now. ‘I am.’

‘At least you have followed my instructions regarding your luggage,’ he says, lifting my single travelling bag into his carriage.

He’d warned us to bring nothing more than we can carry ourselves and to wear sombre clothes in the new French peasant fashion so as not to draw unwelcome attention. Sophie had argued but Mr d’Aubery had been so fierce in reminding her that the revolutionaries might otherwise believe us to be aristocrats and set upon us, that she had quietened her complaints.

‘You must take off your father’s ring, Miss Moreau,’ says Mr d’Aubery. ‘The crest may be recognised.’

Obediently, I slip the ring from my finger. I shall thread it on to a ribbon and wear it around my neck under my fichu.

A moment later we are rolling out of Soho Square.

I peer out of the rear window of the carriage at the house that has been my home for most of my life until it is lost from my view. Blinking back tears, I wonder if I have made a terrible mistake. But then I remember the look of relief in Mrs Jephcott’s eyes as she’d glanced at her husband when I’d said my goodbyes the previous night and know that I cannot go back.

Before long we draw to a halt outside the Levesque house, where Sophie is waiting for us. There is no sign of Charles but Henry and his nursemaid come to see us off. After five minutes I have to remind Sophie that we’ll miss our boat if she doesn’t disentangle herself from her son’s little arms.

Tearfully, she waves her handkerchief as we drive away and our last glimpse of him is when Betty lifts him up and takes him inside.

‘Oh, Maddy, what have I done?’ weeps Sophie, sinking back against the velvet cushions.

We travel all day, stopping only to change horses and eat a hasty supper at an inn. Sophie is pale and silent and at one point we stop the carriage as nausea threatens to overwhelm her. At last, we arrive at Dover.

I cannot help but be relieved that Mr d’Aubery is familiar with the harbour. It’s dark already and we descend from the carriage and wait, shivering, on the bustling quayside while he takes the carriage to the stables.

Once on board the packet, our cramped, windowless cabin smells of salt and tar but we are so tired we can do no more than undress and fall into the bunks. We expect to set sail on the dawn tide.

 

 

Late the following morning Sophie and I stumble up on deck. The sea is still high but the packet edges closer to the shore as a flotilla of rowing boats comes to greet us.

‘The tide is too low to risk sailing into the harbour,’ explains Mr d’Aubery.

I look over the rail at the churning sea so far below, to where a boat awaits us. I’ve always been frightened of heights and the boat looks very small. ‘But how will we…’

‘There is a ladder.’

‘I can’t!’ Sophie says, horrified.

‘You must,’ he says.

‘No!’

I grip Sophie’s arm and give her a shake. ‘Will you return to England then?’ Her face crumples and she shakes her head. ‘Mr d’Aubery will go down first,’ I say, ‘then I’ll help you.’

Trembling from head to toe, she allows us to set her feet upon the flimsy rope ladder.

‘Close your eyes and keep moving,’ I say, smiling encouragingly at her, although my own heart is knocking fit to burst.

Sophie screws her eyes shut and lowers herself, step by step, down the ladder.

A sailor helps me over the side and I have to resist the urge to cling, whimpering, to the deck but I follow my own advice, close my eyes and set off.

Once our baggage has been lowered, the boatman starts to pull on the oars. Even if our clothes weren’t already miserably damp, we would soon have been soaked by the persistent drizzle and the salt spray.

Eventually, to my great relief, the boat battles into harbour and jolts against the quayside. Chilled to the bone, I set foot for the first time in my father’s homeland.

 

 

The stench of Paris assails our nostrils as soon as we reach the outskirts in the public coach, a thick mixture of coal smoke, excrement and rotting vegetation. The air carries something indefinably different from the smell of London… garlic and tobacco and strong cheese, perhaps. All this had once been a part of Papa’s life.

Three days of travelling in a draughty diligence and two nights in damp sheets infested with bedbugs have left both Sophie and myself scratching and sneezing. Our noses are streaming, my hair is a bird’s nest, and I would give half the gold coins sewn into the hem of my petticoat to be able to lie in a clean bed in a darkened room.

The news that greeted us on our arrival in France, that King Louis has been charged with treason and sentenced to death in a few days’ time, has alarmed us all but we dare not discuss it in front of our fellow passengers, several of whom wear the red, white and blue cockade of the revolutionaries.

In a whispered aside as we waited to board the coach, Mr d’Aubery said that any hint of concern for the king might cause our new travelling companions to condemn us as well.

‘You must call me Monsieur d’Aubery, and if you must speak at all make sure it is only in French. And do not let your guard down,’ he instructed, ‘even for a moment.’

I’ve had plenty of time whilst travelling to mull over my misgivings about this journey and my thoughts on the Revolution. Whilst I still believe that France has no room for a simpering, extravagant queen and a spoilt king utterly out of step with his people, it has shocked me to the core that they are to be executed and not merely exiled. It appears that Monsieur d’Aubery is right and I lack the necessary knowledge, at present, to make proper judgements.

Monsieur d’Aubery, looking annoyingly healthy and well groomed this morning, pulls down the window of the coach and peers outside.

Tall houses line the mean streets and a gang of ragged street children race past, banging their fists on the sides of the diligence, shouting demands for sous. The coachman swears and cracks his whip, scattering the screaming urchins.

Sophie, her eyes fever-bright, presses her fingers to her mouth, her face so pale it’s almost green. ‘Please, the smell…’

Monsieur d’Aubery closes the window and the elderly woman sitting opposite hastily draws back her skirts as Sophie is wracked by another coughing fit that makes her retch into her handkerchief.

I sneeze violently into mine.

‘Mademoiselle Moreau, I cannot in all conscience leave you both in your current state of health to seek accommodation once we arrive in Paris,’ says Monsieur d’Aubery.

‘I’m sure we’ll manage.’ But I dread the thought of tramping the streets to find lodgings.

‘You shall come and stay with me until you are both well,’ he says.

His tone might be dictatorial but I’m more than happy to accept his invitation, at least until we have recovered from our chills.

A stout gentleman eating raw onions and pungent goat’s cheese is pressed against me and I peer around him to look out of the window. We travel slowly, our coach’s progress impeded by hawkers of all kinds shouting their wares, selling everything from lottery tickets and kindling wood to rabbit skins. An oyster seller with a large basket on her back wrenches open the diligence door and offers us a dripping oyster shell. One of the young men casually kicks her off the step and slams the door again.

Suddenly we grind to a halt as a noisy group of men in loose trousers swagger down the narrow street, their hoarse cries reaching us even through the closed windows.

‘Give us bread! Give us candles! Give us soap! Give us sugar!’ they chant, over and over again.

The diligence rocks as they surge past us and two of the male passengers wearing the cockade rise to their feet and hang out of the windows, waving their fists in the air and shouting their support.

The elderly woman sniffs. ‘The grocers who hoard supplies to inflate prices should be hung up by their ears above their own doorways.’

Once the protesters have passed, the two young men plump down in their seats again, eyes bright with excitement.

The diligence moves off and after a while the crowded, refuse-strewn thoroughfares give way to wide streets of shops and fine houses. Before long we draw to a halt.

We alight, stiff from hours of travelling, and the coachman throws our baggage down from the roof.

‘It’s not far,’ says Monsieur d’Aubery, picking up Sophie’s bag out of the mud. He sets off and I take her arm, shivering in the cold, damp air.

Rue de Richelieu is lined with substantial stone houses several storeys high and soon we arrive before an elegant mansion. A footman admits us and we are shown into the salon while Monsieur d’Aubery goes to find his housekeeper.

Sophie and I sink into red velvet chairs and regard the delicately carved and gilded
boiserie
s on the walls, the high ceiling and ornate chandeliers. Our feet nestle into claret and gold carpets set upon intricately patterned parquet flooring.

‘I hadn’t realised that Monsieur d’Aubery lived in such grandeur,’ I whispered.

‘At least we can expect clean sheets here,’ says Sophie.

All I want is to lie down quietly somewhere, anywhere, until my thunderous headache has gone.

Monsieur d’Aubery rejoins us, bringing his housekeeper. ‘Madame Guillet will take you to your rooms. Please ask for anything that will make you more comfortable.’

He dismisses our thanks with a wave of his hand and leaves us to follow the housekeeper upstairs.

Sophie’s room adjoins my own and Madame Guillet casts a sharp-eyed glance around to check that all is in order. Ewers of hot water are steaming on the dressing table and snowy white towels warm by the fire.

‘Please use the bell if there is anything you require.’ The housekeeper closes the door behind her and I strip off my travel-stained clothes, wash and fall into bed.

The sheets, of exquisitely fine linen, are indeed not only clean but lavender-scented. I fall into a deep and dreamless sleep.