The Secret of the Chateau

by Kathleen McGurl

  ‘Oh, darling, are you sure? I don’t want to be a burden …’ There’d been a smile on her face but tears in her eyes as she spoke.

  ‘I’m sure, Mum. Least I can do.’ I had hugged her, but been careful not to say too much as I knew it would make me cry, and then she’d worry I was only doing this out of a sense of duty and didn’t really want it.

  ‘And Phil’s all right with it, is he?’ Mum loved Phil. They had the same sense of humour, and I’d often come across the two of them giggling together over the silliest thing.

  ‘He’s looking forward to seeing more of you,’ I replied.

  And so she moved in. The first few weeks while I was still working were tough. I’d get her up and dressed in the morning, then leave her settled on the sofa with a walking frame near to hand before going to work. When I returned home, she’d be desperate for me to sit and chat to her after a long lonely day, but I’d need to be cooking the tea, putting some washing on, unloading the dishwasher – all those jobs that working people have to squeeze into evenings and weekends. Phil did his share – more than half of the cooking and housework – but even so, it was tough getting everything done. And then it’d be the bed and bath routine for Mum. It reminded me of when Tom and Alfie were small and I was working – there was very little free time for me.

  It was much better when I’d given up work. I was able to enjoy spending time with Mum. We’d go out – to garden centres, cafés, shops. I bought a wheelchair that easily folded into the boot of my car, and then we could go anywhere as long as it was flat. For a couple of years we had fun, and I loved having her with us. We sold her house; she insisted Phil and I should take half of the proceeds – ‘towards the cost of looking after me,’ she said. But eventually the inevitable decline came, and it became more difficult for her to transfer from armchair to wheelchair to car. Our trips out became less frequent. And she was tired most of the time – wanting to nap in front of the television while I mooched around the house looking for jobs to do.

  If I’m honest, there were times during this period that I began to feel resentful. I’d given up my job and put my life on hold for Mum, and while I didn’t regret my decisions it was hard at times not to feel that life was slipping away from me. I’d occasionally meet old colleagues for a coffee and they’d chat and laugh and regale me with stories of the latest shenanigans at school, and I felt left out. I’d see Steve and Manda going off on holidays while Phil and I stayed home, or Phil would go skiing with Gray while I stayed home with Mum. I did have a couple of holidays, managing to book Mum into a nursing home for respite care, but she was never happy there and I wasn’t happy either knowing she was being looked after by strangers.

  When she caught pneumonia and had to go into hospital the first time, I felt a mix of emotions. Worry, of course, for her. But tinged with a guilty feeling of relief that while she was in hospital she was no longer my responsibility. I visited her every day of course, but in between there were hours for myself. I went shopping for new clothes. I spring-cleaned Mum’s room. I visited a couple of National Trust properties. I went for long walks in the country. In short, I had a life, without Mum being there.

  But when she was discharged from hospital and I brought her home, my overwhelming feeling was one of relief. She’d survived. I had my mum back where she belonged. Who cared about having time to myself – it was more important to spend time with her. Her brush with death had made me realise she would not be with me for ever. And indeed, it was only another six months before she had another bout of pneumonia, another hospital stay, and this time was the last.

  I sat at her bedside for five days at the end, holding her hand, doing little things for her like holding a drink for her to sip, straightening her pillows, brushing her hair. She slipped into a coma on the last day, and a nurse checking on her put a hand on my shoulder and gazed at me with compassion. ‘It won’t be long now,’ she said quietly. ‘But your mother is aware you are here, and that will be a comfort to her.’

  The nurse was right – it wasn’t long afterwards that Mum’s breathing slowed, then stopped, her lips turned briefly blue and then she was still, sleeping forever. I think I let out an anguished wail – I was vaguely aware of a nurse poking her head through the gap in the curtains to see what was happening, and then leaving me to hug my mother for one last time. ‘Love you, Mum,’ I whispered, as I kissed her cheek.

  It was odd going home that day. Home to Phil, but no Mum, and no need for further trips to the hospital. Just a funeral to arrange and her possessions to deal with, probate to apply for, her room to convert back into a dining room and then nothing. She was gone, her life had been dismantled, and there was I with little to do.

  I could have gone back to work I suppose, but I had been out of teaching for several years and felt out of touch. The syllabus had changed. My old school had no vacancies and the thought of trying to settle in at a new school, possibly far from home, did not appeal.

  Besides, it was not long after Mum’s death that Phil got made redundant with a healthy payout, the whole move-to-France project began, and then Phil had his heart attack, giving me a new set of carer’s responsibilities.

  And now, as Phil was beginning to recover, I would have more time for myself at last. Time to pick up an old hobby, or start a new project, after we had settled in, of course. Maybe I could rekindle my love of history, and try to research what happened to that aristocrat who went missing from the château?

  Chapter 6

  Pierre, 1789

  All was in uproar at Versailles, as Pierre Aubert was summoned to the King’s chambers along with the ministers for urgent discussions, one day in June 1789.

  ‘They have locked themselves into an indoor tennis court, of all places,’ the King was saying, as Pierre entered the room and bowed to his monarch. ‘They say they will not leave until they have agreed upon a constitution. My authority is no longer good enough. The Third Estate – the commoners – are now calling themselves the National Assembly, and as I understand it, some of the nobles and clergy from the First and Second Estates have joined with them. My power is being eroded!’

  Privately, Pierre thought this was no bad thing. It wasn’t right for all power to be vested in one man. Sometimes that worked – when the country was prosperous and when the man was strong and wise. But Louis XVI was not strong and wise. He’d been a weak prince – hadn’t he taken years to consummate his marriage? As King he’d been indecisive, yet stubbornly clinging to the ways of the ancien régime, insisting that he was answerable only to God. He’d overspent hugely, partly in supporting the American War of Independence, despite the poverty of his own people. His Queen had spent yet more money, on her clothes and jewels and indulging herself with her ridiculous little toy farm that Pierre’s wife loved so much. And Louis had raised taxation in an attempt to pay off his debts or at least the interest on them, but the burden had fallen largely on the poor, and the King had been resistant to any reforms that would redress the balance.

  And then there’d been the failure of the harvest the previous year. Horrendous hailstorms across northern France had destroyed the crops in the fields. Any grain reserves they might have kept had been exported, in an attempt at raising funds. The price of bread had risen enormously. People could barely afford to eat, let alone buy other goods, leading to unemployment. To top it all, the winter had been vicious.

  At Versailles they’d been comfortable of course, living in luxury that Pierre was beginning to feel embarrassed by, as he saw what was happening to the poorest members of French society. At least convening the Estates-General had been a step forward, but without reform, without the Third Estate of the common people being given equal voting rights, there would be no progress. And now the Third Estate had formed themselves into the National Assembly and were seizing control themselves.

  How Louis managed this crisis was all-important, and could mean the difference between a smooth transition to a more equal, modern form of government and �
�� Pierre didn’t like to consider what the alternative might be. The monarchy had existed for hundreds of years. The current king could trace his ancestry back for generation upon generation, some better and some worse, but all having absolute power. But times were changing, and Louis must allow things to change, for his own safety and that of his family. And his ministers and courtiers.

  ‘Sire, the National Assembly will not stop until they have the reforms they seek,’ the Finance minister, Jacques Necker, told the King. ‘I fear you may need to agree to their demands, and at the very least, recognise their authority. We must work together with them, not against them, and gradually move towards a new …’ Pierre thought he was about to use the word ‘regime’, but Necker appeared to have stopped himself before he went too far. Everyone knew that of all the ministers, Necker was most sympathetic to the National Assembly and their demands. He was popular with the people too, Pierre knew. So far the King had tolerated Necker in his government, but as he scowled now at the finance minister, Pierre wondered how much longer that would last.

  Personally, Pierre thought Necker was right. If only the King would listen to him and take his advice – there could be a way for the reforms to be made while keeping the monarchy intact, albeit with less power. At least he hoped so.

  It was mid-July. Pierre had been sent into Paris, to report back to the King on the mood there. Three days earlier, on 11th July, the King had sacked Jacques Necker, and reorganised his government completely. Pierre had privately thought this was a bad move – sacking the well-liked Necker had only served to inflame the situation. Despite Necker’s best efforts, the King had not taken his advice in terms of acknowledging the authority of the Assembly. Worse, the King had deployed loyal, mostly foreign, troops on the streets of Paris, ostensibly to keep the peace and quell any riots, but the Parisians believed the troops were there to break up the National Assembly. The situation was tense.

  Pierre’s job was to ride around the city, checking on areas where mobs were building, and return to Versailles to provide a first-hand and trustworthy account to the King. ‘I will deploy the Royal Guard wherever the worst mobs have formed,’ the King had said. ‘I will not allow lawlessness in my capital city! It will not do!’

  As Pierre rode his grey mare into Paris, he wondered whether that would be the best course of action. Surely if the Royal Guard were there in too large a number, and used force to disperse the mobs, that would only inflame the people more? All summer the tensions had been rising and now it seemed they were at breaking point. The King’s dismissal of Necker had certainly not helped at all.

  Even on the outskirts of the city Pierre found gangs of men brandishing sticks, hoes, pikes – anything they could get their hands on – and heading into the city centre. He passed by them cautiously. He had a half-dozen of the Royal Guard with him as protection. One mob jeered and yelled as they passed, and at one point Pierre was afraid they would grab for the horses, and perhaps pull the men off.

  ‘Look, the Swiss and German soldiers – they have come to shut down our National Assembly!’ one man called out, to roars of anger from the others.

  ‘No, there are only seven of them. They can do nothing,’ another voice cried out. ‘Let them pass. We will do better to join with other groups before we try to take any of them on.’

  Pierre was sweating, but thankfully the man was right. There were about a dozen in this mob, on foot against himself and the six guards who were all on horseback. The mob would have had no chance. Pierre and his men passed by unhurt, although the mob jeered and brandished their improvised weapons as they passed. One threw a clod of horse manure, which hit Pierre on the shoulder. He wanted to turn back, find who had thrown it and punish him, but instinct told him that he’d come off worse if he did, even with the guards protecting him. This mob, these sans-culottes as they were beginning to be known because of their attire, had nothing to lose and as such would fight harder and dirtier than himself and the guards. His mission was to observe and report, not fight.

  Around a corner, on a quiet street, Pierre pulled up his horse and spoke to the captain of his guards. ‘This won’t do. I will be able to provide better reports if I am on foot, blending in a little with the common people.’ He dismounted, and handed the reins to the captain. ‘Go back, with my horse. Wait just outside the city on the Versailles road. I will spend a couple of hours finding out what is happening and will return to you there.’

  The captain nodded, looking relieved, Pierre thought, to be given such an easy, safe task. Any danger would be to Pierre himself. He looked down at his clothing. He’d not put on his finery for this mission, but even so his jacket marked him out as a member of court. He slipped it off and handed it to the captain. He’d continue on in his shirt sleeves.

  The roads were filthy, filled with mud and stinking of sewage, and Pierre had to tread carefully. If ever he had to do this again he’d need poor clothes and commoner’s boots, not the fine breeches and white hose that he was wearing. He should make himself look like one of the mob himself, maybe even carry a stick, and not his sword. But right now, the sword lent him courage. He was a good swordsman. If anyone attacked him, he’d make short work of them. He continued into the city, hand on the hilt of his sword, keeping a look out on both sides and with frequent glances behind. He was aware of people peering out of windows, women hurriedly closing shutters, ushering children inside. There was tension in the air – a feeling that something momentous was about to happen.

  Pierre hid in a doorway as a mob ran past, whooping and yelling. Behind them came a wagon filled with sacks of grain. A warehouse had been plundered the night before, Pierre had heard, and its contents seized by the hordes. The Royal Guard had done very little to stop them.

  Pierre went first to the Hotel des Invalides. Until recently it had been used to store thousands of muskets and hundreds of barrels of gunpowder. The commandant there had advised that the gunpowder at least be moved somewhere safer, and so a few days ago it had been moved to the Bastille – that huge, ancient fortress in the middle of the city. It would be safe there. At the Invalides, there was uproar. The Paris militia, under the command of the National Assembly, had stormed the palace, no doubt in search of the muskets and gunpowder. They’d taken it over, apparently meeting little resistance. Pierre moved on, travelling by the back streets, crossing the river under the shadow of the great cathedral of Notre Dame, hiding from mobs in shadows, until he reached the Bastille, where he found a vantage point in the doorway of a boarded-up building. There were hundreds of people gathered, chanting, brandishing weapons of various types. They were calling for the removal of the cannon and gunpowder from the fortress. Pierre listened to conversations around him and gathered that representatives of the people had gone inside earlier that morning, to negotiate the surrender of the prison, which only held about half a dozen inmates, mostly forgers. But nothing had happened yet, and the crowd were impatient.

  It was early afternoon when all hell broke loose. Some of the crowd had climbed onto a roof and broken the drawbridge chains. More had run inside. There was gunfire from all directions. Pierre cowered back into the doorway where he’d been standing, his hand on the hilt of his sword, just in case. All was pandemonium. The crowd had become a chaotic mob with no one seemingly leading it. A gunshot whistled by Pierre leaving a musketball lodged in the door over his left shoulder. It was not safe here. Head down, he ran for better cover, hoping he would still be able to observe what was happening.

  Dodging musket fire he ran around a corner, straight into a handful of men. They were wielding sticks rather than muskets, he was thankful to see.

  ‘Who’s this?’ the leader of them said. ‘One of the Royal Guard? Are you Swiss or French?’

  ‘French,’ Pierre replied, his fingers curled around the hilt of his sword. ‘On your side, my friends.’

  ‘You’re no common man,’ the leader said. ‘That fine shirt, those boots. You’re a King’s man. Spying, perhaps? At him, lads!�
��

  There were four of them. As the first couple stepped forward and thrust at him with their sticks, Pierre drew his sword and easily parried them – disarming one and flesh-wounding the second. The other two men were behind him. Pierre spun around, his sword held in both hands, and snarled at them. ‘Four of you but you’ll come off worse. I suggest you let me go.’

  Two of them ran – the wounded man and one other, but the leader of the little gang stood firm. ‘Listen to him talk, lads. He’s an aristocrat, all right. Taking the food from the mouths of your children, to pay for that Austrian bitch’s excesses. Make him pay!’ The man swung at Pierre, aiming at his head, but Pierre blocked his thrust, swinging his sword around and up, catching the man under the arm. He could kill him, so easily, with another swing and a thrust. But he chose not to. The man was wounded enough that he could no longer attack.

  ‘I warned you. Now run,’ Pierre said, holding his sword ready in case the other man decided to have a go. But the other man was already halfway down the street behind him. Only the wounded leader was left, clutching his wounded right arm with his left.

  ‘You’ll pay,’ the man growled. ‘In the end, you and all your like will pay. The future belongs to the common people, not just the over-privileged few.’ He spat at Pierre’s feet, and stumbled away after his comrade.

  Pierre clutched at his chest – a sudden, sharp pain, a tightening like a band around his chest. He’d felt it before after exerting himself but had paid it no attention. This was more intense. Catching his breath, he looked about him, and sheathed his sword. The mob in front of the Bastille was uglier than ever. Some men were holding a pike aloft, and on the end of it was a severed head – he knew not whose it was. He realised if he stayed in the area, there’d be more confrontations like the one he’d just had. He’d end up either being hit by musket shot or killing someone. Or even his own head might end up on a pike. No, he would not risk staying longer. He had to think of Catherine and keep himself safe. She was too young and innocent to become a widow. He’d done his duty and would be able to provide a good eyewitness account. Moving as quickly as he could despite his pain, he retreated away from the Bastille, heading west, once more sticking to the quietest streets he could find. He found two of his guard, thankfully with his horse, on the edge of the city as instructed. The captain admitted with some embarrassment that when a group of sans-culottes had approached, some of the guard had decided to join their numbers and had deserted.