The Secret of the Chateau

by Kathleen McGurl

  ‘OK, well, soon then.’ I smiled at Monsieur Christophe, and then the conversation moved on to whether or not we should start baking our own bread.

  We forgot, of course we did, in all the excitement, to visit Madame la Maire as Monsieur Christophe had suggested, twice. We’d talked about it after the trip to the bistro but that was all.

  ‘Gray, you go,’ Steve suggested. ‘You’re best at turning on the charm, and your French is pretty good.’

  Gray widened his eyes. ‘Why me? I don’t want to go and see the old battle-axe.’

  ‘She might be young and blonde and gorgeous,’ Steve said, with a wink.

  ‘Huh. Doubt it. She’ll be eighty, with a steel-grey perm. She’ll have one of those terrifying stares that make you die inside, like a junior school headmistress. I think we should send one of the girls. Lu, you go.’

  ‘Me? Not on my own,’ I said. ‘My French isn’t up to it. What if she doesn’t speak English?’

  ‘Why do we have to go anyway?’ Phil asked.

  ‘Because Monsieur Christophe said we should. The mayor likes to meet everyone in the village. There are probably forms we’ve got to fill in. You know what they say about French bureaucracy. Besides, we want to make a good impression here, don’t we?’ Steve had poured out more wine, and somehow the entire conversation was forgotten about. Over the following days we were busy settling in, emptying boxes and walking around the village to get our bearings yet somehow not managing to remember about calling on the mayor whenever we were near the mairie.

  Before we knew it, we’d been there a fortnight and we still hadn’t visited to introduce ourselves, and then one morning the huge iron ring set into the front door was rapped smartly against the wood three times. I was in the sitting room at the time, organising books onto the bookcases. Manda was out on the patio with some paperwork, Steve was baking something that smelled amazing in the kitchen. Phil and Gray were somewhere in the garden.

  Steve went to open the door, and a moment later ushered a smart fifty-something woman with a blonde bob, who wore glasses with pink sides that should have looked tacky but somehow looked fabulous on her, into the sitting room.

  ‘And this is Lu Marlow,’ he said. ‘Lu, this is Aimée Leblanc, the maire. I’ll … um … make some tea.’

  ‘Coffee, please, for me,’ said Madame la Maire, and Steve nodded, ducking quickly out of the room, leaving me to … what? Make the apologies for not having visited her first, I suppose.

  ‘Please, do sit down, Madame,’ I said, then realised there were books on every surface as I’d been trying to organise them before shelving them. I gathered up a pile to make a space and ended up dropping some. The maire took a skip backwards to avoid having them land on her foot. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, je suis désolée,’ I said, cursing myself inwardly. What would she think of us?

  ‘It is all right,’ she said, moving another pile of books without a hiccup and perching herself on a sofa. She was wearing a pair of perfectly pressed loose linen trousers, a silk blouse and a scarf draped artfully around her neck. It was the kind of look I have never, ever been able to pull off. On me the trousers would be horrendously creased (life’s too short to iron linen, has always been my motto), the scarf would be slipping off and the blouse would have a coffee stain on it somewhere. But our maire looked elegant and poised and, to me, absolutely terrifying. I’ve always felt slightly intimidated by elegant women.

  ‘Let me just call the others in to meet you,’ I said. I couldn’t face sitting alone with her, and who knew how long Steve would be with the coffee. I could see Gray and Phil poking at a flower bed at the end of the garden. I crossed over to the patio doors, opened them and yelled for them to come, startling Manda.

  ‘Bloody hell, Lu, I thought the château was burning down or something,’ she said, then spotted the maire and clapped a hand over her mouth. ‘Ah, excusez-moi, I didn’t realise …’

  ‘Manda, this is the mayor,’ I said. I’d forgotten her name already. Manda stepped forward, a huge smile on her face, and air-kissed the maire on each side, the French way. I cursed inwardly yet again for having forgotten this social nicety. Not a good start.

  ‘Pleased to meet you,’ said the maire, in perfect but accented English. ‘I like to meet the people of the village when they move in. To say hello, to offer my help with anything you might need. As you are English perhaps you do not know … how to say … how everything works here. I can help. The mairie is there to help all the people.’ She smiled graciously. I felt as though I was in the presence of royalty. ‘You are settling in? It is a beautiful château, is it not?’

  ‘Thank you, yes, we are very happy to be here,’ Manda said. ‘It is such a beautiful area, and the village is gorgeous. We can’t wait to get out and about and explore a bit. Cycling, walking, skiing – it’s all right here! And riding. I love horses.’ She was rambling a bit, as though she too couldn’t wait for the others to join us and take over. Thankfully at that moment Steve came in with a jug of filter coffee and a plate of cookies he’d just taken out of the oven, and Phil and Gray came in through the patio doors.

  The atmosphere improved immediately, as the fellas began chatting with the maire about the château, places to go, things to see. I had the impression the maire was one of those women who get on better with men than with women. Or perhaps Manda and I in our faded jeans and baggy overwashed T-shirts were just not her type of women. Whatever, I was happy to sit on the edge of the group and listen to the conversation, nodding now and again as I sipped my coffee, rather than take an active part in it. Manda did likewise. Once or twice she caught my eye, smiled and raised an eyebrow. I smiled back but wasn’t sure what message she was trying to convey. There’d be time later to dissect it all.

  I did notice, however, that Gray seemed to be making an especially big effort to charm our visitor.

  The thing about Gray is, he’s commitment-phobic. He had a seven-year relationship with Melissa, whom he’d met shortly after we left university.

  Since then, other than one relationship that we all thought was going somewhere, he’s never stayed with anyone more than a few months.

  I think, from having had many an in-depth conversation over late-night wine with Gray over the years, that his problem stems from his own parents’ failed marriage. They divorced when Gray was little, and he grew up spending weekdays with his mum and weekends with his dad, plus whichever ‘stepmum’ his dad was shacked up with at the time. There were at least fifteen different women, Gray says, from the time his parents divorced to the date he went to university. All of whom his dad wanted him to call ‘Mum’.

  When Gray and Melissa split up, he resolved never to put his daughters through that same level of pain and confusion. There would be no ‘stepmum’ living in his house when his daughters stayed. There’d be only him, and the girls would have his undivided attention.

  He’s a great dad and has the best relationship with his offspring of all of us. Open and honest, and truly loving. But it’s come at the expense of his personal life, his love life.

  There was one woman after Melissa, that we all thought was The One. Her name was Leanne, but we refer to her as The One That Got Away. Gray and Leanne were together for over five years, but he never let her move in. She wanted more – she wanted to marry and have children with him, but he wouldn’t let her stay with him if the girls were there. She’d go out with them on day trips but would then have to return home. Even when Clemmie reached her teens and told him, ‘Dad, it’s OK, we don’t mind if you sleep with Leanne when we’re there’, he would send Leanne back to her own flat after dinner and before the girls went to bed.

  Eventually it all became too much for poor Leanne. She gave Gray an ultimatum. Let her move in, or she was leaving. He agonised for weeks, stringing her along, and then eventually made what he thought was the right decision – the girls must come first. He would not live with another woman until both had left home and were settled elsewhere. Leanne tried to talk him round
. She pleaded with him. She phoned each of us and asked us to intervene on her behalf, and we tried, but he’d made his decision. In the end, for the sake of her dignity Leanne accepted his decision, found herself a new job in Vancouver, and moved. Now she’s still there, married to a Canadian, with three children of her own and a lifestyle that involves sailing all summer and skiing all winter. She and Gray are still friends on social media, and frankly, I think he regrets losing her. But, as I’ve counselled him, he made what he thought was the right decision at the time. Now he needs to look forward not back, as you can only move forward starting from where you are.

  There’ll be someone for him, somewhere. Now that the girls are grown-up and he’s on his own, he can be more relaxed. Of course, now he’s acquired new housemates – but we won’t mind in the slightest if he invites someone to stay over! Not saying he won’t get a bit of stick for it, when the lady in question is out of earshot, but we’ll be delighted for him, if it ever happens.

  ‘You have met le fantôme?’ asked Madame la Maire, as I tuned back in to the conversation. ‘The last owners of the château said it was friendly but sad. So you have nothing to worry about.’ She smiled at us all.

  ‘Fantôme – ghost? Not sure I believe in them,’ said Steve, with a nervous laugh. Nervous because of the idea of a ghost, or because he feared insulting the mayor? I wasn’t sure.

  ‘No, they probably do not exist, but we do not know for sure,’ she said, with a gracious nod in Steve’s direction. The conversation then moved on to other things.

  I felt the mayor been holding something back, not telling us everything. Did I even believe in ghosts? I’d always been a bit in two minds about it. I’d ‘felt’ the presence of my mum more times than I could recall, since her death. But I’d always dismissed this as my own wishful thinking, missing her, wanting to believe she was still near me, watching over me. And there’d been a time, once, when I was a teenager, I was cycling along a country lane on holiday and saw a small boy wearing a red jumper, followed by a little white dog, run across the road and vanish into the hedge. When I reached the spot there was no sign of boy or dog, and strangely, no gap at all in the hedge on either side. Nowhere they could have come from or gone to. I still remember feeling spooked by the experience, so much so that I didn’t sleep for the next few nights for thinking about it. I told Dad at the time, but he just laughed and said there must have been a gap in the hedge I hadn’t spotted. Mum had looked thoughtful, but made no comment.

  But were we now living in a haunted house? That mysterious missing aristocrat still hanging around, perhaps? I wasn’t entirely sure how I felt about that idea.

  Chapter 8

  Catherine, 1789

  As the summer progressed, and Catherine’s pregnancy blossomed, the outbreaks of violence in Paris continued on and off. Despite Catherine’s protestations Pierre was sent to report on them a few more times, but he had learned his lesson and went on foot or by cart, dressed in rough, dirty clothes. She hated seeing him dressed like this – like a peasant, like a city-dwelling artisan. He was nobility, he should be dressed accordingly!

  Each evening Pierre returned to their apartment exhausted and worried, after making his reports to the King. He looked ill, she thought, but whenever she’d questioned him about his health he had smiled, kissed her and told her not to worry. He had, though, told her something of what was happening in Paris, and she’d gleaned more from some of the ladies of the Court when Pierre had refused to tell her details. She knew he was afraid of upsetting her, in her delicate condition. He was becoming concerned, he said, with events in Paris. The people were complaining that bread was too scarce and too expensive. There were rumours that the nobility were plotting to destroy the wheat crop in an attempt to starve the people.

  ‘I asked a man why he thought the nobility would do that,’ Pierre told her. ‘It was at a market, where scuffles had broken out over the shortage of bread. The man told me he believed the nobility wanted to keep them subdued, and that if they were hungry they’d remain submissive. But he said they wouldn’t – they were taking control.’ Pierre sighed. ‘I believe he is right. Even the King will have to accept the reforms in the end.’

  Catherine snuggled up to him. ‘Which reforms? Tell me again, dearest.’ She still couldn’t believe, even after the events of July and Pierre’s continued reporting of rioting in Paris, that any of it could affect her, or the rest of the court here at Versailles. They were close to Paris, it was true, but removed enough to be safe, as Pierre had continually assured her. And they had plenty of bread here. Catherine was, as always, taking her cue from Marie Antoinette. The Queen was going about her life exactly as she always had, although perhaps there were fewer visits to the little farm at the Petit Trianon, than before. But this year’s lambs had grown so the farm was less pleasurable to visit now. ‘I have heard something from the other ladies, about potential removal of privileges from the clergy and nobility? Please tell me the details, so I can join in with the conversations at Court.’

  ‘Ah, my sweet, I would prefer not to bother you with all this,’ Pierre replied. ‘It is nothing you need be concerned about.’

  ‘But if the nobility are to have privileges removed then surely that affects me directly, and I do need to be concerned about it.’ Catherine stroked her hand over his chest. ‘Please, my love. Tell me a little of it.’

  Pierre wrapped an arm around her as he answered with a sigh. ‘I told you, I think, about the August decrees issued last month by the National Assembly? The aim is to ensure a more equal distribution of wealth in our country. And then there’s the Declaration of the Rights of Man and the Citizen. The National Assembly want Louis to recognise the legitimacy of both of these, but he’s resisting them, so far, despite being advised to the contrary.’

  ‘What will all this mean for us? For you and me, and our baby?’ She patted the little bump that was almost visible now, beneath her gowns.

  Pierre sighed. ‘If Louis accepts the reforms, then there may be little change here at Versailles, though Louis will have less power and influence, and he and the Queen will need to curb their spending. If he doesn’t, then who knows what will happen. We may need to leave.’

  She pouted. ‘I thought you said we could stay here.’

  ‘We can, for as long as it’s safe to do so.’ He kissed her. ‘But I can’t promise it will remain safe.’

  It was early October, the leaves on the trees were just beginning to turn to their autumn colours and there was a distinct chill in the air, when things came to a head. Pierre had been reporting that the riots in Paris were becoming worse, and that there were calls for an organised march to Versailles.

  ‘What do the people want now?’ Catherine asked him. All she wanted was for life to go on as it had, while she awaited the birth of their child. She wanted to be focused inwardly on the new little life growing inside her, and not to need to worry about external events.

  ‘Bread. The assurance that bread will be more easily available and priced more cheaply. And that the King should dismiss his Swiss bodyguard in favour of the National Guard.’

  ‘How dare they tell him who he may have to guard him!’ Catherine was outraged.

  ‘The National Guard are patriotic, and generally more sympathetic to the Revolution,’ Pierre replied. ‘Although their commander, the Marquis de Lafayette, remains loyal to Louis. There’s talk too, that the King should move to Paris, to be among his people, rather than removed from them here at Versailles.’

  ‘And where would he live? Tell me, Pierre, where in Paris is there a palace fit for a king such as Louis, and a queen such as Marie Antoinette? No.’ She shook her head vehemently. ‘The royal family must stay here. Versailles is the greatest palace in Europe, in the world, even! There is nowhere else suitable.’

  ‘They may end up with no choice,’ Pierre said quietly. Catherine stared at him, but his expression was closed, as though he wanted no further discussion on the subject. She thought back through w
hat he had said. He’d used a new word to describe the situation – revolution. Was that really what this was? Was there no way back?

  It was the following day when a messenger arrived, sent by Lafayette galloping hard from Paris, with the news that the march was underway, and that the people would arrive at Versailles that same afternoon. Catherine, along with the Queen and the other ladies of the court, were ushered into the palace for safety.

  ‘There are several thousand marching, as I understand it,’ the Princesse de Lamballe said to Catherine. ‘Led by women, from the markets, would you believe it! And all because they want for a loaf of bread.’

  ‘Why do the National Guard not stop them?’ Catherine asked, as the ladies took their places gathered around the Queen in a drawing room.

  ‘The National Guard march with the people,’ came the response. ‘I only hope if there is violence, the guards will remember their place and defend us rather than turn against us. Oh! I am sorry, I have worried you.’ Princesse de Lamballe put a hand on Catherine’s arm. ‘You’re so young, and with child, I believe? You will be safe. Please do not fear. The royal bodyguard will protect us all.’

  Catherine peeked out of the window as the march arrived. There were many thousands of people, some holding pikes aloft. For one terrible moment she thought there were heads on the ends of the pikes – she’d heard gossip that that had happened to defenders of the Bastille on that terrible day in July. But no, it seemed the mob had speared loaves of bread with their pikes. She didn’t understand. If this march was all about wanting more bread, why did they waste so much in that way? And if there wasn’t enough bread, why didn’t they eat something else? Brioche, perhaps? Surely no one was so poor they couldn’t afford to buy anything to eat at all?