The Secret of the Chateau

by Kathleen McGurl

  ‘Anyway, be careful with that paraffin lamp,’ I said. Being a mum, I couldn’t help but advise caution to my kids at every possible opportunity.

  Tom rolled his eyes. ‘I’m a grown-up, Mum. I know how to use a paraffin lamp. Of course I’ll be careful.’

  ‘I know, but the château’s already burned down once,’ I muttered. I turned to go back down the spiral stairs. As Tom followed me the floorboards gave an enormous creak.

  ‘I’d be more worried about the state of this floor than me setting fire to the room,’ he said, taking exaggerated tiptoe steps the rest of the way across to the door.

  The day after Tom arrived I took him for a walk. We’d planned to go down by the river path, explore the village, and then come back along the higher path. And maybe on and up the mountain, if the weather was good enough. It usually was.

  It was only about three kilometres to the village, and I’d promised Tom coffee and a cake from the patisserie when we got there. They did a mean mille-feuille I knew he’d love. We headed off not long after breakfast, down the château’s driveway, across the main road and down a small path that led to the river and then followed it down to the village, chatting companionably of his latest adventures, his plans, and how life was shaping up for us oldies in the château.

  The path meandered alongside the river, sometimes bounded by lush meadow and sometimes through a band of deciduous woodland that flanked the banks. It was a delightful route, and I felt vaguely ashamed I hadn’t already walked it. It was part of Steve’s regular morning run to the village to buy bread. When we were approaching the village, we came across a small stone building that overhung the river a little. There was an information board mounted beside it – written all in French but with a bit of effort I could translate enough to get the gist of it.

  ‘It’s some sort of wash house,’ I told Tom. ‘The women of the village would bring their laundry here to wash it in the river.’ We entered the little building, which had a wooden floor, and some sort of rusty mechanism mounted on one wall.

  ‘Looks like the floor is movable,’ said Tom, touching an iron handle which turned a cog wheel. ‘Presumably it was raised and lowered depending on the water level. An ingenious design – aren’t the wash houses usually just large stone basins fed by a stream? I’ve never seen one over a river like this.’

  I went outside and tried to translate more of the information board. He was right. The wash house was an unusual design for the area, apparently, and had been built by Victor Aubert, Comte de Verais, in 1760 for the use of the villagers.

  ‘Aubert? As in Château d’Aubert? Did he live in your château then?’ Tom asked.

  ‘I suppose he must have.’ Funny to think our home was previously owned by a French aristocrat. All aristocratic titles were abolished during the French Revolution, of course. I wondered if this Victor Aubert had survived that period, or met the fate of so many of France’s nobility. ‘Perhaps there are Aubert tombs in the village graveyard.’

  ‘We could go and look for them sometime, if you like?’ Tom raised his eyebrows at me and I smiled. Of course I would like to, and he knew it. I’d always had a bit of a thing about old graveyards. I love reading the inscriptions and wondering about the lives of the people buried there. Especially when they’d probably lived in the château we now owned.

  We didn’t manage to get to the graveyard that day, but enjoyed a cake in the patisserie (Tom adored the mille-feuille as I’d known he would) and then headed up a path that led to a mountain ridge above the village.

  ‘Fantastic view,’ Tom said, gazing southwards. ‘Is that actually the Mediterranean?’ He was pointing at a distant strip of shining blue.

  ‘It is indeed,’ I replied.

  ‘You do live in an amazing place. I’m so glad I was the first visitor – beat Alfie to it! Are Gray’s girls and Zoe booked in to visit?’

  ‘Clemmie and Hope are coming later in the summer. Zoe can’t – she’s in Australia.’

  ‘Oh yes. Forgot she was there. I bet Manda’s missing her, isn’t she?’

  I nodded. ‘She certainly is, poor woman. She’s terrified Zoe will end up staying there permanently when her contract’s up.’

  ‘Will she, do you think?’ Tom frowned. ‘That’ll be hard for Manda and Steve. Zoe’s all they have.’

  I think Manda and Steve would have loved to have had more children. Manda was always the perfect hands-on mum: taking days off to attend sports day and nativity plays, spending weekends baking with Zoe and evenings helping out with Brownies then Guides, always putting Zoe ahead of her job. She was better than the rest of us at juggling the demands of career and parenthood, so it always seemed a shame she only had the one daughter. She’d had another three pregnancies, one before Zoe and two after, all ending in early miscarriage. In the end she and Steve decided they couldn’t face any more heartbreak and it was better for Zoe to grow up a loved, only child with relaxed parents rather than keep trying and failing to provide her with a sibling.

  And yet Manda managed not to be too over-protective. Zoe was encouraged to be independent from an early age. She went on every Guide camp possible, and on Outward Bound courses run by her school. Aged seventeen, she asked if she could spend the summer holidays travelling in Italy with a mixed group of friends, and Manda agreed, on the condition she paid for it herself from her Saturday job and babysitting earnings.

  It was no surprise really that after completing her degree Zoe looked further afield than the UK for a job. She applied for jobs in Germany and France, but ending up working for a UK-based company to Manda’s relief. However, the company had offices in Australia, and it wasn’t too long before Zoe was offered a two-year placement in Sydney.

  ‘I’ve got to take it, Mum,’ she said, her eyes shining. ‘I’ll be able to travel the country in my holidays, maybe also get to New Zealand. It’s such an opportunity.’

  We all agreed, it was an amazing opportunity. Steve thought so too, and Manda said she did, but I could see misgivings behind her expression when they told the rest of us Zoe’s news, about a year before we decided to move to France. Later that evening, I’d taken Manda to one side and asked her if she was really happy about it.

  To my horror she’d instantly welled up. ‘I’m terrified, to be honest. Terrified the two-year placement will turn into something permanent. Terrified Zoe will meet some tanned Australian surfer-hunk and decide to marry him and settle out there. I’ll never see her again, Lu! I don’t think I can bear that!’

  I hugged her and patted her back. ‘Don’t be silly. You’ll see her. She’ll come back for visits, and you can go out there, see Australia for yourself.’

  But she shook her head. ‘You know I hate flying, Lu. I couldn’t go there.’

  ‘You fly all the time! You flew to Venice with Steve a few weeks ago …’

  She wiped her tears on a tissue. ‘I can manage short haul, just about. But the idea of a twenty-four-hour trip to the other side of the world …’ She shivered. ‘I couldn’t do it, Lu. And then I’d never see her.’

  ‘There’s Skype. And her visits home. And anyway – it’s a two-year contract. She’ll most likely stay only two years. Don’t worry about what might not happen.’

  Manda had smiled through her tears. ‘You’re probably right. It’s just … so hard. Letting go.’

  She’d surprised me, with those last words. Of all of us, she’d seemed to be the best at letting go, giving her child wings and the freedom to use them. Funny how you can know someone for forty years and they are still able to surprise you.

  ‘Zoe will come home after her contract is up, I bet,’ I said to Tom, hoping I was right for Manda’s sake. We turned away from that stunning view and headed down the hillside, back to the château and a much-needed cup of tea.

  Later that day, Manda returned home looking tired but jubilant after having been out all day.

  ‘What have you been up to?’ I asked, taking in her grubby cotton trousers and sweat-soaked T-shi
rt.

  ‘I’ve found a riding stables!’ she announced with a grin. ‘It’s down the valley, past the village and then up a little lane. I’ve been there half the day, and they’ve agreed that in exchange for a couple of hours’ work twice a week, I can take a pony out riding whenever I like!’

  ‘Fantastic! I thought you were thinking of buying your own pony to keep here, though?’

  She shrugged. ‘I was, but it’s a huge responsibility. I think this is probably better. They’ve a lovely grey mare named Argent that suits me well. This way I can ride her, and work with the others, and all without having to spend a fortune getting the stables here up and running. Steve was looking at the roof – all needs replacing before we can house any animal in there through the winter.’

  ‘That’s great news,’ Steve said, giving her a hug. ‘Good to have something to keep you busy.’

  He needed something himself, I thought. Steve’s not a man who can keep still for long.

  Manda nodded. ‘Who’d have thought it – I’ve got myself a job. No pay, but for me the chance to go riding means so much more.’

  ‘Good job you’ve all got good pensions,’ Tom said. He sighed. ‘Oh, you are lucky. You can do what you want, when you want. I can’t wait to be retired myself!’

  Manda laughed. ‘Don’t wish your life away, Tom. But yes, we’re lucky, and I am going to enjoy this job.’

  It’d also help take her mind off Zoe, I thought, but decided not to say out loud. I was glad for her.

  It was the third day of Tom’s visit when we discovered something odd about the château. Actually it was Tom who spotted it. Tom, the visitor – not we unobservant five who’d lived here for a month. He was at the front of the château, doing a bit of weeding of our gravel driveway. I had brought him out a glass of iced Orangina.

  ‘Here. Getting hot, isn’t it?’ I said, as I handed the drink to him.

  ‘Thanks. Yes, it is.’ He was gazing up at the tower. ‘Odd, isn’t it?’

  ‘What?’ I looked up at the tower too, but it seemed the same as ever to me.

  ‘The windows. In the tower.’

  I looked again. There were the large windows of the kitchen and bedrooms, then above that the small window of Tom’s tower room, and then above that but further round the tower, another one … ‘Oh! That top window – where did that come from?’

  Tom laughed. ‘Well, I suppose it’s always been there. How do you get to it, though? It must be a room above mine.’

  ‘There’s no room above yours. Well, there’s no staircase or anything. Are you sure that’s not your window?’

  ‘Sure. Mine looks out this way, that one is further round to the south side, looking down the driveway. I’ll prove it.’ He thrust the Orangina back at me and sprinted off into the château. A minute later as I stood there watching, his face appeared at the lower of the small windows, waving at me. I waved back, then gasped as I briefly glimpsed something else, at the higher window …

  Don’t be stupid, I told myself. It was just the light. The sun, glinting off the glass, giving the impression that someone was up there. But that window – what was behind it? How did you reach it? We’d explored every inch of our new home, and there was no way to climb any further up the tower. And yet, there was a window up there.

  Chapter 10

  Claudette, 1789

  Versailles was in uproar, on the afternoon after the women’s march. Claudette was trying to keep abreast of the fast-moving events, listening to servants’ gossip as well as gleaning what she could from overhearing Monsieur and Madame Aubert’s conversations. She had perfected the art, she thought, of blending into the background of their chambers, quietly getting on with work yet remaining near enough to listen in to what they said.

  When she heard them discussing the way the King and Queen had bravely stood on the balcony and how the crowd had chanted Vive le Roi and Vive la Reine she had felt a mix of emotions. Relief that perhaps the moment of danger had passed, and that life could go on comfortably as it had been. And disappointment underlying it all – did this mean nothing would change after all? Despite her job, working in the grandest palace in all of Europe, despite her comfortable room, good food and manageable workload, she wanted to see France change for the better. It was time for a more modern way of life, where people were treated equally. A fairer split of the country’s wealth, so that no one went hungry. Ever since that day in July when her master had returned to Versailles looking tired and ashen-faced, reporting that the great fortress of the Bastille had been stormed by a mob, Claudette had secretly hoped that it would all lead eventually to the end of the ancien régime, and France would become a more equal society. She’d taken great care never to discuss her beliefs with anyone, not even her best friends among the hundreds of staff that kept the enormous palace running smoothly.

  And now, it seemed that the King had agreed that he and his family should go to Paris and live at the old Tuileries Palace. Most of the Court was to go with them, and nobles and their servants were scurrying about trying to pack for the move. Carriages were being made ready and everyone was talking at once, wondering what their future held. Claudette made her way quickly to Madame Aubert’s chambers, to do her duties. Monsieur Aubert had spoken to her briefly and in private that morning.

  ‘Do not tell your mistress yet, but if the King is taken to Paris, we will not be going with him. We will be leaving here.’

  She’d stared at him, wide-eyed, but had nodded silently as he handed her a pile of peasants’ clothing, telling her to hide them in Madame Aubert’s chamber, in readiness.

  As she hurried into Madame’s chamber, she realised now was the moment. Both Auberts were there – Monsieur was holding Madame’s hands and she was gazing fearfully at him.

  ‘Must we leave? Can no one stay here?’

  ‘Of course no one can stay here. We are leaving. Ah, here is Claudette. She will help you dress – Claudette, where are those clothes I gave you earlier?’

  Claudette hurried across the room to the chest where she’d secreted the items and pulled them out. Madame looked at them with distaste.

  ‘I cannot wear those! They are the clothes of a peasant woman!’

  ‘You will wear them,’ her husband said, his voice sounding sterner than Claudette had ever heard it. ‘Prepare yourself quickly.’

  Claudette began unfastening the bows and buttons on Madame’s gown. There were so many, and her fingers felt slippery with sweat. Ordinarily she’d have taken care not to stain the gown but she suspected Madame would never need it again, so she chose speed over care.

  Soon she was fastening the coarse woven brown gown around Madame.

  ‘The fabric is so scratchy! It is not at all like silk. Oh, I don’t know if I can wear this!’

  ‘You must, Madame. Monsieur said so, and he is right. You will not be safe if you look like a member of the nobility. This is the only way.’ Claudette fought hard to keep impatience out of her voice. It was not Madame’s fault. She was young – a good ten years younger than Claudette, barely out of her teens. And she was carrying her first child. Of course she was scared – the situation was tense and who knew what the immediate future would hold? Claudette was not sure how much Madame understood about what was happening in France. How there was no going back. The old ways were gone for good, whether Madame liked it or not. But all she could do was focus on what needed to be done now – preparation for the journey, hoping that Monsieur Aubert had made good enough plans to get them away from Versailles, praying that no mob would accost them as they left the palace, steeling themselves for the long journey ahead.

  They were going to Monsieur’s château, in the south. The Château d’Aubert, near the village of Saint-Michel-sur-Verais. The village where Claudette had been born, and where her mother still lived. It had been eight years since she had been there – since she’d travelled north with Monsieur Aubert and his first wife to Paris, for Monsieur Aubert to take up his position in Louis XVI’s court.
Claudette was excited at the thought of seeing her mother again, being back among the people of the south, speaking Provençal, but apprehensive about the journey.

  ‘Madame, your boots,’ she said, holding out the pair of rough leather boots Monsieur Aubert had provided.

  ‘I cannot wear those!’ Madame Aubert turned her back on them and reached for her dainty silk slippers.

  ‘You must, to blend in,’ Claudette told her. ‘Madame, many of the peasants go barefoot, in all weathers. That is your choice.’

  It did the trick. Grumbling, Madame Aubert sat on an ottoman and allowed Claudette to slip her feet into the boots and buckle them. They were not bad boots. Many of the Parisian women who’d been on the march would have been grateful for them. Claudette bit her lip to stop herself saying anything more, reminding herself once again that it was not Madame’s fault she’d been born into the aristocracy. She was not a bad person, just young and naive, with much to learn about the world beyond the luxury of Versailles. Claudette suspected Madame would learn much over the coming weeks and months.

  At last it was time to leave. Monsieur Aubert returned to the chamber, dressed now in workmen’s clothes, looking like one of the sans-culottes. He nodded his approval at Madame’s attire. Claudette tied a simple cape around Madame, another around herself, and stood beside her, ready to leave.

  ‘Just one moment,’ Monsieur Aubert said, crossing to the cabinet where Madame kept her jewellery. He picked up the box, and emptied its contents into a leather bag which he tucked into a pocket inside his coat. ‘I have money, but we may need more. Hide your ring, Catherine. Put it in a pocket. Come, we have no time to lose.’

  He checked there was no one about in the corridors, and led the way out of the palace via a side door, and from there across a courtyard and into the crowds where they quickly blended in. Madame Aubert was clinging tightly to Claudette’s hand, and the two of them stayed as close as possible to Monsieur. There were thousands of people about – more even than the day before. Monsieur began taking up some of the chants – ‘To Paris! Liberty for all! Equality for all!’ and following his lead, Claudette did the same and nudged Madame to join in.