The Secret of the Chateau

by Kathleen McGurl

  And now it was a different sort of wave that engulfed her – one of love rather than pain. As she gazed into the tiny screwed-up face of her firstborn, Catherine knew that she would do anything in her power to give this little mite the best of everything, the best and safest life. She would lay down her life for him, if she had to. He was the centre of her world.

  Pierre, when he met his son a few hours later, seemed equally besotted. ‘He is born into a turbulent time, but we shall make sure he is safe and loved at all times,’ he said. ‘And we will call him Louis, after our beloved King.’

  Catherine nodded happily. The perfect name for a perfect child.

  In the summer, when little Louis was a few months old, Pierre made a trip to Paris. He had business to attend to, and also wanted to find out what was happening at first hand. The news that reached them in Provence was sketchy at best.

  ‘I’ll be safe,’ he’d told Catherine. ‘I will wear simple clothes and will travel as a bourgeoisie businessman. I will be back within a fortnight.’ He’d kissed her goodbye, left instructions with the staff and set off on his horse.

  Catherine had spent the fortnight trying to get to grips with running the château. Now that she was not pregnant and had got over the birth, it was time to begin taking charge of her own household. She’d begun by calling the housekeeper Madame Bernard to her, to discuss the changes she wanted to make.

  ‘As Comtesse de Verais, it is my duty to see that the château is run as well as possible. I would like you to help me with this,’ Catherine began, trying to sound authoritative. Even after several months she found the housekeeper a little intimidating, even though she was only a servant.

  Madame Bernard scowled at her, but nodded and waited for her to continue.

  ‘We will work together to agree all menus each week. I will check the accounts periodically, and expect them to be up to date at all times. You may hire at least two more maids, so that the château is kept immaculate at all times.’

  Madame Bernard listened with her lips pinched together in a thin line. Catherine felt herself withering under the older woman’s stare. Madame Bernard clearly resented her. Perhaps she had enjoyed looking after an empty château for too many years. Catherine wondered if she should dismiss the housekeeper, though how she would find a decent replacement in this remote corner of France she had no idea. She hoped it wouldn’t come to that. Perhaps it would be better to make friends with the woman. She gave what she hoped was a friendly, but still superior, smile.

  ‘Very well, Madame. I shall do what I can,’ the housekeeper replied, dipping her knees in an approximation of a curtsy, and leaving the room. Catherine frowned. She had not given permission for the woman to leave. Madame Bernard would not have got very far with that attitude in Versailles, that was for certain. But they were not in Versailles now, and Catherine needed to make the best of things, even if that meant putting up with sullen servants.

  Thankfully not all the servants were like the housekeeper. Henri was deferential to them at all times, as though nothing had changed in France. And Claudette was a good nursemaid. Thinking of Louis made Catherine long to hold her son for a while.

  She rang the bell and asked for Louis to be brought to her. Claudette fetched the child from the wet-nurse and brought him in, dressed in a white gown and wrapped in a white shawl.

  ‘He’s lovely, Madame,’ said the maid with a smile, and although it wasn’t correct behaviour for a maidservant to speak without being spoken to, Catherine couldn’t help but smile back.

  ‘Yes, he really is.’ She took her son from the maid and dandled him on her lap, kissing his dear little face, laughing as he tried to push his whole fist into his mouth, melting as he smiled his gummy smile at her. He was an easy baby, and so perfect, so beautiful. She was a good mother too; she remembered that in Versailles some ladies saw their children for only half an hour a day, whereas she would send for little Louis several times a day, and keep him with her for as long as possible – until he began to fret or needed feeding. As she tickled Louis she recalled how Marie Antoinette adored her children too, how she would dress her daughter Marie Thérèse in miniature versions of her own gowns, and would smother her son the Dauphin with kisses whenever he was with her. She smiled at those happier times. Of course she, Catherine, was a marvellous mother. She’d had the opportunity to learn from the Queen herself.

  The two weeks without Pierre dragged on, but some things were achieved – Madame Bernard employed the new maids and Catherine met her to discuss menus for when Pierre was due home. She was getting to grips with the running of the château, and Madame Bernard appeared to have accepted her authority. No matter what was happening in distant Paris, it was good to know that servants still obeyed their masters and mistresses as had always been the case. Even if it was done with a bad grace.

  At last a commotion in the hallway alerted her to Pierre’s return, and she ran out to meet him. He looked tired and a little dishevelled from the journey, but otherwise well, and she heaved a sigh of relief. He was back, he was safe. He held out his arms and she ran to him, resting her head against his shoulder, breathing in his familiar scent.

  ‘What news from Paris?’ she asked, as he released her and followed her through to the drawing room where he sat down heavily on the sofa.

  ‘Ring for some refreshments first. I need wine and food, then I will tell you everything.’

  She did as he’d asked, and then settled down beside him. ‘Did you see the King and Queen? How are they? Do the people still love them?’

  ‘They are well, by all reports, though I did not see them myself. They are kept within the Tuileries Palace, and do not leave the grounds.’

  ‘Are they locked in?’ Catherine gasped.

  ‘They are essentially prisoners of the State,’ Pierre said. ‘But they are said to be happy enough and are well looked after.’

  ‘And what of the uprising?’

  ‘It’s a revolution, my dear. There is no other word. It progresses. The National Assembly are still working on a new constitution. Their latest decrees are not good for us, I’m afraid.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘They are dismantling the ancien régime piece by piece. They have decreed that the hereditary rights of the nobility are to be abolished. That means that titles are no longer handed down from father to son.’

  ‘But that can’t be right! How can they abolish our titles?’

  Pierre sighed. ‘It is all about equality. The Declaration of the Rights of Man states that all men are born free and equal. And, my dear, there are those in the nobility who are inclined to agree with this too. The Marquis de Lafayette, for example. We have no choice. Little Louis will not inherit my titles. He will not be Comte de Verais. He will still inherit my lands and property, however. He will still be rich.’ He turned to gaze at Catherine. ‘Talking of Louis, how is he? I should like to see my son.’

  Catherine smiled and rang the bell once again. Claudette fetched Louis and handed him proudly to Pierre.

  ‘I believe he has grown!’ Pierre chuckled as he cradled the child in his arms.

  ‘He certainly has. And he has discovered how to suck his own thumb,’ Catherine said.

  ‘We must give him a brother or a sister soon,’ Pierre said. ‘I would like him to have playmates as he grows up.’

  Catherine was fearful of the idea of giving birth again, but if Pierre wanted more children then so be it – it was her duty and she would do it gladly. She smiled and leaned against him in response. ‘Of course, my darling. We will have as many more children as you desire.’

  But would their children have a future worth living? They wouldn’t have the same privileges Catherine had grown up with, that seemed certain. Things were changing, and she could do nothing about it, other than cling on to the old ways here in her corner of France for as long as possible.

  Chapter 13

  Lu

  The day after the fete, Phil drove off with Tom with a twinkle
in his eye.

  ‘What’s he up to?’ Gray said. I had to agree, there’d been some suspicious mutterings between father and son the previous evening, and Tom had eaten breakfast with a mischievous expression on his face.

  ‘I have no idea,’ I replied. ‘Neither of them have said a word to me.’

  What was also suspicious was that Phil had put a short piece of rope and a large piece of sack-cloth he’d found in one of the outbuildings, in the car. He’d taken our large right-hand-drive Galaxy, rather than the small left-hand-drive Corsa we’d recently bought jointly as it was easier to drive around in our local area. He’d also taken all the back seats out of the Galaxy, effectively converting it into a small van.

  The rest of us pottered about all morning, Steve baking again (hurray!), Gray went for a bike ride, and Manda surfing the Internet looking to buy riding jodhpurs and a helmet.

  I used the morning to wander down to the village, watch a few minutes of a pétanque match that was going on in the village square, and buy some saucisson and local cheese for our lunch. I took the river path to return to the château, put the food away and was about to go out into the garden with a book when I heard a car pulling up. Good. Phil and Tom were back. I wanted to spend some time with my boy. I went out to the hallway and opened the front door ready for them, but they’d driven round the side to the outbuildings. I followed them round the side of the château and was confronted by the extraordinary sight of my husband and son man-handling a goat out of the back of our Galaxy.

  ‘What on earth is that?’ I said, unnecessarily because although I’m no expert, I can recognise a goat when I see one.

  ‘This,’ Phil proudly announced, as he pulled his sleeve away from the goat who was trying to eat it, ‘is Clarabel.’

  ‘But … but … why?’

  ‘Clarabel is an excellent recycler. Any food waste, any garden waste – she will eat. Her waste can be fed to the vegetable patch. She will also provide us with milk and cheese. And she will keep me company in the garden.’

  ‘She’s a goat,’ I said, once again unnecessarily.

  ‘She’s beautiful,’ Phil said, looking at her with a soppy, besotted expression on his face. She was attractive, as goats go, it had to be said. She was brown and white, with large soulful eyes. One ear stood up while the other flopped coquettishly over one eye. She stood about three feet tall at her shoulder and was currently busily chewing on the sack-cloth that they’d laid across the inside of the back of the car.

  Tom just stood there grinning, holding on to a piece of rope that had been tied to Clarabel’s harness. ‘Isn’t she great, Mum?’

  ‘She’s … well, yes, I suppose so … Where did she come from?’

  ‘Saw her advertised in the window of the tabac. Her previous owner is moving away soon, so she needed a new home. He’s delighted she’s coming to live at the château.’ Phil grinned.

  Steve, Gray and Manda had heard the commotion and came round to see what was going on. Their mouths dropped open and they all spoke at once. ‘Bloody hell, a goat!’, ‘What on earth …’, ‘Is that a … goat? Where’s it going to live?’, ‘But … but …’

  ‘Look at those gorgeous eyes!’ Manda said. She crouched down and pulled up a dandelion, then approached Clarabel, offering her the weed, which the goat munched appreciatively. Manda scratched her head as she ate. ‘I love her. Where will we keep her?’

  Phil grinned. ‘In one of the outbuildings. Tom said he’ll help clear it out. During the day she can be tethered in the garden, disposing of waste, keeping me company.’

  ‘Well, welcome to the château, Clarabel. We hope you’ll be very happy here,’ I said, plucking up the courage to scratch her head as Manda had. Her coat was softer than I’d expected, and she nuzzled into my hand, hoping for more dandelions I suspected.

  ‘Who’s going to milk her?’ Steve, practical as ever, wanted to know.

  ‘Me,’ Phil said proudly. ‘Her old owner’s going to come here every day to start with, to show me how. And there are YouTube videos to help. We’ll have goat’s cheese for lunch within a few days.’

  I caught Phil’s eye and smiled. So this was the main driver for getting a goat. After his heart attack his doctor had told him to give up eating cheese, but as goat’s cheese was lower in fat and contained lots of good minerals and protein, he was allowed to eat it. And Phil was a huge lover of cheese.

  Phil had arrived here in France recovering from a heart attack, unfit, wondering how he was going to cope with a new regime that meant no cheese. Now look at him – gardening every day, considering taking up cycling with Gray, acquiring a goat so he could make lower-fat cheese for us all. I was so proud of my husband. But at the same time, I felt vaguely jealous. He had a purpose – gardening – and now a companion in Clarabel. I had … nothing. Nothing of my own, anyway. Just all that I shared with my friends.

  With Clarabel tethered to a stake in the garden, I followed Phil in through the patio doors at the back of the château. He wanted to find any edible waste in the kitchen to give to the goat. As I went through the sitting room I tripped on a worn piece of carpet and so very nearly fell – luckily Phil was just in front and I managed to grab on to him to stop myself tumbling.

  ‘You OK? We really need to do something about that carpet,’ Phil said, still holding on to me even though I’d regained my balance.

  ‘Whole room needs redecorating,’ I said, looking around at the peeling wallpaper and shabby paintwork.

  ‘Not just this room. I suppose we should think about a spot of renovation. Maybe next year.’ Phil sounded glum. DIY was really not his thing. We’d generally paid decorators to come in and do the work for us.

  ‘We should eventually do up the whole château,’ I said. ‘Could do with some new wiring and plumbing, as well as decorating.’ There weren’t enough sockets in most rooms, and the plumbing tended to make unnerving noises. Well, it was either that or the resident ghost banging on the pipes. Even as I said it, an idea formed in my mind.

  Phil turned down the corners of his mouth. ‘Going to be a big job. Don’t fancy trying to manage that.’

  ‘No, but I know someone who might fancy it,’ I said, but Phil had turned away and was already in the kitchen, gathering vegetable peelings and stale bread for Clarabel.

  I cornered Steve later that afternoon, when he’d returned from a run, showered and changed, and was in the sitting room, rearranging books by the colour of their spine. Last week he’d arranged them by subject. The kittens were helping by attacking the piles of books on the floor and crawling behind the shelved ones.

  ‘Hey. Can I help?’ I said.

  ‘Sure. Pass me anything that’s red.’

  We had a lot of books between us, and he was going for a kind of rainbow effect. I had to admit it was looking good. ‘What are you going to work on next?’ I asked him.

  He shrugged. ‘Not sure.’ He sounded a bit despondent, as he always did when one project was coming to an end and there was nothing else lined up, yet. ‘Thinking about mapping all my running routes on Mapometer and then producing a little booklet of them all with descriptions. So if anyone visits who likes fell-running or walking, we can hand them the book. I could add Gray’s bike routes to it as well.’

  ‘Nice idea!’ He’d do it, as well, but I imagined it would only take him a few days to complete. He needed something that would take longer. ‘Steve, I was wondering if we ought to start some renovation work on the château. There’s quite a lot needs doing – rewiring and plumbing as well as general decorating.’

  He shelved the books he was holding and turned to me. ‘I had thought about that, Lu. I’d love to take it on as a project, but would everyone want me to? I mean, I know I have a bit of a habit of taking over … Wouldn’t want to upset anyone …’

  I laughed. ‘Steve, I think everyone would be over the moon if you offered to do this. Phil hates DIY. I don’t mind – I’ll help strip wallpaper and paint, but wouldn’t want to manage the project. G
ray would help but—’

  ‘He’d be hopeless managing it, bless him,’ Steve said with a grin. ‘And Manda hates decorating too. So yes, if you think I should do it, I’m more than happy. It’ll keep me busy for ages.’

  ‘No rush, Steve! We can work on the château bit by bit over the next couple of years or so. But can we start with the tower room?’ I had an idea that when renovating it we might discover how to get to the attic space above.

  ‘Ha ha. No. I think there are other more important priorities than the room we barely use. Right, as soon as these books are back on the shelves I’ll go round the château and start a list of what needs doing. With a following wind we could have it done by Christmas.’ He bent to grab more red books, working twice as fast now that he had something else lined up.

  I put a hand on his arm so that he stopped working and looked at me. ‘You know, it’s OK to take a rest every now and again. Sit down with one of these books and a cup of tea. Relax. Slow down. Now that you’re sixty you need to start taking it easy …’ Manda had wanted me to have a word with him about slowing down.

  ‘Oy! I’m just as fit and active as I was at fifty, or even forty, Madame Marlow!’ He dropped to the floor and did a half-dozen press-ups to prove it. I made it harder for him by stacking a few books on his back, but he still managed to complete his set, despite laughing at the same time.

  We finished arranging the books, and they looked stunning. I’d pulled a few out that I fancied reading, and was pleased to note that Steve did, too. An hour or two in the garden reading each day would be good for him. And the huge project of château renovations would be beneficial for him too. Another one of us with his own purpose. Plus Manda had the stables and Gray had … well, his potential relationship with the maire.

  The next day was Tom’s last with us. I felt a little despondent at the idea of him leaving. It had been lovely having him with us – he’d been good company. I had a feeling I was going to be a little bored and lonely once Tom left. Everyone else was so busy all the time. I talked him into spending his last day with me, on another walk to the village. I still wanted to search for the Aubert tomb in the cemetery and this seemed like a good opportunity.