The Secret of the Chateau

by Kathleen McGurl

  We headed off on the now-familiar path past the old wash house, where I read again the board about Victor Aubert. After coffee and cake at the patisserie, and a little mooch around the village, Tom and I headed up the hill on the far side on the narrow street that led to the cemetery. It was packed with graves, some recent but many old, and there were some ornate family plots where many people with the same surname had been buried. Some tombs were adorned with photos of their more recent incumbents. We wandered around, up and down the little gravel paths that separated rows of graves, until Tom called me over to look at a large crypt, with a weathered angel standing guard over it. The word AUBERT was carved across the top, and beneath was a list of names, and dates of death going back to the early 1700s. Victor Aubert was there – he’d died in 1788. Just before the French Revolution, then. Below him were two further names – Louis Aubert and Pierre Aubert, but no other details. I stood in silence for a while, my hand on the stone, wondering if all these people had lived in our château.

  I realised Tom was watching me, with a broad grin on his face. ‘You should research them. These Aubert people. The history of your château. I mean, you’re into history and all that, you’ve practically got a duty to do it.’

  I smiled back. ‘Yes, maybe I will, once I’m properly settled in.’ I’d always intended to do it, at some point.

  ‘You are settled, aren’t you?’ Tom asked, touching my arm as he spoke.

  ‘Well, yes. I suppose so.’ Was I? I was dreading him leaving. What would I do? No one to go for walks with, now that Manda spent all her spare time at the stables.

  ‘You don’t sound sure, Mum. Is everything all right?’

  To my horror I felt tears welling up. Tom led me to a bench set beside one of the cemetery paths and we sat down. ‘What is it, Mum?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. I’m being stupid. Here I am, living in this fantastic place, and yet I … I don’t feel as though I belong. The others have all settled in so well. Your dad’s got the garden and the goat. Steve’s got kittens and a renovation project. Manda’s got her job at the riding stables. Gray seems to spend all his time with Aimée. I feel … well, I don’t know what I feel. I’m worried I’m going to be bored and lonely. Especially when you’ve left.’

  ‘Oh, Mum.’ He leaned into me and gave me a hug. ‘You know what – you need a dog. Then you’ll always have a companion to go for walks with. And, do this local history research. It might help you feel you’re more a part of the community as well as giving you a project to get stuck into. That’s all you need, I think. Everyone else has got their projects and you need one too.’

  I smiled and rubbed the back of my hand across my eyes. ‘How’d you get to be so wise? You’re probably right.’

  ‘I learned from a master, Mum,’ he replied.

  History. Yes, it had always been my thing, and Tom was probably right that researching the château’s history would be a good project for me. Problem was, I had no idea how to go about the research. Maybe someone at the mairie would be able to help me, though the idea of asking the elegant Madame la Maire herself about it filled me with dread.

  Before I took early retirement to become Mum’s carer, I’d taught history to GCSE level. The Year 9 (that’s thirteen-to-fourteen-year-olds) history syllabus was dedicated to ‘Revolutions that Changed the World’. We covered the American, French, Industrial, Russian, Chinese cultural and Technological revolutions, spending half a term on each. I did know a little more about the French Revolution than what was covered in the topic of course – you never knew when you’d have a kid in your class who really ‘got’ the history bug, who’d read around the subject and wanted to know more, asking probing questions.

  More usually the kids would yawn and sigh and tell me that what happened in France in 1789 simply wasn’t relevant to them today. At which point I’d enjoy telling them about how some parts of the French 1789 Declaration of the Rights of Man and the Citizen (along with the American Declaration of Independence) had been transferred practically word for word into the UN Universal Declaration of Human Rights and the European Convention on Human Rights. ‘So you see,’ I’d tell them, ‘we still live by those documents written hundreds of years ago. The original aims and principles of the French Revolution were honourable – liberté, egalité, fraternité – what’s not to like? It was a few years later on, when the mobs and the madness of the guillotine took over during the Reign of Terror, that things all went a bit wrong.’

  ‘Mum’s going to research the history of the house,’ Tom announced, as soon as we were back at the château. We’d found everyone in the garden, where they were unpacking a set of boules that Gray and Steve had bought in the big supermarket down the valley. Phil was online, trying to find out the rules of pétanque.

  ‘That’s great, Lu!’ Steve said. ‘I’d love to know everything about it. Just don’t want to have to do the work myself.’

  ‘Well, I’ll give it a go,’ I replied.

  ‘What brought this on?’ Manda asked.

  ‘We were looking at the Aubert tomb in the cemetery. I’m assuming they lived here in the château.’ I was hoping Tom wouldn’t mention my little meltdown – I didn’t want to worry the others, especially not Phil. ‘Besides, I always like knowing a bit about the history of any place I live in.’

  Phil looked up from his computer and nodded. ‘She does. She knew everything about the history of Horsell when we lived there. Even the made-up parts regarding its appearance in War of the Worlds. Anyway, who’s up for a game of pétanque? There’s six of us including Tom. We can have a knockout competition.’

  We’d realised that the flat gravelled area we’d been using as an additional patio to the side of the château was intended as a pétanque pitch. It had that fine pink gravel often found in village squares where endless games of pétanque take place.

  The tournament started that evening. A couple of bottles of local rosé wine were chilled, and in the evening sunshine we each played each other. You need thirteen points to win a game. When just two are playing, you have three boules each, and roll or throw each to try to be nearest to the little wooden ball. You can score a maximum of three points if all three of your boules are nearer than any of your opponents. We soon discovered techniques such as rolling a boule to try to knock an opponent’s out of the way.

  ‘Oi, that’s cheating!’ said Manda indignantly, when Phil had successfully knocked hers away, leaving his own boule sitting right next to the little wooden ball.

  ‘No, it’s not! It’s tactics,’ he replied, before throwing his last one, which managed to knock his previous one away, leaving Manda’s once more winning.

  ‘Yessss!’ she cried, fist-pumping the air. Phil looked downcast and the rest of us laughed.

  We played until the sun had gone down and it was too dark to see the little wooden ball. Tom won. Then we sat outside a while longer, chatting and finishing the wine.

  ‘Lovely to have Tom visiting,’ Manda said, as she watched him help clear away empty glasses at the end of the evening. ‘I wish Zoe could come here and see this place. I miss her so much, Lu.’

  I hugged her. ‘I know. I’m sure she’ll visit at some point – when her contract finishes if not before.’

  Manda pulled a face. ‘That’s ages away. And what if she decides to stay in Australia?’

  All I could do was hug her more tightly. I knew that was her greatest fear.

  Chapter 14

  Catherine, 1791

  The second winter in the château was easier than the first – a good summer harvest from the farms they owned meant the barns were full and there were no food shortages for them or the local people. When the snow fell Catherine and Pierre hunkered down, well looked after by their army of servants. Madame Bernard seemed to have relaxed a little into the new regime, and was less arrogant towards Catherine. She was accepting her place in life at last, Catherine thought. And as little Louis grew, it seemed Madame Bernard had a soft spot for him. Claudette h
ad been appointed nursemaid, taking the place of the wet-nurse now that Louis was weaned, and Madame Bernard often visited them in the nursery, taking little sugary treats for the child to suck on. Catherine was looking forward to spring and then summer, when Louis would begin to walk. She pictured him toddling around the garden, pulling at flowers, rolling on the lawn, giggling merrily.

  An idea occurred to her. She would have a little farm built for him – just like the little hamlet beside the Petit Trianon. Well, perhaps smaller still, child-sized. But yes, a tiny play farmhouse, a couple of paddocks, and she would have chickens and lambs kept there, for little Louis to play with. What a perfect idea! She would enjoy designing it and watching it being built.

  As soon as she’d had the idea, she set about sketching plans, and talking Pierre into agreeing to it. She wanted it started as soon as the snow had melted, so that it would be ready for Louis to play in that summer.

  ‘Anything for my little family,’ he’d said, and smiled indulgently. ‘I remember well how much you loved the little farm at the Petit Trianon. I shall ask the estate manager to set aside some land just beyond the garden. And then it shall be built, in stone, to last not just for Louis but for all our future children too.’

  By mid-April the snow had gone and one sunny day Catherine donned her boots and called on Claudette to bring little Louis to her. ‘We shall show him the progress on his new farm,’ she told the nursemaid. ‘You will carry him.’

  ‘But Madame, I fear little Louis is not well today,’ the maid protested. ‘He has been running a slight fever this morning and seems off his food. I am not sure it is wise to take him out …’

  ‘Nonsense. He must see his farm. Go and fetch him, at once.’

  Claudette curtsied and ran off to do as she was bid. Catherine got herself ready and waited in the entrance hall. Louis wasn’t really sick. It was that lazy Claudette – she didn’t want to go out. But the fresh air would be good for Louis, and Catherine couldn’t wait to check on progress. She pictured the toy farm as it would be in the summer, with snow-white lambs in its paddock, pink or perhaps blue bows tied around their necks, just as on Marie Antoinette’s farm. How Louis would gurgle with delight to see them! She must make sure the very prettiest lambs were kept for him.

  A few minutes later Claudette came downstairs, carrying a squalling Louis. He was squirming in her arms, and red in the face from crying.

  ‘Can’t you quieten him down?’ Catherine said.

  ‘I’m sorry. He’s hot from his fever, and uncomfortable now that I have put his warm clothes on, Madame. Perhaps he will be all right when we go outside.’

  ‘Well, come on then,’ Catherine said. It was annoying. She’d been looking forward to showing Louis the farm, although she knew he was too young to properly appreciate it yet.

  They left the château by a door that led directly into the gardens, crossed the lawn, past the kitchen garden and out through a gate onto the hillside. A short way along a track was a flat clearing, and this was where Pierre had suggested the little farm was built. It overlooked the valley and the village. Nearby, a tiny stream ran down the hillside to join the main river at the bottom of the valley, and Catherine had asked for a little stone footbridge to be built across it. As they approached, with Louis now a little quieter though still grizzling, Catherine could see that the bridge was complete. They crossed it, and she exclaimed with delight at the miniature ramparts and pretty arches. After a season or two it would look as though it had been built hundreds of years ago. That was just as she wanted. Beyond it, the foundations were laid for the tiny farmhouse. A couple of men were at work, selecting stones and piecing together the walls. They nodded to her as she approached, and one stood up straight to address her. He was tall and well-built, with muscles outlined through his coarse linen shirt. Catherine felt an unexpected jolt of desire run through her. She saw so few people these days, and this man was so different to her ageing husband. Pierre was kind and good, but didn’t excite her physically.

  ‘Good morning, Madame. It’ll soon be finished. Might I check, the doorway height is to be this high only, is that right?’ He held out his hand at chest height. ‘Will be hard to get inside … you’ll have to bend.’

  ‘It’s for children,’ she replied. ‘And yes, that will be perfect.’ The farm was shaping up just as she wanted it. She could imagine Louis in a few years’ time, directing younger siblings in all sorts of games here.

  ‘And the walls around the paddock?’

  ‘Enough to keep lambs and chickens inside.’

  ‘All very small,’ he said, glancing sideways at her. She felt herself blushing under the intensity of his gaze and turned away. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the workman smile wolfishly back at her, before making her a flamboyant, mocking bow. She glanced over at where Claudette was standing a little way off, cradling Louis in her arm.

  ‘Put him down, let him toddle around,’ she said.

  But Claudette shook her head. ‘Beg pardon, Madame, but I don’t think he will. He seems very sleepy now.’

  ‘Wake him up,’ Catherine snapped. ‘I want him to see.’

  Claudette gently shook the child, kissed his head and whispered to him, but he just wriggled a little and kept his eyes closed. There was a sheen of sweat across his face. Catherine stepped closer and saw that there was a red rash, spreading up around his neck. He really was unwell.

  ‘We need to get him inside,’ she said. ‘Come on. Quickly now! The poor child is sick. He shouldn’t be out here.’ She marched off, back towards the château, as Claudette stumbled along behind her. She prayed silently as she hurried back – please let Louis get well, please, Lord, don’t let him die! Why had Claudette agreed to bring him out?

  Back at the château Catherine sent Claudette up to the nursery with Louis, with instructions to put him straight into his crib. She called for Madame Bernard and asked her to send for the physician immediately. Pierre was out on the estate somewhere. A groom was sent to ride out to find him and bid him return home at once. There. She had done all she could. She sat down in the drawing room, but her mind was on Louis, the way his body had seemed floppy as Claudette carried him home, the glazed look in his eyes. Should she go up to the nursery and sit with him? She wasn’t sure. She did not want to risk becoming infected herself, with whatever ailed him. Oh, what would the Queen have done? What did she do when her own child was sick? The Queen had lost children herself, including little Sophie Hélène who’d been around Louis’s age. How had she coped? She’d always seemed so dignified through each crisis.

  At last, unable to stop herself, Catherine climbed the stairs and entered the nursery, where Claudette had closed the shutters against the bright sunshine and settled Louis into his crib. She was bathing his face gently with a cool cloth and singing sweet lullabies to him. Louis was sleeping, looking peaceful now, but that rash was troubling.

  ‘I have sent for the physician,’ Catherine whispered to Claudette. ‘Let me care for him now, until my husband gets back.’

  ‘Very well, Madame.’ Claudette handed over the cloth and gave up her seat by the crib. Catherine sat down and gazed at her tiny son, silently praying once more that he would get better, as soon as possible. She loved him so much.

  Pierre and the physician arrived at almost the same time, and both hurried up to the nursery where Catherine had been anxiously waiting for them.

  ‘How is he?’ Pierre asked as soon as he entered.

  ‘N-not well,’ replied Catherine, unable to trust herself to say anything more. She cast a pleading look at Claudette, who stepped forward and told the physician how the sickness had begun. He nodded gravely as he examined little Louis, pressing on the rash, placing the back of his hand against the child’s forehead.

  ‘It is not good,’ he said, at last. ‘I have some ointment for the rash, and a potion to put in his milk, but I think … you should call the priest. Has the child been baptised?’

  ‘Of course. But … the priest?�
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  ‘In case of the worst.’ The physician opened his bag to find the medicines, which he handed to Claudette. Catherine watched in disbelief. It couldn’t be that bad, could it? Needing the priest for last rites? She glanced at Pierre, whose face was taut and grim, and then, feeling herself about to crumble, ran from the room.

  Pierre followed her, into her private sitting room next to their bedchamber, and sat down beside her. ‘Oh, my dear. It is terrible, but we must do as the physician says and call for the priest. Thankfully Père Debroux can get here soon.’ He pulled her close and hugged her. ‘And the good Père Debroux has not taken the oath of allegiance to France. He is still true to the Church, first and foremost.’

  Catherine nodded. That was one small mercy. The Civil Constitution of the Clergy required that all priests take an oath of allegiance to France, but many had objected, saying their primary allegiance was to God and not the country. The Pope had condemned the oath, saying it was against the beliefs of the church. Now the government were denying monies to those priests who were refusing to take the oath. Pierre had promised to support Père Debroux financially if necessary. ‘Send for the priest. Let us hope he can arrive in time.’

  Little Louis’s breathing was shallow and erratic, and he could not be woken from a deep slumber, by the time the priest arrived. Catherine followed him up to the nursery, where the priest conducted the last rites, in the presence of Catherine, Pierre, Claudette and Madame Bernard. Tears streamed down Catherine’s face throughout, and she made no attempt to stop them, not caring that it was undignified to be seen crying by your servants. For once she was not thinking of how the Queen would have handled the situation. She was thinking only of little Louis, his pain and suffering. With the last rites over, and Pierre and Madame Bernard leading the priest downstairs for refreshments, Catherine leaned over the crib and stroked her son’s face.