Sophie has already let out her skirts as far as they will go and I’ve promised to buy some material for a new dress. I find some sprigged muslin in a flattering shade of blue and reflect how much less expensive it is to make a dress in the new fashion since we no longer wear extravagantly large skirts.
‘Isn’t it pretty?’ says Babette, fingering the soft material.
‘A little cool for this time of year but Madame Levesque can wear her quilted petticoat underneath it for now and it will be summer before we know it.’
While the stallholder is measuring and cutting the muslin I see some rose pink Indian cotton and hold it up to myself. ‘What do you think, Babette?’
‘It’s beautiful,’ she says. ‘And it makes your cheeks look pink.’
All at once I feel reckless. Who knows if it will be available again next time we come to the market? ‘I’ll take a dress length,’ I say. ‘And, Babette, would you like me to make you a dress, too?’
Her hazel eyes widen. ‘For me? I’ve only ever had Maman’s clothes cut down before.’
‘Then you shall definitely have a new dress all of your own.’
As we leave the stall an elderly man, shabbily dressed in rusty black and leaning heavily upon a cane, approaches us. ‘Good morning, Babette.’
‘Père Chenot.’ Babette drops a curtsey.
‘And your poor mother and all the little ones, are they well?’
‘Yes, thank you, Père. And this is my new mistress, Mademoiselle Moreau.’
The old man bows. ‘Enchanted to make your acquaintance, Mademoiselle Moreau. So Babette is now your maid?’
‘And proving to be most diligent.’
Père Chenot smiles and a latticework of wrinkles spreads across his tired face. ‘I would have expected nothing else of her.’ He lays a hand on Babette’s head for a second and murmurs under his breath. ‘Go in peace, my child.’ He bows again to me and then limps away.
‘Let’s sit down for a moment while we take stock,’ I say.
There is a lavoir at the corner of the square, adjacent to the river that runs through the centre of the town, where the women gather to gossip and do the washing. Today, since it is market day, the wash house is deserted.
Babette and I perch on one of the low granite walls that surround the building, which is open to the elements at the sides, under a tiled roof supported with heavy oak beams. We examine our purchases and, suddenly anxious that it may not be readily available again, I send Babette back to buy another piece of soap.
I sit quietly listening to the rushing sound of the river, diverted to make a constant flow of water through the vast stone wash trough, and reflect that a year ago I could never have imagined I would soon be living in the land of Papa’s birth.
We return to the cart to find Jacques fast asleep with his cap over his face. The piebald horse has finished his nosebag and is dozing, too, with one hoof tipped up.
‘Will you stay here, Babette, while I go and find Madame Thibault?’
She is at the dry goods stall paying for her last item, a sack of flour, when I find her.
‘Let me help,’ I say, taking one of her laden baskets.
She nods in thanks. ‘Supplies are short,’ she whispers, ‘but I’ve some useful contacts and have made a good deal here.’
The grocer’s boy heaves the flour on to his back and follows us to the cart, where Babette is hugging her parcel of primrose cotton to her chest.
Once the flour sack and the baskets are safely stowed between our feet, Jacques clicks his tongue at the horse and the cart rolls away.
‘I wonder if you can advise me, Madame Thibault?’ I say. ‘In July Madame Levesque will require the services of a midwife.’
‘Then you must speak to Widow Berger in the village.’ Madame Thibault nods. ‘She delivers all the babies hereabouts and only ever loses the sickly ones.’
‘Thank you. I’ll visit her.’
‘You do that,’ says Madame Thibault, ‘but I must tell you the latest news. I met the housekeeper from Château Boulay in the market just now. She says the marquis and his family have run away to London.’ She shakes her head. ‘The state confiscated the château and a lawyer has bought it for a song but he won’t keep such a large household as the marquis. Half the staff are out of work.’
‘What will they do?’
‘Starve, probably. The young men will join the army, of course, but there isn’t enough work for everyone. So many of the former nobility have gone to Paris or London and their châteaux sold to the gentry.’
‘At least Mr d’Aubery still remains at Château Mirabelle.’
‘He’s generally liked in these parts, despite the talk about his wife.’ She clicks her tongue. ‘And that was a sad thing and no mistake, when the old comte and his wife died.’
‘What happened?’
‘It was a carriage accident. Something frightened the horses and they bolted. The carriage tipped over when they reached the ford. The horses were mad with fear and the master was killed outright when they trampled him but the poor mistress was trapped under the carriage wheels. No one was there to hear her cries and eventually she couldn’t hold her face above the river any longer.’ Madame Tibault crosses herself. ‘She drowned, God rest her sweet soul.’
There’s a lump in my throat as the cart jogs along through the countryside and I imagine Etienne’s distress at the shocking manner of his parents’ deaths.
The drawing room at Château Mirabelle has high ceilings and carved boiseries covering the walls, all painted in the softest shade of green. I perch on the edge of a silk-upholstered sofa and pass the time while I wait for Etienne by studying the delicate satinwood furniture and the swirling pattern and soft colours of the Savonnerie carpet.
Footsteps approach briskly across the stone floor of the hall and I just have time to pinch some colour into my cheeks before Etienne enters the room.
‘How delightful to see you, Mademoiselle Moreau!’
‘I hope I do not disturb you?’
‘Not at all.’ He sits down on an adjacent chair and smiles expectantly at me.
‘I’m hoping you’ll approve of a scheme I have in mind,’ I say. ‘I discovered the other day that my maid Babette cannot read.’
‘It’s not uncommon for villagers to be illiterate.’
‘But this is the Age of Enlightenment!’
‘I suppose they don’t miss what they have never had.’
‘Are you afraid of the villagers becoming too educated and having ideas above their rank?’
Etienne smiles wryly. ‘I’m not sure, since the Revolution, that the villagers need to be able to write to gain ideas of aggrandisement.’
‘In my opinion every person should be literate, no matter what level of society they come from.’
‘And you do have a great many opinions, Mademoiselle Moreau,’ says Etienne.
I’m just about to retort when he continues.
‘But I agree with you on this matter. Everyone should be literate. Even the girls.’
‘Oh,’ I say, exhaling. I’d been readying myself for a confrontation. ‘So you would have no objection if I were to teach the village children to read and write?’
‘None whatsoever. In fact, I would encourage it.’
‘I could fit four or five children around our dining table.’
‘I have another idea. Will you follow me?’
He leads me out of the drawing room, up the stairs and along the landing to a part of the building I have not seen before. We walk down a green-painted corridor lined with paintings and then he opens a door to a large room, plainly furnished with wooden tables and scrubbed floorboards. There are two windows and he unlocks the shutters to admit the light. The walls are covered in maps, and collections of small animal skulls are arranged in a glass-fronted cupboard and butterflies pinned to a board in a display case.
‘My old schoolroom,’ says Etienne. ‘You may use it for your lessons, if you wish.’
; I look around me, filled with delight, while I imagine a young and rather earnest Etienne studying in this very room.
‘Laurent and I, together with Jean-Luc, learned our lessons here,’ he says, ‘but there is plenty of room for fifteen or so children. What memories this room brings back!’ He takes a book from a shelf and opens it. ‘Ah, yes! Mathematics. I always dreaded the subject. Jean-Luc used to torment me because he found it so easy.’
‘All children have their strengths and weaknesses and I daresay there were subjects in which you excelled and Monsieur Viard was less able?’
Etienne smiles. ‘I loved to read and could often be found on the window seat in my father’s library. Jean-Luc was never interested in literature.’
‘But how would you feel about a gaggle of children coming into your home every day?’
‘The place is large enough.’ His face grows sad. ‘I’d hoped to have a son of my own to use this room. God knows, it feels like a mausoleum here sometimes. It’s a house that should be full of life.’ He takes a step closer to me and reaches for my hand. ‘And I believe you, Mademoiselle Moreau, may be just the woman to achieve that.’
His gaze is penetrating and I’m quite unable to look away. The rest of the room fades into a blur and all I see is the deep brown of his eyes. Slowly, he lifts my fingers and then brushes his mouth against the back of my hand, sending a shiver down my spine. I moisten my lips. I want him to kiss me properly.
But then he drops his gaze and releases my fingers.
Disappointment and embarrassment make me turn away. I spin the globe on its axis with trembling fingers, feigning a deep interest in the African continent and wondering if he’d seen the longing in my eyes.
‘When do you intend to begin the lessons?’ he asks, as if nothing had happened between us.
The heat in my cheeks dies away sufficiently to allow me to face him.
‘There’s no time like the present,’ I say. ‘I shall walk to the village tomorrow and seek permission from the children’s parents.’
‘I wish you every success in your endeavour, Mademoiselle Moreau.’
I follow him down the stairs and bid him goodbye.
Chapter 15
A couple of days later, after supper, Sophie sits beside me, reading, while I prepare my lesson plans for the following week when my first pupils will join me in the schoolroom. Initially I will have twelve children, aged between six and eleven, every Tuesday and Thursday. Not all the parents were in favour of the idea but, if the lessons go well, perhaps other children will follow.
There are some useful things in the schoolroom that I’ll be able to use, slates, books and a globe. That globe. I remember spinning it to hide my awkwardness after the breathless moment when I’d been sure Etienne was about to kiss me. I can’t stop wondering what caused him to draw back at the last moment.
‘You’ll never finish your work if you keep daydreaming,’ says Sophie. ‘Is it of Monsieur d’Aubery?’ She laughs. ‘Your face is a picture, Maddy. Of course it’s of Monsieur d’Aubery.’
‘Is it so obvious?’
‘I’ve known you too long for you to be able to pull the wool over my eyes, but anyone looking at the two of you together can see that you only have eyes for each other. And I gain the impression that Monsieur Viard doesn’t care for that at all.’
‘I haven’t noticed.’
‘That’s because you’re far too taken up with Monsieur d’Aubery to notice anyone else.’
I can’t stop myself asking the next question. ‘Do you really think Monsieur d’Aubery likes me?’
‘Of course he does! But we’ll just have to wait and see what happens, won’t we?’
Sophie retires early to bed and a little while later I’m finishing my notes when I hear the doorknocker. I wonder if Babette has forgotten something but when I open the door my heart leaps when I find Etienne standing on the step.
‘Forgive me for calling so late,’ he says, ‘but I saw a light still burning.’
‘Please, come in!’ Hastily, I smoothe down my hair as he follows me into the drawing room. I hope he hasn’t noticed the ink stains on my fingers.
‘I’m preparing my lessons,’ I say, fumbling to tidy up the open books and scattered papers.
‘That is part of the reason for my visit.’
My heart sinks. ‘Is it no longer convenient?’
‘I have been called away unexpectedly but I came to assure you that there is no reason not to hold your lessons, as planned.’
‘Called away?’ The smile fades from my lips.
He thrusts one hand into his pocket and holds out a key. ‘This opens the door to the servants’ quarters and rear staircase. I have told Madame Viard that you have free access if you wish to go to the schoolroom at any time.’
‘That’s very thoughtful of you,’ I say, hoping he doesn’t hear the despondency in my voice. ‘Will you be away for long?’
‘A week or two, perhaps.’
‘I see.’ The time stretches before me like a desert.
‘An old friend has arrived.’ Etienne idly picks up a small volume of poetry that had been my papa’s and strokes the worn leather cover with his thumb. He seems in no hurry to leave. ‘My friend is a chevalier of noble blood and travels with his wife and young son. Life here has become intolerable for them and they have been forced to flee their estate in fear of their lives. I have promised to escort them to London.’
My stomach clenches in sudden fear for his safety. ‘But isn’t that very dangerous, in the current circumstances?’
‘Of course.’
I daren’t ask him if it’s essential for him to go. ‘You will be careful?’
‘I always am.’ Etienne grins boyishly and I can see that part of him is excited by the prospect of the adventure. ‘I couldn’t leave without saying goodbye to you.’
Slowly, I lead him back to the hall and open the front door. It’s very dark outside and the candle on the hall table gutters in the draught.
‘I have told no one else where I am going, not even Jean-Luc,’ he says softly, ‘in case I’m accused of collaborating with the British. I could be guillotined for less.’
I shiver in the cold night air and pull my shawl more tightly around my shoulders. ‘No one will hear from me what you’re planning.’
‘I know that.’
I’m flattered that he trusts me. I will miss him very much.
We stand close together in the open doorway in our own small cocoon of light and his cheekbones are burnished by its glow. ‘I can’t bear to think of you taking any risks,’ I say, my voice husky.
‘Don’t look so worried.’ He reaches out to caress my cheek with the back of his fingers.
My breath catches as his butterfly touch sparks a tremor that runs all the way through me, leaving my knees trembling. I press my face against his hand. ‘I wish you didn’t have to go,’ I whisper.
‘I’ll come and find you the moment I return.’ And then he draws me into his arms.
He holds me for a long moment, our cheeks just touching. The comforting warmth of him is against my breast and I wonder if he can feel the thudding of my heart.
Sighing, he drops a kiss on my forehead and releases me. ‘Until we meet again,’ he says.
‘Good night.’ I don’t want him to go.
He sets off along the path. I glimpse the pale blur of his face as he turns to lift a hand in farewell.
‘Godspeed,’ I murmur, as he melts into the darkness.
After he has gone, I stroke my cheek with trembling fingers where his touch still lingers.
The key Etienne gave to me turns easily in the lock and I enter a vestibule giving access to the kitchen passage and a bare wooden staircase to the upper floors. A rich meaty smell of stew and cabbage pervades the air and the sound of clattering pans and female voices comes from the kitchen.
Upstairs, the schoolroom smells faintly of ancient dust and mildewed books. My footsteps clip across the bare boards as I walk
to the window. Down below the carriage drive stretches away into the distance through the parkland and finally disappears into the woods. Watching from my bedroom window early this morning, I saw a carriage driving away with Etienne riding ahead on Diable. Now, pressing my forehead against the cool glass of the schoolroom window, I wonder how long it will be before he’ll come riding back to us and if he will come straight away to see me. There had been an implied promise in our parting that makes my heart beat faster to remember it.
Sighing, I turn away and start to arrange the tables and chairs ready for my pupils. There are slates in the large oak cupboard and I chalk a child’s name on each one, before setting them out on the tables.
‘The schoolmistress in her lair!’ says a teasing voice behind me.
I whirl around, thinking that it is Etienne’s voice and he has returned early. ‘Oh, Monsieur Viard!’
‘Did I startle you?’ Jean-Luc Viard is leaning against the doorpost with his arms folded as he watches me.
‘Just a little.’ I try not to let my disappointment show.
‘I came home for lunch and Maman mentioned that she saw you coming up here.’ He studies his fingernails and says, ‘Etienne visited you very late last night.’
‘He only stayed a moment or two,’ I say, suddenly wary.
A smile flickers across Monsieur Viard’s face. ‘I happened to be passing.’
My face flares scarlet as I realise that he might have seen me in Etienne’s arms. ‘He came to give me the key to let myself into the schoolroom.’
‘I just wondered,’ says Monsieur Viard, ‘if he said where he was going? He left so early I didn’t have a chance to speak to him.’
‘I believe a friend and his family came to visit, passing through on their way to Paris. Monsieur d’Aubery mentioned he also had business there and decided to travel with them.’
‘What kind of business?’
I open my eyes wide and attempt to look guileless. ‘He didn’t speak to me about that.’
‘I’m surprised.’ Monsieur Viard’s gaze is piercing. ‘I thought you and Etienne had a particular fondness for each other?’
The Chateau on the Lake Page 13
