The Chateau on the Lake

by Charlotte Betts

  ‘Perhaps…’

  ‘Yes?’ I step into the doorway.

  ‘Perhaps, tomorrow, when I visit Morville, you would care to accompany me? There’s an inn where they serve a very good chicken pie.’

  I just want him to go. ‘Sophie needs me tomorrow.’

  ‘Please don’t let me stop you!’ says her voice from behind me.

  Monsieur Viard bows. ‘How delightful to see you, Madame Levesque!’

  ‘Won’t you come in?’ asks Sophie.

  My heart sinks but Monsieur Viard glances at me and says, ‘Thank you but I’m sure Mademoiselle Moreau will wish to tell you all about her new pupils.’ Lifting a hand in farewell, he sets off back along the path.

  Sophie closes the front door. ‘Did the lessons go well? Come into the drawing room and tell me all about it.’

  ‘Oh, Sophie,’ I say, unable to hold back the tears any longer. ‘It’s Etienne.’ I fall into her arms.

  ‘Whatever is it?’ she asks, patting my back as I sob on her shoulder. ‘Is he ill?’

  ‘No. He’s married!’

  Sophie draws in her breath and holds me at arm’s length to look at my face. ‘But I thought his wife was dead? Where is she? Not here at Château Mirabelle, surely?’

  ‘Monsieur Viard said nobody knows.’

  Sophie stares at me in amazement. ‘But that’s ridiculous. Surely Monsieur d’Aubery would have told you if he still had a wife? I shall ask Monsieur Viard about it myself.’

  I catch at her sleeve in alarm. ‘No! I don’t want him to know my affections are engaged.’

  ‘I’m sorry to say that it appears Monsieur d’Aubery has not been open with you.’ She kisses my cheek. ‘Now, shall we have our tea and play piquet to take your mind off this supposed wife?’

  We pass an uneventful evening but I am so distracted that I lose all but one game to Sophie. Afterwards, we retire to bed and I lie with my arms folded behind my head, staring into the darkness. I can no longer deny to myself that I’m halfway to falling in love with Etienne and the knowledge that he may still be married has cut me to the bone.

  ‘Did you sleep badly?’ asks Sophie as I toy with a piece of bread at breakfast the next morning.

  ‘Hardly at all.’ I sigh. ‘But I’ve come to a decision. I can’t ask Monsieur Viard to tell me more about Etienne’s wife but perhaps his mother will tell me the truth of the situation.’ I’m hoping that my awkwardness at asking such a question will be outweighed by her embarrassment since I witnessed the confrontation with her drunken husband.

  After the breakfast dishes are put away and Babette has arrived, I put on my coat and walk to the château. I let myself in by the servants’ entrance and peer round the kitchen door.

  ‘Is Madame Viard here?’ I ask Madame Thibault.

  She shakes her head. ‘She’s in the housekeeper’s room.’

  I walk up the back staircase and tap on the door. Madame Viard’s voice calls for me to enter and I see quickly suppressed surprise on her face when she sees who is calling on her.

  ‘I wonder if you would spare me a minute?’ I say.

  ‘Of course, Mademoiselle Moreau.’ Her tone is bland and polite. ‘Would you care to take coffee with me?’ The silk of her skirt swishes as she pulls out a chair from under the table and takes another cup from the sideboard.

  ‘I was talking to Monsieur Viard… your son, that is, not your husband… and he said something that surprised me.’ I run my finger around the rim of the coffee cup, noting that the porcelain is unexpectedly fine for a housekeeper.

  ‘Jean-Luc mentioned that he told you about Monsieur d’Aubery’s wife,’ says Madame Viard. She looks at me appraisingly. ‘It’s no secret here but he believed you didn’t know. And, in the circumstances, he felt it his duty to bring it to your attention.’

  So it is true then. A crimson tide of distress floods my face. ‘Monsieur Viard appeared to be under the misapprehension that I might have had some kind of special understanding with Monsieur d’Aubery,’ I say. ‘It isn’t the case but, nevertheless, I confess to curiosity and hope that you might enlighten me further. Your son said that no one knows the whereabouts of Madame d’Aubery?’

  Madame Viard regards me with shrewd dark eyes. ‘It caused a great deal of scandal at the time and we never have found out exactly what happened. Finish your coffee and I’ll show you something that may interest you.’

  I drain my cup of scalding coffee and follow her from the room. We go through the servants’ door into the château. A long corridor stretches away in front of us and our footsteps fall softly upon thick carpet. Finally we reach the end and Madame Viard opens the last door.

  The room is shadowy dark and the air still. There is the faint scent of dried roses, sweet but slightly musty. Madame Viard opens the casements and unlocks the shutters.

  I blink as light floods in, revealing blush pink wallpaper and a carpet woven in soft shades of green, pink and gold. The gilded furniture is delicate and the bed covered with gold damask. A lady’s bedchamber.

  ‘Look here,’ says Madame Viard.

  The light coming through the window falls upon a gold-framed portrait on the wall. A beautiful young woman, her fair hair elaborately curled, sits at a painted writing desk with a half smile on her face. A sapphire pendant nestles between her full breasts and her white shoulders are set off by artfully draped silk gauze. She holds a rosebud between her fingers. A bud as perfect as her own features.

  ‘Isabelle d’Aubery,’ says Madame Viard.

  Isabelle’s cool blue eyes look deep into mine, as if she is peering into my very soul.

  ‘Where is she now?’ I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.

  ‘No one knows.’

  ‘But surely she didn’t simply vanish?’

  ‘It was summer and she said she was going to take her paints to the temple on the island. She didn’t come back and, later, the rowing boat was found upside down on the lake.’

  ‘So she drowned?’

  Madame Viard shrugs. ‘There was no body. Monsieur d’Aubery had the lake dragged but no trace of her was discovered. Everyone turned out to search the estate.’

  ‘What do you think happened?’

  ‘Some people thought that she ran away with a lover. And perhaps she did, but others believe…’

  ‘What?’

  Madame Viard picks up a rose petal from the bowl of pot pourri on the dressing table and it crumbles to scented dust between her fingers and drifts on to the silk carpet. ‘Who is to say if Monsieur d’Aubery might not have discovered Isabelle in the arms of her lover? Rumour has it that he murdered his wife in a fit of jealous passion.’

  ‘The very idea of such a thing is impossible!’ But is it? How well do I truly know Etienne d’Aubery?

  Madame Viard raised her eyebrows. ‘I have known Monsieur d’Aubery since he was a child and he has an extremely volatile temper. If he discovered his wife was unfaithful to him, who knows what he might have done?’

  ‘I cannot believe that of him,’ I say, my voice quivering.

  ‘Isabelle’s portrait used to hang in the hall,’ says Madame Viard, as if she hasn’t heard my outburst. ‘But he moved it up here. Do you see how her eyes follow you wherever you go?’

  I look up at the painting again. Isabelle’s painted eyes look into my own with an intensity that makes me uncomfortable. I step aside but she’s still looking at me.

  ‘You see?’ says Madame Viard.

  ‘It’s a trick of the light,’ I say, uncertainly.

  Madame Viard gives me a pitying smile. ‘Sometimes I ask myself if Monsieur d’Aubery moved the portrait to avoid her gaze because he’s guilty, or if it was because he loved her so much that it pained him to be constantly reminded of her.’

  I drag my gaze away.

  ‘Perhaps you should ask Monsieur d’Aubery yourself what happened to Isabelle?’ says Madame Viard.

  ‘I have no wish to distress him by reviving painful memories.’

  ‘A
place such as this is full of secrets but it’s usually best to know the truth,’ says Madame Viard.

  A sharp stone of loss lodges itself under my breastbone. Whatever the truth is, whether Etienne is a murderer or is still married to a woman who has disappeared, he’s lost to me for ever.

  I meet Isabelle’s challenging stare again while Madame Viard secures the shutters and then I follow her from the room.

  Chapter 17

  The sun is shining and I sit by the open window listening to the birds while I attempt to write another chapter of my treatise on education for girls. The lovely day is quite at odds with my melancholy mood and I’m screwing up yet another blotted page when there’s a rattle of gravel on the windowpane.

  Jumping up, I see Monsieur Viard grinning at me from the garden. I open the casement.

  ‘You look far too serious for such a beautiful morning,’ he says. ‘I’ve come to persuade you to change your mind about accompanying me to Morville today.’ He smiles at me winningly. ‘I have one small errand to make but you could pass the time very pleasantly sitting in the square or visiting the shopkeepers until I’ve finished.’

  Undecided, I chew my bottom lip. I’m too overset to achieve anything in my present state of mind.

  ‘Do, please, give me the pleasure of your company.’

  Damn Etienne! It’s pointless wallowing in misery over a man I can’t have. ‘I do need some more chalk for the children’s slates,’ I say.

  ‘Then that’s settled! Shall we meet in the stable yard in half an hour?’

  A short while later I’m dressed in my new pink dress with a cream fichu around my shoulders and my hair tucked up inside my favourite frilled cap. I say goodbye to Sophie and hurry towards the stables.

  Monsieur Viard, elegant in a claret cutaway coat with a damask waistcoat, is waiting for me in the stable yard.

  ‘How delightful you look, Mademoiselle Moreau!’ Monsieur Viard hands me up the steps of the carriage, smiling. ‘And not an inky finger to be seen.’

  ‘You’re dressed extremely fine today. I do hope the sans-culottes don’t mistake you for an aristocrat and pelt you with mud.’

  Laughing, he climbs up and sits beside me, his large frame rocking the carriage.

  Colbert jumps up on to the coachman’s seat and flicks the reins.

  Monsieur Viard keeps me entertained with an easy flow of conversation as the countryside rolls past the window and before long we arrive at Morville. The carriage drives into the courtyard of the Lion d’Or and we alight.

  Monsieur Viard takes my arm and we walk towards the square. There is no market today but the shops are open.

  ‘I have an appointment with the mayor at the Hôtel de Ville,’ says Monsieur Viard, ‘but I expect to be finished within the hour. Shall we meet then back at the Lion d’Or?’

  ‘That will give me plenty of time to carry out my errands,’ I say.

  Monsieur Viard lifts my hand to his lips. ‘Until later then, Mademoiselle Moreau.’

  I watch him for a moment as he strides across the square towards the Hôtel de Ville, the imposing building that is the centre of government for the town and reflect that the day is proving to be more agreeable than I’d anticipated.

  The greengrocer’s shop is tucked in between a bakery and a butcher. Beside it, a long queue of people snakes out of the bakery and halfway around the square.

  Inside the greengrocer’s the display of stock is disappointing. A small pyramid of wrinkled apples holds pride of place but apart from a basket of turnips and a few carrots the counter is bare. I fear Sophie’s craving for fresh greens will have to go unanswered.

  The shopkeeper, as old and withered as his apples, comes forward to greet me. I notice that he wears the red, white and blue cockade of the Revolution.

  ‘Do you have any spring cabbage?’ I ask.

  He shakes his head. ‘The army strips the fields wherever they go and there’s little left.’ Bending down, he heaves a basket up on to the counter. ‘There are potatoes,’ he says. He holds up his hand before I can speak. ‘I know what you’re going to say: potatoes are only fit for feeding to the hogs.’

  Delving into the basket, he lifts out a large potato coated in mud. ‘But try it, you might be surprised.’

  I remember that in France no one eats potatoes and bite my lip to prevent myself from telling him that in England my mother had an excellent recipe for potato pudding. ‘I’ll take half a dozen,’ I say.

  Tucking my purchase into my basket, I say good morning and seek out the hardware shop. I buy sticks of chalk for my pupils and go to look at the queue for the bakery again but it has barely moved. We still have flour left so I’ll make bread myself rather than wait all afternoon.

  I sit on a bench under one of the lime trees that edge the square and watch the world go by. The church, which is situated on one side of the square, is boarded up, like so many others in France. In spite of that, the clock is still working and I have half an hour to wait for Monsieur Viard.

  It’s very pleasant to sit peacefully in the sun. I watch some thin and ragged children crouched in the dust playing jacks with a handful of stones.

  ‘Mademoiselle Moreau?’

  I look up to see Père Chenot, his weathered old face wreathed in smiles.

  ‘May I sit beside you for a moment?’ Carefully, he lowers himself down on to the bench and rests his stick against his knee. ‘I’ve been waiting in the bread queue since eight o’clock this morning,’ he says. ‘I’m too old to stand any longer so I shall have to eat my soup without bread.’

  I uncover my basket and take out the largest potato. ‘Would you like this? If you cut off the skin, grate it and make it into a little cake, you can fry it in goose grease or pig fat. I promise you it will be delicious eaten with your soup.’

  Dubiously, Père Chenot takes it from me. ‘I’ll try it.’ He smiles. ‘If it’s good enough for a pig, one of God’s creatures, it must be good enough for me.’

  ‘I came to find some spring cabbage,’ I say, ‘but there are none to be had. My friend is expecting and she had a sudden craving for it.’

  ‘Cabbage, you say? Well, I may be able to help you there. Will you come with me? It’s only a step or two away.’

  Slowly I walk beside the old man as he hobbles across the square to a small stone house. He turns the iron ring in the door and we enter a shadowy hallway.

  ‘Berthe?’ he calls and an elderly woman dressed in black comes through the doorway. She eyes me suspiciously.

  ‘Mademoiselle Moreau, may I present my sister, Widow Mathieu?’

  She frowns at her brother. ‘Citoyenne Mathieu, remember, François!’

  ‘Yes, of course, my dear.’

  I curtsey to Citoyenne Mathieu, who makes the merest inclination of her head back to me.

  ‘Where is the bread, François?’

  ‘There is no bread today. I wish to show Mademoiselle Moreau our garden.’

  ‘My garden.’

  ‘Just so, my dear.’

  I follow him through the passage and out of the back door into a small walled garden. There are fruit trees at each corner, apple, plum and cherry. The ground between is divided into squares by gravel paths with a circular herb garden at the centre.

  ‘How delightful!’ I say.

  ‘When the authorities turned me out of the priest’s house and forbade me to preach, my sister took me in.’ Amusement twinkles in his eyes. ‘She had no mind to see me sitting on her doorstep with a begging bowl in my hand.’

  ‘I’m sure she didn’t!’

  ‘She was recently widowed and so I took on the garden.’ He leans towards me to whisper, ‘Between you and me, I’m happy to keep out of her way as much as possible and the garden is the perfect excuse since then she cannot accuse me of laziness.’ He chuckles.

  It is true; the garden is perfectly tidy and all the shrubs are neatly trimmed. The earth is freshly turned in all the squares except one, which is planted with rows of spring cabbag
e.

  ‘You see?’ Père Chenot nods at the cabbages. ‘I can let you have a few leaves.’ He takes a penknife from his pocket and deftly cuts several leaves from the largest plant while a robin, head cocked, watches us with beady eyes from the apple tree.

  ‘Tuck them in the bottom of your basket, my dear.’ He taps his nose. ‘There’s no reason why my sister need know you have them.’

  ‘Are you sure…’

  ‘I paid for the seeds and planted and weeded them myself so I say you shall have them.’

  The sound of the church clock drifts over the wall.

  ‘I forgot the time!’ I say. ‘I’m meeting Monsieur Viard at the Lion d’Or.’

  ‘Then I shall let you out through the gate.’

  I’m halfway across the square when I see Monsieur Viard coming down the steps of the Hôtel de Ville two at a time. I wave to catch his attention.

  ‘Dear Mademoiselle Moreau, I do hope I haven’t kept you waiting too long?’

  ‘Not at all. I finished my errands and then met Père Chenot. He took me to…’

  Monsieur Viard frowns. ‘He’s no longer a priest. You must know you can no longer call him Père Chenot? He is simply Citoyen Chenot.’

  ‘Old habits die hard,’ I say evasively. How unthinking of me to let down my guard, even for a moment! It saddens me that such a gentle old man as Père Chenot could be considered a threat to the revolutionary powers but I forbear to make any comment. ‘Did your business go well?’

  Monsieur Viard nods. ‘Since Etienne is away, the mayor called on me as the representative of the estate to discuss the numbers of men that can be spared to join the army. Each department is obliged to raise their quota of eligible volunteers.’ He rubs his hands together. ‘Shall we see what is for dinner?’

  The dining room of the Lion d’Or is empty and we sit at the table by the window. A fire smokes in the hearth and a shaggy dog lies asleep before it. I’m slightly ill-at-ease that we appear to be dining alone and wonder what I’ll find to say to Monsieur Viard when my thoughts are so full of Etienne.

  ‘I’ve confit of goose or roast chicken today,’ says the innkeeper, ‘but, alas, no bread, which you’ll know if you look at the queue outside the bakery.’