‘Then we shall count ourselves fortunate that we can still feast on goose,’ says Monsieur Viard.
‘I can’t help feeling sorry for the peasants,’ I say, after the innkeeper has returned to the bar. ‘I saw some children in the square and they looked so thin.’
‘The peasants have always been thin,’ says Monsieur Viard, ‘but in time the Revolution will change that. Now that we are free from the tyranny of the king and his court, there will be a period of adjustment, of course, but the bourgeoisie will bring order and contentment back to France.’
‘I do hope so.’
He smiles at me. ‘But we haven’t come here today to worry about that. I hoped that our little outing would take your mind off your disappointment.’
‘I’m not…’
He holds a finger to my mouth. ‘We’ll speak no more of it.’
A pretty serving maid brings Monsieur Viard his goose. ‘And how are you today, monsieur?’ she asks. ‘Haven’t seen you in a while.’ She bends over to put the plate in front of him, displaying a generous amount of her plump breasts. ‘See anything else you’d like?’
‘Saucy minx!’ says Monsieur Viard, good-naturedly.
The girl pouts at him.
‘Be off with you and bring my lovely guest her dinner, too. And a bottle of red wine, if you please.’
The serving maid flounces off and I reflect that it’s not hard to understand why her head has been turned by a man as robust and well-favoured as Jean-Luc Viard. She returns a moment or two later with the wine and bangs a plate of roast chicken down in front of me.
Monsieur Viard’s lips are pressed together as he tries not to laugh. After she has gone again he says, ‘I made the mistake of passing the time of day with her the last time I took my dinner here. I was on my own and she made pleasant company for a while.’
The girl, polishing glasses behind the bar, glowers at me while we eat.
A party of half a dozen men arrives and soon the dining room is filled with cheerful chatter and bustle.
Monsieur Viard entertains me with anecdotes and droll comments on the other diners. ‘Do you see the man over there in the brown coat, the one draining his wine as if it’s the answer to all of life’s problems?’
I glance at the other table and identify the man.
‘Well, I heard from his tailor that…’
I hardly listen to all of Monsieur Viard’s flow of light-hearted conversation but I’m grateful to be able to put my unhappiness aside and let him flatter and entertain me. Gradually, my sombre mood lifts.
After we have concluded our meal with apple tart and some cheese, Monsieur Viard leans back with a sigh of satisfaction. ‘If Etienne is experiencing half the pleasure with his friends that I have enjoyed in your company today, he is a lucky man.’
My cheeks are glowing from wine and laughing at Monsieur Viard’s jokes but I feel the smile fade from my face then.
‘That was thoughtless of me,’ he says, placing his hand over mine on the table.
‘I assure you…’
‘Despite your protestations, I believe you’ve developed a fondness for him.’
‘As I said before, as a friend, he’s been very kind.’
‘It’s hard for you,’ he says, sympathetically, ‘so far away from your home and friends.’
Fleetingly, I picture my mother’s face and am assailed by a wave of sorrow and homesickness. I have no home in England any more and I have lost my long-cherished hope of being welcomed by Papa’s family. The future is uncertain.
‘I should like you to know that you can call on me at any time,’ Monsieur Viard says. ‘It is good to have a trustworthy friend, is it not?’
‘Indeed it is,’ I say. He seems concerned for me and I experience a sudden rush of affection for him. I’m very much in need of friendship at present.
He smiles. ‘Then, as we are to be friends, will you call me Jean-Luc?’
It’s hard to refuse his appeal when he smiles at me so warmly. ‘Please call me Madeleine, Jean-Luc.’
He squeezes my hand. ‘Then that’s settled! And now perhaps we had better return. Since Etienne is away I’m doubly busy with the estate.’
Half an hour later we arrive again in the stable yard at Château Mirabelle. Young Jacques runs to hold the horses while we alight. ‘Mademoiselle,’ he says, ‘there is something I’d like to show you.’
‘And what can that be?’ asks Jean-Luc, ruffling the boy’s hair.
We follow Jacques to the corner of the stable yard and find the tabby cat curled up on a pile of clean straw with five kittens, two ginger and three tabby, mewing beside her.
‘This is the first time she’s brought them out of the stable,’ says Jacques.
‘Aren’t they delightful?’ I sit on the straw beside the cat and stroke her cheek.
Jean-Luc comes to sit beside me and picks up one of the little balls of ginger fluff. The kitten opens its mouth and mews loudly.
I gather the remaining kittens on to my lap, stroking their thistledown fur. A bold little tabby climbs up my front and another clambers up my arm to perch on my shoulder. It tumbles off and clings, mewing pitifully, to a lock of my hair.
Laughing, Jean-Luc moves closer and tries to disentangle it.
‘Ouch! Jean-Luc, quick, she’s got claws like needles.’
‘Keep still, Madeleine! I can’t do it if you keep squirming around.’ He restrains me with his arm and attempts to tug my hair free from the kitten’s claws.
‘It’s hard to believe such sharp claws can belong to something so soft, isn’t it?’ I’m suddenly aware of how close he is to me and the strength of his arm around my shoulder.
‘Very soft,’ says Jean-Luc, as he pulls my hair free. He returns the kitten to its mother and then slowly caresses the tress of hair on my shoulder, allowing his hand to rest there. ‘Your hair feels like silk,’ he says, his voice suddenly husky.
His face is very close to my own and I find myself curiously unable to move away.
Then a shadow passes over us, breaking the spell. I glance up and my heart lifts for a second when I see Etienne silhouetted against the sun, looking down at us. But then I’m filled with dismay that he should have found me in Jean-Luc’s arms, however innocent it may be.
‘Etienne!’ says Jean-Luc, making no attempt to release me. ‘I didn’t hear you arrive.’
‘I couldn’t bear to be away another day.’ Etienne’s eyes are dark and unfathomable. His boots are mud-spattered and his breeches powdered with dust. ‘But then Diable cast a shoe some three miles away. I left him at the farrier’s and walked from the village.’ His voice is taut and his face grey with exhaustion.
‘Madeleine and I have just returned from dining at the Lion d’Or,’ says Jean-Luc.
Discomfited, I move so that Jean-Luc’s hand falls from my shoulder, conscious of how it must look to Etienne. ‘Have you seen these delightful additions to the stable yard?’ I say. I’m unable to meet his eyes and bend my head over a kitten to conceal the blush racing up my cheeks.
‘Let’s hope they earn their keep by keeping the vermin away,’ says Etienne brusquely. ‘I’ve had a long ride and I’m tired and dirty. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll go and change.’
‘Please, don’t let us detain you,’ says Jean-Luc, a half-smile playing about his lips.
Etienne walks away but speaks to Jean-Luc over his shoulder. ‘If you can tear yourself away, I’ll see you in the estate office in half an hour, if you please, Jean-Luc. I want you to explain the monthly accounts. Damn things don’t make any sense.’
‘But of course, Etienne. And I’ll look forward to hearing what business you had that was so important you had to leave for Paris in a hurry.’
Etienne stalks away, his back ramrod straight.
‘Well,’ drawls Jean-Luc, ‘the master seems to have been drinking vinegar, don’t you think?’
I don’t like his tone and feel uncomfortable that I might have been the cause of rivalry between old
friends. Placing the kittens back at their mother’s side, I stand up and brush down my skirt. Etienne may not have been open with me about his wife but I don’t like to see him so tired and angry. And it seems to me that Jean-Luc deliberately tried to taunt him by displaying the new closeness between us.
Chapter 18
I’m sitting at the writing table staring out of the window. I’d planned to work on my treatise but my thoughts keep returning uncomfortably to Etienne’s expression when he returned unexpectedly and found me in Jean-Luc’s arms.
The last time I’d seen Etienne, he’d held me so tenderly and I’d believed that it promised more. Now, knowing about Isabelle, my cheeks burn at the thought that I could have been so misled. It’s painful but the sensible course of action is to put aside my romantic feelings for Etienne, which can only result in unhappiness for me.
Sophie comes into view on the path to the house. I hear her open the front door and go to greet her in the hall.
‘I’ve been drinking coffee with Madame Viard and she’s given me this to make nightgowns for the baby,’ she says.
I take the bundle from her, a folded sheet, and finger the material, feeling the softness of linen washed a hundred times.
‘It’s old but there’s plenty of good in it,’ says Sophie. ‘If I have to give my baby away, at least I shall send him off with clothes sewn with love in every stitch.’ Her bottom lip quivers.
I hug her tightly. ‘You must think of little Henry. Once the baby is born and as soon as the war is over, we’ll be able to return to London. Only think of how happy Henry will be to have his mama returned to him.’
‘If he even remembers who I am by then.’
‘Of course he will!’
‘Despite the war, I must find a way to return home as soon as possible,’ she says, close to tears. ‘Only Henry can save me from the utmost misery.’
‘Let’s think about one thing at a time. I’ll help you to cut out some of the nightgowns and you can start sewing the layette.’
Keeping up a flow of bright chatter, I manage to divert Sophie’s unhappy thoughts and keep her busy with the sewing. Meanwhile, I’m wondering how to save her from further distress by taking it upon myself to discover a suitable home for her baby, ready for when the time comes.
At the end of our afternoon class, the children clatter downstairs and outside through the servants’ lobby.
‘Now all go straight home, mind!’
‘Yes, Mademoiselle.’
Emile, of course, races off with never a word.
Babette is waiting to collect her younger sister and she hurries forward to take her by the hand. ‘Sylvie, say thank you to Mademoiselle Moreau.’
Sylvie lisps her thanks and I wave goodbye as the two girls skip off home.
‘How are the lessons progressing?’ says a voice beside me.
My heart skips a beat. I knew I couldn’t avoid Etienne for ever. ‘The children are responding well,’ I say, in as even a tone as I can manage, unwilling to let him know how his presence flusters me.
‘Good. I’m pleased to hear that they appreciate the opportunity.’ His expression is grim and unsmiling.
‘I’ve not seen you alone since you returned,’ I say. ‘Did you manage to arrange a passage to England for your friends?’
Etienne rubs his fingers in a circle against his temple and I wonder if he has a headache. ‘I saw them on to the boat but, just as it made ready to sail, Bernard persuaded me that they didn’t need me to accompany them. I confess, I wished to return here as soon as possible.’
I lower my gaze as he looks at me. Had he been eager to return to see me or was it purely estate matters that concerned him?
‘It was too late in the day by then for me to start the return journey to Paris so I rested at an inn,’ he continues. When I went to breakfast the following morning, the innkeeper was imparting the news to other guests that there had been a skirmish at sea with a British warship the previous night.’
‘Oh, no!’
‘The boat that carried my friends was blown up with all crew and passengers.’
I stare at him, seeing the shadows under his eyes, and my stomach knots when I think of how close to death he came himself. ‘I’m so very sorry to hear that.’
Etienne looks away. ‘I had a lucky escape but I feel terrible guilt that I wasn’t there when my friends needed me.’
‘You couldn’t have changed what happened.’
‘I shan’t risk travelling to England again. Too many people depend on me here.’ He sighs. ‘Allow me to carry your books back to the house.’
He takes my basket from me and we walk side by side along the path without speaking.
Etienne never actually declared any special feelings for me, I reflect as we walk, no matter what I may have hoped for. Can I then really accuse him of treating me badly? Certainly this is not the time to upbraid him for his lack of openness about his wife.
‘What other news from Paris?’ I ask to break the awkward silence that thickens the air between us.
‘The Jacobins are gaining strength,’ says Etienne, wearily. ‘The journalist Marat continues to write inflammatory articles in his newspaper L’Ami du Peuple and to stir the emotions of the sans-culottes with his pamphlets. Paris is in a state of turmoil and everyone is suspicious of everyone else’s motives.’
‘The Revolution has become a runaway wagon and no one appears to have control over it any more,’ I say. It’s easier to discuss politics than to raise the subject of his marriage. ‘When it all began I applauded those who took strength into their own hands to stop the excesses of the royal family and the nobility, but look where that has led.’
We come to the lake and stop for a moment to watch a dragonfly dart over the surface of the water and settle on a bulrush swaying in the breeze.
‘The king is dead and the peasants are no better off.’ Etienne’s voice is bleak. ‘France is bankrupted by her wars.’
‘Even if you have money, it’s not always possible to buy what you want,’ I say. ‘Bread is in short supply and there were no eggs to be had again in the market last week.’
The dragonfly flits away in a flash of metallic blue and Etienne turns away from the lake. ‘All this scrabbling for power by the different factions exhausts me. I simply want to manage my estate well and look after the families who work here.’
He sounds so despondent that I long to hold him in my arms, but that is impossible, I know now.
When we arrive at the house he hands me my basket. ‘Is Madame Levesque keeping well?’ he asks.
I nod. ‘The midwife has visited her and all is progressing normally. She’s making clothes for the baby.’
‘I trust that her coming child is a comfort to her in her grief. Now, if you will excuse me, I have work to do.’
I stand in the porch and watch him walk away. His shoulders are bowed as if he has the weight of the world on them and I cannot help but feel compassion for him.
Two days later Victor and Babette arrive for their breakfast as usual. There are only some crusts of bread to spare but they eat them hungrily and then Victor nudges Babette.
‘Go on, you tell her,’ he whispers.
Babette, a wide smile on her face, looks at me. ‘Will you come outside with us, Mademoiselle Moreau?’
Curious, I follow them into the garden to find a chicken coop on the grass. Victor carefully opens a wooden flap and I peer in to see two white chickens with pale pink combs on their heads. ‘These are for you. The master asked me to make the coop and he chose the chickens himself.’
‘They’re called Agnes and Alouette,’ says Babette, hopping up and down with excitement. ‘The master said I could choose their names.’
‘They’re lovely!’ I’m touched that, despite his melancholy mood, Etienne had taken note of my complaint about the lack of eggs in the market.
‘You need to keep them shut up for a day or two,’ says Victor, ‘so that they know where their home is. Then you
can let them out to roam in the garden.’
Delighted, I say, ‘I’ve never kept chickens before as I’ve always lived in…’ I stop myself just in time from saying London, ‘a town’.
‘I made the coop to my own design,’ says Victor proudly. ‘Do you see, you can lift off the roof to clean out the inside and there’s a little ladder for the chickens to climb up. There are handles here so you can lift it on to a new patch of grass every day.’
I run my hand over the little roof and find it has been sanded smooth before being painted the same pretty pale green as the shutters on the house. ‘You’ve made it beautifully, Victor.’
He blushes. ‘I’m pleased you like it.’
‘But you’d better hurry now,’ says Babette, ‘or you’ll be late for work.’
‘And we need to start the washing,’ I say, ‘or it will never have time to dry today.’
It’s still dark a few days later when Madame Thibault, Madame Viard and I climb into the charrette in the stable yard.
‘I need some dressmaker’s pins and some muslin to make a new cap and fichu,’ says Madame Viard. ‘And I promised Jean-Luc to deliver a note to the mayor.’
‘And I’m determined to be first in the queue at the baker’s,’ says Madame Thibault as we jog along.
Madame Viard turns to me. ‘And how is life in the house by the lake, Mademoiselle Moreau?’
‘It feels like home already,’ I say.
‘And do you think you’ll stay long?’ Her dark eyes are watchful.
‘We have no reason to leave, at present.’
‘And Madame Levesque is in an interesting condition so will be happy to settle for a while, I daresay.’
We lapse into silence until we arrive at the market square in Morville.
‘I can hardly believe it.’ I say. ‘Look at that!’
It’s barely light but it’s dispiriting to see that twenty or so women are already lined up outside the bakery. The door is firmly closed and the window shuttered.
The Chateau on the Lake Page 16
