The Chateau on the Lake

by Charlotte Betts

  I tuck a stray curl behind my ear and smile a welcome.

  ‘You’re working as hard as a peasant,’ he says. ‘But today I’m going to row you over the lake to the island where we’ll have a picnic.’ He holds up his hand. ‘And don’t argue with me as I won’t take no for an answer.’

  ‘I have no intention of arguing with you,’ I say. The prospect of Jean-Luc’s amusing company is very welcome. ‘I have a blister on my palm and I’ve been trying to think of an excuse to cease my labours. I must wash first, though, and see if Sophie wants to join us.’

  Jean-Luc’s smile fades a little and I realise that she hadn’t been included in his invitation.

  Sophie, however, is resting with the kittens curled up beside her on the bed and merely bids me to enjoy myself.

  I scrub the earth from under my fingernails, change into a clean dress and tie a ribbon in my hair.

  ‘You look delightful,’ says Jean-Luc as I come downstairs.

  His compliment pleases me. I’m looking forward to an hour or two when I can cast aside my cares in favour of simple, uncomplicated pleasures.

  He picks up the picnic basket again and offers me his arm.

  We come to the jetty and go inside the boathouse, where Jean-Luc climbs the rickety ladder up to a makeshift platform between the roof trusses. He throws down a couple of cushions and I brush off the dust and spiders’ webs.

  A rowing boat is tied up at the jetty beside the little boathouse and the lake is as smooth as green glass. Jean-Luc places the cushions on the seats and steadies me as I step into the boat. Taking off his coat, he rolls up his shirtsleeves before beginning to row us towards the little island.

  I relax in the sunshine, trailing my fingers in the limpid water and watching the muscles rippling in Jean-Luc’s strong arms as I listen to the rhythmic squeak of the oars. Drops of water sparkle prettily in the light as they drip from the oars and a moorhen runs across the surface of the lake in its haste to remove itself from our course.

  Soon the boat scrapes on to the shingle beach. Jean-Luc pulls off his shoes, jumps into the shallow water and drags the boat out of the water. ‘We’ll have our picnic in the temple, shall we?’ he says. He carries his shoes in one hand and the picnic basket in the other, and we amble along the path that winds amongst the scrubby undergrowth.

  Crowning the highest point of the island and set in a grove of silver birches, the temple is open to the elements at the front. Four columns support a pediment and as we grow closer I notice classical carvings on the frieze beneath it. We climb half a dozen wide steps and go inside. The flagstone floor is unswept and a few dead leaves rustle as they drift in the breeze.

  ‘No one has been here since last summer,’ says Jean-Luc. ‘It’s been too cold for picnics until now.’ He puts the picnic basket down on one of the stone benches built against the back wall and unfolds a metal table.

  I open the basket, shake out the embroidered tablecloth and align the starched creases neatly across the table. Soon a feast of cheese, olives, rolls, apples and slices of raisin cake is laid out before us. Jean-Luc opens a bottle of Château Mirabelle and pours the golden wine into two glasses.

  ‘What a delightful place,’ I say, wondering how on earth Madame Thibault had been able to provide us with such a spread given the current shortages.

  ‘Etienne’s grandfather travelled in Italy and Greece to study architecture as a young man. You may have noticed the marble busts in the hall?’

  ‘The ones that look like Roman emperors?’

  ‘The old comte brought them back with him. He found some of them around ancient ruins and local peasants sold him others. He was very taken with the classical style and determined to build a folly as soon as he came into the title. The lake and the island were made first and then he planted the grove of silver birches as a setting for the temple.’

  ‘What a big project!’

  ‘He had plenty of serfs to do the work for him, while he drifted about in his curled wig and velvet coat giving orders.’

  ‘You sound as if you didn’t like him very much.’

  Jean-Luke shrugs. ‘He was typical of the ancien régime. Once the temple was built he used to bring his mistresses here. Sometimes he exercised his droit du seigneur and brought the prettiest serving maids where no one could hear their screams.’

  ‘His poor wife!’ I put down my piece of bread, suddenly no longer hungry.

  ‘Once she’d produced the requisite heir, I daresay she had lovers of her own.’

  It’s uncomfortable to imagine Etienne’s grandmother behaving in such a way, though perhaps things were different then.

  ‘More wine?’ Jean-Luc holds the bottle over my glass.

  I shake my head.

  He crosses his legs, resting one ankle on his knee as he eats a piece of cake.

  I can’t help looking at his bare foot. There is sand on the sole and his toenails are rimmed with grey mud from the lake. Fine black hairs grow on his toes. I glance away, curious but at the same time made slightly uncomfortable by such intimate knowledge of him.

  Sipping my wine, I watch the birches dancing in the breeze and wonder if these same trees witnessed the seduction and rape of frightened young girls. I shudder as I’m suddenly reminded of the sylvan grove at Vauxhall Gardens where Papa was murdered protecting my honour.

  Jean-Luc refills his glass and leans back, regarding me through half-closed eyes. ‘You’re looking very pensive, Madeleine.’

  ‘I was thinking of my father,’ I say, before I can stop myself.

  ‘The school teacher from Lyon.’

  I nod, my eyes welling up as I picture again the terrible scene that deprived me of both my parents.

  ‘Tell me about him.’

  ‘He was a man of honour.’ Surreptitiously I wipe a tear away with my finger. ‘He always stood up for what he believed in.’

  ‘So he supported the Revolution, then?’

  I banish the memory of blood spurting from Papa’s heart and blossoming on his shirt as he lay on the ground. ‘He never had any time for the greedy rich and always believed hard work should be rewarded.’

  ‘I should like to have met him.’ Jean-Luc smiles. ‘I could have taken him to the Jacobin Club with me.’

  The sense of aching loss that I always carry in my breast intensifies then and my throat closes as I try not to weep. I turn my face away as tears overflow, rolling down my face and dripping off my chin.

  ‘I didn’t mean to make you cry,’ says Jean-Luc.

  ‘I still miss him so!’

  And then Jean-Luc catches me in his arms and holds my head against his broad shoulder. ‘You have a good cry,’ he says, rubbing my back.

  Eventually the storm of weeping is over and I’m embarrassed that my tears have soaked his shirtfront. I pull away, unable to look at him.

  ‘Let me see.’ Jean-Luc holds me at arm’s length and tips up my chin. He dabs at my cheeks with his handkerchief. ‘That’s better.’ He continues to hold my chin, studying my face. ‘You’re very lovely,’ he says.

  ‘My eyes must be all red…’

  Before I can draw breath, he leans forward and kisses me.

  Frozen with surprise, I feel the prickle of his stubble on my chin as his full mouth presses against mine. It isn’t unpleasant, not at all, but I’m completely taken aback. Then he buries his hands in my hair and I can’t move away, at least, not without shoving him in the chest and I’m not quite sure that I want to do that.

  Gently, he releases me. ‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘I caught you unawares, didn’t I?’

  I nod, my fingers pressed to my lips.

  ‘Are you angry?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Good. Then I suggest we finish our picnic.’

  He refills my wine glass and this time I drink.

  Jean-Luc, apparently entirely at ease, makes light conversation while I relive his kiss, all the while attempting to understand how I feel about it.

  ‘Madeleine?’
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  I jump and see that Jean-Luc is regarding me with amusement.

  ‘I said, the wind is getting up. It looks as if it might rain.’

  Glancing up at the sky I see that grey clouds are rolling across the sun. I begin to pack the remains of the picnic into the basket but as I fold up the tablecloth I notice that there are splashes of paint on the table underneath and pause, staring at it.

  ‘What is it?’ asks Jean-Luc.

  ‘Paint,’ I say. ‘Your mother mentioned that Monsieur d’Aubery’s wife came here to paint on the day she disappeared.’

  ‘She often used to come here. Or so she said.’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’

  ‘Perhaps it was a pretext to enable her to meet her lover without causing suspicion?’

  ‘Do you think she had a lover?’

  Jean-Luc packs the empty wine bottle into the basket. ‘I was never quite sure why Etienne married her. Of course, she came with a good dowry but it wasn’t necessary for him to marry for money. The marriage was an unfortunate mismatch.’ He stares out over the lake, a slight frown between his eyebrows.

  ‘Your mother showed me her portrait. She was very beautiful.’

  ‘But also shallow and frivolous.’ He turns to look at me. ‘On the afternoon she disappeared I was in the woods. A horseman galloped past and out of the château’s gates with a cloaked figure sitting behind him.’

  ‘Isabelle?’

  ‘I prefer to believe she ran away with her lover rather than that Etienne found them together and…’ He leaves the sentence unfinished.

  ‘And what?’

  ‘Etienne is always so certain that he’s right in everything he does and, as an only child, Isabelle had been very indulged. She wanted to live in Paris while Etienne wanted to be here. They often had bitter quarrels.’ Jean-Luc looks directly at me. ‘It’s a sight to behold when Etienne’s temper is unleashed.’

  At once I remember the ferocity of his rage when he grabbed Auguste Moreau by the throat. Might he have lost his temper with Isabelle and perhaps killed her by mistake? It’s an unbearable thought, as unbearable as the thought that he still has a wife. ‘And no one has ever seen Isabelle again?’

  Jean-Luc shakes his head. ‘No, but if she ran away with a lover, she’d hardly return here to pay a social call, would she?’ He sighs. ‘Still, enough of all that. This picnic was to have been a light-hearted occasion.’

  I glance up at the sky again. ‘We’d better hurry.’

  We walk briskly down the stony path to the beach and Jean-Luc pushes the boat into the water before climbing aboard. The surface of the lake is choppy now as the gusty wind whips up white horses on the unfathomable water.

  Chapter 20

  May 1793

  The kittens, Minou and Mouche, gambol around the garden, play-fighting and chasing butterflies on the mignonette. Sophie makes a pretty picture as she sits, with head bent over her sewing, on the garden bench in the dappled sunshine.

  I’m hot from watering my vegetable garden. ‘The lettuces are coming on well now,’ I say, sitting down beside her. I lift up one of the tiny garments she’s placed in a neat pile and examine the dainty stitches.

  ‘I hope your hands are clean!’ she says in a mock-severe tone.

  ‘You’ve made far too many nightgowns for one baby to wear.’

  ‘They aren’t all for my baby,’ she says. ‘I had plenty of linen left over and I thought I’d make some for the orphans and the poor. Heaven knows, I’ve nothing else to do with my time other than grow fatter.’ She stretches and rubs at her back.

  ‘Uncomfortable?’

  ‘A little.’ She rests her hand on her abdomen. ‘He’s growing so fast now.’

  Taking my hand she presses it to the mound of her stomach and I feel a hard little lump. Suddenly it moves and she laughs. ‘There, did you feel that?’

  ‘I did. He’s going to be strong if he kicks like that.’ It’s a curious thought that a new life is forming so close to us but out of sight.

  ‘He had hiccups early this morning, making it impossible for me to sleep.’ She smiles indulgently.

  I say nothing, anxious that already she appears to have formed a bond with this child and fearful for her distress when she is parted from it.

  The garden gate clicks and I see a man dressed in loose blue work clothes with a battered straw hat pulled down over his eyes. My heart does a somersault when I realise that it’s Etienne.

  ‘Please excuse my attire,’ he says. ‘I’ve been working in the vineyard.’

  ‘You look like a sans-culotte!’ I say. ‘But then, I suppose I look like a peasant in my old gardening dress.’ I’m quite unable to find anything interesting to say, only drinking in the sight of him, looking at the way stubble shadows his chin and thinking how handsome he is, despite his shabby clothes.

  ‘But why are you working in the vineyard?’ asks Sophie.

  ‘So many of the men have gone to fight that I’m needed there.’ Etienne sighs. ‘Everything is growing so fast now that there’s too much work for the few men and boys that remain.’

  I’m curious. ‘What are you doing to the vines?’

  ‘They need to be tied in and trained to grow neatly along the wires.’

  I notice that there is a pruning knife in his belt and his hands are engrained with dirt, just like a peasant’s. ‘Couldn’t the village women do that?’ I ask.

  He stares at me in amazement. ‘Women help with the harvest, but this is man’s work.’

  ‘Is it any more difficult than gardening? Surely,’ I say, ‘the women could be trained to do that? Many of them would welcome the extra income while their husbands are away.’

  Etienne steps over to my vegetable plot and studies the neat rows of lettuces. ‘You seem to be managing very well.’ He looks up at me and smiles.

  I glance away, fearful he’ll see the yearning in my eyes.

  ‘The reason for my visit is to ask if you would both care to come and take your dinner with me tomorrow?’

  ‘That would be delightful,’ says Sophie.

  I can’t help the smile that spreads across my face.

  ‘And now I must go home and wash off the day’s grime,’ he tells us.

  ‘I’ll come to the front gate with you.’

  Etienne bids Sophie good evening and we walk around the side of the house and up the lavender walk to the front gate.

  ‘Until tomorrow then,’ he says. He makes no move to open the gate, as if he wishes to delay our parting as much as I do.

  I snap off a head of lavender, bruise it between my fingers and sniff the aromatic oil. I hesitate then decide to go ahead. ‘There’s something else I wanted to ask.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Is there an orphanage near here?’

  Etienne gives me a searching look. ‘An orphanage?’

  I nod and attempt to look nonchalant. ‘Sophie has made a number of baby nightgowns. She thought they might be of use to the orphans.’

  ‘Oh, I see. Well, there is one half an hour away on the road to Orléans.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Good evening, then.’

  ‘Goodnight, Etienne.’

  He walks away and I close the gate behind him.

  The following morning Sophie and I visit the stables where Colbert has the charrette waiting for us. The piebald cob has his nose in a bucket of water but, as soon as we are settled, Colbert flicks the reins and we start off.

  ‘I haven’t left the house in months,’ says Sophie.

  ‘You’re sure it won’t be too much for you?’ I ask.

  ‘Babette tells me the road to Orléans is much better than the rough country lanes to Morville. Besides, I should like to give the nightgowns to the orphanage myself.’

  She becomes quiet, concentrating on the road ahead, and I can’t help wondering if she’s aware of my ulterior motive for this journey. We can’t put it off any longer; it’s time to find a prospective home for her baby.

  T
he orphanage is a dark stone building set back from the road behind iron gates. Colbert drives into the weedy forecourt and pulls up in front of the house.

  ‘There are bars at the windows,’ whispers Sophie as I help her to descend.

  ‘The children must be kept safe,’ I say but, privately, I can’t help thinking that it’s a sinister-looking place.

  A young serving girl opens the door and bids us wait on the wooden bench in the hall. The sound of children singing drifts down the stairs and Sophie smiles faintly.

  Footsteps tap briskly along the corridor and an imposing woman approaches, dressed in black with her grey hair tucked severely into her white cap.

  ‘Good morning, Mesdames. I am Madame Boudin, directrice of this institution. How may I help you?’ I see the woman’s sharp eyes glance at Sophie’s swollen abdomen.

  Sophie stands up. ‘I have made some nightgowns for the orphans,’ she says and holds out her parcel.

  ‘How kind! We are always in need of more clothing for the children.’ The directrice takes the proffered parcel but Sophie doesn’t let it go. ‘Is there something else?’ Madame Boudin enquires.

  ‘Yes. I should like to see the children.’

  There is a momentary silence. Then: ‘Of course, Madame. We are always happy for our benefactors to see the work we do here. Please, come with me.’

  She crosses the tiled floor and opens a door. Girls in identical grey dresses, sitting at long trestle tables, glance up at us as we enter. An older girl stands on a raised platform with a birch rod in her hand, supervising her charges.

  Sophie puts her hand over her nose at the unpleasantly greasy smell arising from the mounds of hair in various colours heaped on the tables before the girls.

  ‘There is still a demand for human hair to be made into wigs,’ says Madame Boudin, ‘but fashions are changing rapidly and before long we may need to find other work for the girls.’

  We watch the orphan girls for a moment as they collect and comb the hair, tying it into neat switches of uniform length and colour. The girls work quickly, without speaking, some of them frowning in concentration.