The Chateau on the Lake

by Charlotte Betts

  And then there’s the watering. We must prevent the vines dying from drought, but too much water might result in grapes without sufficient sweetness and flavour. Our palms blister and then grow calluses as we draw up the buckets countless times from the well and put them on a cart drawn by the piebald cob. We take it in turns to lead him up the hill, which the children think is a fine game as they hitch a ride, and then we deposit the contents of the buckets, one by one, along the rows of vines, leaving dark stains on the dusty soil.

  At the end of each day Jean-Luc has fallen into the habit of coming to meet me to accompany me back to the house and I’ve begun look forward to his lively company. Today is Saturday and Jean-Luc sits at a table in the chai with his account book and a strongbox as the women queue up to collect their earnings. At first I demurred when Etienne asked me to join the women in the queue, but he insisted and I cannot deny that the extra money is useful since my supply of gold coins is dwindling.

  The men, as usual, are paid first. The children, pleased to see their mothers again, gambol noisily around our feet while we wait our turn.

  ‘What a relief to be out of the sun,’ I say to Madame Gerard and Emile’s mother, Madame Porcher.

  ‘I don’t remember a summer as hot as this for many a year,’ says Madame Porcher, her face shiny with sweat.

  Madame Gerard takes baby Albert from Widow Berger with a tired smile and settles him on her hip. ‘Still, the master has promised us a share of the profits when the wine is sold.’

  ‘But that’s at least a year away,’ says Madame Porcher. ‘Emile!’ She turns to shout at her son, who is climbing on a stack of oak barrels. ‘Get down from there at once or I’ll give you a clout round the ear!’

  ‘At least Victor and Babette are bringing home a wage now,’ says Madame Gerard. ‘And Albert,’ she kisses the baby’s cheek, ‘will be weaned in a few months. I must speak to Madame Viard about finding some work in the kitchens for me.’

  ‘It’s all right for the master though, isn’t it?’ says Madame Porcher, her mouth twisted by resentment. ‘He’s got a cellar stacked to the roof with earlier vintages he can sell, not to mention a palace full of gilded furniture and priceless paintings, any one of which would feed the whole village for a year.’

  ‘But he’s a good master, isn’t he?’ I say, quick to rush to Etienne’s defence.

  Madame Porcher shrugs. ‘Well enough, I suppose, if we can be sure he’s not a murderer.’ Her eyes gleam with spite. ‘No one ever did find out what happened to that wife of his, did they?’ She looks at me speculatively. ‘But I suppose he’s told you all about that, you being so friendly with him and all?’

  ‘I know his wife is missing,’ I say, stiffly.

  ‘And unfortunately for you, the position of the next chatelaine isn’t available until Isabelle d’Aubery is found, either dead or alive. But perhaps you’ll settle for Jean-Luc Viard as second best, eh?’

  Heat races into my cheeks and Madame Gerard puts a hand on Madame Porcher’s arm. ‘Claudette!’ she murmurs.

  Then the queue shuffles forwards and Claudette Porcher turns away to talk to another of the women.

  Scarlet-faced, I stare at my feet while I reflect that Madame Porcher speaks only the truth.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mademoiselle,’ whispers Madame Gerard. ‘Claudette has always looked for something to complain about, even as a girl. You’re new here and people are suspicious of strangers, especially in these times of war and want.’

  Albert begins to wriggle in his mother’s arms and then to cry and there is no more conversation.

  At last it’s my turn to receive my wages and Jean-Luc checks his ledger for the number of hours I’ve worked and then places a pile of coins on the desk for me. ‘I’ve nearly finished here,’ he says. ‘I’ll walk you home.’

  I tuck the coins in my pocket and step aside while the last two women are paid.

  I watch Jean-Luc as he closes his ledger and locks the cashbox. He has a commanding presence and looks every inch the gentleman in his well-tailored coat.

  He must sense me looking at him because he glances up and smiles. Tucking the cashbox under his arm, he strides towards me.

  ‘Shall we go?’ He rests his hand on the back of my waist to guide me and I notice Claudette Porcher watching us with a cynical expression. She raises her eyebrows and nudges her companion with one elbow.

  A fiery blush stains my cheeks again, just as Etienne steps out of the shadows by the door of the chai. He looks weary and sports a smudge of dust on his jaw. His shirtsleeves are rolled up and he wipes the perspiration from his forehead with a sun-browned hand. ‘Good evening, Mademoiselle Moreau. And Jean-Luc.’

  ‘And to you, Etienne,’ says Jean-Luc, taking my arm in a proprietorial way.

  I glance back over my shoulder as we walk away and see that Etienne is still watching us, his face closed. An ache in my breast makes me yearn to go to him but that way lies only misery.

  As we walk through the fields Jean-Luc stops to pick me a bunch of hedgerow flowers, presenting them with a flourish. ‘Beautiful flowers for a beautiful lady.’

  I take them from him and sniff their sweet scent. I must not allow myself to think of Etienne but concentrate instead on Jean-Luc, an eligible man whose attentions make me feel cared for.

  At the house we stop by the gate and he kisses me gently. I don’t resist. If Etienne’s weary face weren’t constantly in my mind’s eye, perhaps I’d even respond with fervour. Maybe I will next time. As Sophie keeps reminding me, I must look to the future.

  ‘Until tomorrow, Madeleine,’ says Jean-Luc. In the sunshine, his hazel eyes are flecked with green, I notice.

  Impulsively, I reach up and press a swift kiss to his lips, grateful for his attentiveness. He laughs and tries to catch me in his arms but I slip away from him and shut the gate between us. ‘Until tomorrow,’ I echo, and go inside.

  Sophie has prepared dinner and we eat in the garden, now burgeoning with summer flowers, and talk over the small events of the day. Afterwards I water and weed my vegetable plot and then wander over to the château and the walled vegetable garden.

  I water the beans, walking slowly up and down the rows, swinging the watering can rhythmically. I notice the pretty scarlet flowers unfolding and smile in satisfaction at the sight of the frilly little lettuces growing visibly every day.

  I love this secret time: the stillness in the air, the damp scent of the earth rising from the ground and the residual heat of the day emanating from the brick wall that surrounds the garden. I allow my thoughts to drift, remembering the musky scent of Jean-Luc’s hair pomade when I kissed him. Could my friendship with him grow into something more? To lose the aching void inside me and be really happy again, I must find a husband and make a family of my own. Perhaps Jean-Luc could be the one I seek?

  The metallic click of the latch on the garden door makes me look up, startled. Framed in the doorway is a black figure silhouetted against the orange globe of the setting sun. I recognise his profile straight away and my heart leaps with pleasure.

  ‘So it’s you who is keeping the garden!’ says Etienne. ‘I thought it must be Marcel.’

  ‘I don’t believe he’s been here since you asked him to return to work in the vineyard.’ A warm glow of pleasure at Etienne’s unexpected presence spreads through me and all my resolutions to put him out of my thoughts evaporate like mist in sunshine.

  Etienne looks at the weed-free beds and the sturdy little plants. ‘You’ve wrought miracles,’ he says.

  Glowing with pride, I walk him up and down the rows. ‘They aren’t straight,’ I say. ‘Marcel must have been drinking when he sowed the seeds. I found a whole stack of empty wine bottles behind the greenhouse. And half a dozen full ones.’

  ‘He’s a disgrace,’ says Etienne, scowling. ‘I only keep him on because it would be shaming for Jean-Luc and his mother if I turned him out.’ He sighs. ‘My father would never hear a word against him, though. He said Marcel used to b
e a good worker, if a little dour, and hinted at some sadness that made him turn to drink.’

  Etienne pulls up a large dandelion and stuffs it absentmindedly into his pocket. ‘I think we deserve a drink at the end of another day of hard work, don’t you?’

  We walk through the lengthening shadows and I show him Marcel’s hidden cache. Inside the greenhouse we find a chipped wine glass and a corkscrew. While Etienne opens the bottle, I rinse the glass in the cistern and dry it on my skirt. We carry our prizes over to the iron bench, the metal still warm from the sun.

  ‘Marcel must have stolen this,’ says Etienne, examining the label on the wine bottle. ‘It’s the Château Mirabelle 1789.’ He smiles wryly. ‘At least we know it’s decent quality.’

  I hold the glass up to the sun and see how the pale liquid becomes infused with gold. I sip the wine, allowing it to roll around my tongue, and savour the crisp, refreshing fruitiness of it before handing the glass to Etienne. I feel at peace.

  We sit in companionable silence, our faces gilded by the light of the setting sun as we take it in turns to sip from the glass. The sky is a deep orange now, streaked with gold and peach. All around us the cicadas are beginning their evensong, rasping away in the vegetation.

  Etienne turns slowly to face me, frowning slightly. ‘You are particular friends with Jean-Luc, I think? I know that he calls you by your given name.’

  I’m unsure how to answer. ‘He’s always very friendly.’

  ‘Yes, I’ve noticed.’

  The green paint is flaking off the decorative ironwork scroll that forms the arm of the bench and I run my hand over it, feeling the edges sharp against my fingers. And I close my eyes in sorrow as I remember again how Etienne held me before he went away and how, when he returned, he found me in Jean-Luc’s arms.

  ‘Aren’t we friends, too?’ asks Etienne.

  ‘Of course.’ I wish with all my heart that we could be more than mere friends.

  ‘Then, would it be presumptuous of me to ask you to call me Etienne?’

  The air is heavy with the honeyed scent of the jasmine that scrambles up the wall behind us. I’m drowsy and loose with wine and that sweet sensation when your muscles are relaxing after physical exercise. ‘Not at all,’ I say. ‘If you will call me Madeleine.’

  He smiles at me with such warmth that it’s hard not to reach out and touch his hand beside mine on the bench. Instead, I focus on the sun as it slides down behind the wall. Then the golden light rapidly fades and the sky, a milky haze at the horizon, deepens to sapphire blue above. And then it’s dark.

  ‘I suppose we should go in,’ murmurs Etienne after a while.

  I don’t want to go indoors. I want to stay here in the warm darkness with him. I want him to explain why he didn’t tell me himself that he had, or has, a wife. And I want him to kiss me.

  ‘We should go in,’ says Etienne again.

  ‘In a moment,’ I say, but the spell is broken and I cannot bring myself to ask him why he has never told me about Isabelle. I take a last sip of the wine and hand the remainder to him.

  He drains the glass and stands up. ‘Come on,’ he says, his voice soft in the dark, ‘I’ll walk you home or Sophie will be anxious.’

  Reluctantly, I stand up.

  The moon is a pale disc above us and two or three bright stars glimmer in the heavens. Silently, we step through the door in the wall, leaving behind our secret world, and walk side by side in the silvery moonlight while my heart aches with longing for him.

  A lamp is burning in the porch of the house to light me home.

  ‘Goodnight, Madeleine,’ says Etienne, and before I can answer, he has gone.

  I remain in the porch, listening to the sounds of the night and watching the moths singeing their wings in the flame, just as I risk burning myself if I approach the flame of my love for Etienne.

  Sighing, I turn the door handle to go inside. It’s then that I sense someone watching me from the trees nearby. I peer into the darkness and see the outline of a man leaning against an oak tree.

  ‘Etienne?’ I whisper. Forgetting all thoughts of caution and decorum, I run towards him.

  In the blink of an eye the shape melts into the shadows.

  My fingers reach out to touch the rough bark of the oak but there is no one there.

  An owl hoots mockingly from the branches above.

  Sophie and I sit in the sun, shelling peas. Agnes and Alouette are crooning gently nearby as they take a dust bath under the hedge.

  ‘It’s so peaceful here, isn’t it?’ says Sophie. ‘I was thinking about London and the noise and the smell of summer drains.’

  ‘I don’t miss the city at all,’ I say. ‘Except, perhaps, for the lively conversations we used to have in Georgiana’s salon.’

  ‘Living here is an island in time,’ says Sophie. She stares at the empty peapod in her hand, lost in thought. After a moment she says, ‘I’ve had such a wonderful idea. At the orphanage Madame Boudin offered us a child to adopt.’

  I know immediately what is in her mind. ‘You can’t Sophie!’ I say, aghast. ‘Charles will know.’

  ‘But why should he?’ She leans forward, her eyes sparkling. ‘We can tell him my baby is an orphan of the Revolution.’

  ‘What if the child looks just like you? Charles will guess then that you had a lover. There must have been rumours at the time…’

  The corners of Sophie’s mouth turn down. ‘He paid me so little mind, I doubt he noticed.’

  ‘People will talk. Even if he doesn’t realise the baby is yours, what if he confines it to the servants’ quarters or makes you send it to the workhouse? Knowing Charles, he won’t want to bring up a child of unknown provenance as his own.’

  ‘I’ve thought of that,’ she says triumphantly. ‘I’ll tell him the baby is of noble blood.’

  Shaking my head, I say, ‘Supposing he makes enquiries?’

  ‘It’ll be far too difficult for him to do that while we’re at war with France. Don’t try and persuade me to give up my child, Maddy, because I won’t!’

  Looking at the mutinous set of her mouth, I know I’m wasting my breath. Then I hear a voice calling my name and see Jean-Luc striding towards us.

  ‘Babette told me you were in the garden. I brought you these,’ he says, holding up a couple of rabbits hanging upside-down from a string knotted around their feet. ‘I went out shooting early this morning.’

  ‘They’ll make a perfect dish with these peas,’ I say.

  ‘Why don’t you come back later and share it with us?’ says Sophie.

  Jean-Luc flashes her a wide smile. ‘I’ll bring a bottle of wine,’ he says. ‘And my mother sends a message. Tomorrow she’s intending to make a new revolutionary flag to present to the mayor in Morville for the Bastille Day celebrations. Maman is hoping you will both join her in her endeavours.’

  ‘I’ll be working in the vineyard again tomorrow, Jean-Luc,’ I say.

  A flicker of annoyance passes over his face. ‘It’s an honour to be asked and not to be turned down lightly.’

  There’s a slight edge to his voice that puts me on my guard. ‘Perhaps I won’t be missed for one day,’ I say.

  ‘And I shall be happy to join Madame Viard,’ says Sophie. ‘I’ll enjoy the company.’

  ‘That’s good, then,’ says Jean-Luc, his usual good humour restored. ‘I’ll give the rabbits to Babette.’

  After he’s gone, Sophie and I return to the kitchen. The rabbits lie on the table and a trickle of blood runs over the edge and makes a sticky puddle on the floor. We watch Babette deftly peel off the skin, then paunch and joint the rabbits ready for a stew.

  ‘It’s lucky we hid the big stock pot in the hen house before the mayor’s men arrived,’ whispers Sophie. ‘We’d never be able to fit all the joints into the one small pan they left for us.’

  ‘It’s sad to imagine the gates being melted down with saucepans, isn’t it?’ I say.

  ‘And wicked for something so beautiful to
be made into weapons.’

  Later, after Babette has left for the day, Sophie bustles about in the kitchen with a clean apron stretched over her stomach. It’s not long to her time now and I worry that she should rest more but she says she prefers to be busy.

  We lay the table for dinner in the garden and she insists we bring out a starched tablecloth and the best china with the d’Aubery crest. There are fine crystal goblets, too, that we have never used, and I pick flowers from the garden.

  ‘You could do worse than Jean-Luc, you know,’ says Sophie. ‘He is increasingly attentive to you. He has an important position here and would be able to provide for you very well.’ Her cheeks dimple as she smiles roguishly at me. ‘And he really is very good-looking, in case you hadn’t noticed.’

  ‘Oh, yes, I’ve noticed,’ I say. It’s impossible not to notice a man like Jean-Luc.

  Later, the rich aroma of rabbit stew fills the house as I change into a clean dress and confine my curls in a blue silk ribbon Jean-Luc gave me. Studying my reflection in the looking glass, I sigh ruefully as I notice that my skin is lightly bronzed by the sun. I wouldn’t do at all in Georgiana’s salon but, secretly, I like the way that the colour in my face deepens the violet of my eyes and whitens my teeth. I look like a healthy peasant.

  If I gave Jean-Luc some encouragement, could I have a future with him? I wonder. If I were to remain here after Sophie returns to her family, I’d be able to stay near to Etienne. But could I bear to be so close to him, knowing that he is for ever out of my reach?

  The doorknocker sounds and I hurry downstairs to find not Jean-Luc as expected on the doorstep but Etienne, a rolled-up newspaper tucked under his arm. His shirt is rumpled and his shoes dusty.