The Lost Castle

by Kristy Cambron

  “You’ve been injured, mademoiselle. Quite seriously. It’s for your own good that you remain here,” he said, tenderness meeting her from his eyes even as he set the water glass upon a table by the bed, then retreated to give her space, all in the span of a few breaths. “You must stay. For now. I cannot allow you to get out of this bed. Do you understand?”

  She eased away, sliding her shoulder back against the safety of the headboard. For the first time she felt the unease of a prisoner, though she wasn’t certain why.

  “My mother—” Aveline’s thoughts turned back to the last sure events she could remember. “I wish to see her, monsieur.”

  “She is not here. But we did get her out in time.”

  “Out of harm’s way at the castle, you mean?” Aveline cleared her throat, calming her voice, and pushed back tears, trying to sound strong, though inside she was melting.

  He shook his head. “The north road. It took some doing, but we’ve received word that she is safe. And as soon as possible, I promise you will be reunited.”

  “That is not possible. My mother would not leave the Loire Valley voluntarily. Not now.”

  “I don’t believe any of this was voluntary.”

  “Both my father and sister are in Paris at present. They were to rendezvous with us for the wedding. But . . . things have changed. Is that where my mother has gone, until we reschedule the nuptials?”

  “Mademoiselle, I’m sorry, but your marriage ceremony will not take place as planned—at least not now.”

  “Because of the attack on the castle, you mean. Did the chapel burn too?”

  “No. It did not. But the wedding has been postponed”—he stopped, giving a noticeable clearing of his throat—“indefinitely.”

  The recollection struck her then, searing more fiercely than burned skin ever could.

  Memories of the felled castle faded into something else . . . a blue coat. A golden crest in elegant embroidery. And a face she couldn’t make out fully, looking down, and a voice telling her she mustn’t go to sleep. But she had. And the memories of the night before—the fire, a coat and crest—were all that remained that was sure.

  A distressing thought cut into her heart—her fiancé was dead. That was what this man was trying to tell her.

  “You are not Philippe.”

  Aveline already knew it somehow, but he confirmed the truth with a soft shake of the head. “No. I am Robert. Monsieur le vigneron—master winemaker for the Duc et Vivay.”

  She straightened up, squaring her shoulders against the worst. “Is my fiancé dead?”

  “No, mademoiselle.” He shook his head again, though his eyes were stormy with something else she couldn’t place. She remembered then, the hazy sight of a man in the ballroom, a blue coat flashing by, whisking party guests away from glass rain and smoke . . .

  “But you were there. I saw you, helping the duke and his son, calling up fighting men to resist the attack from the boats. Was it not you I saw in the ballroom, seeing people to safety?”

  “I wouldn’t say we could put up much of a fight. We did the most we were able at the time. You were struck down, caught under falling timber before we could reach you. We hadn’t a choice but to bring you here, to the winemaker’s cottage. You’re still on the outskirts of the duke’s estate, but you’ve been asleep for three days now.”

  “The castle burned . . . three days ago?” Aveline slammed her eyes shut against it.

  Against him.

  She shook her head in defiance. Disbelief too, plaguing her. Nothing made sense. Not the scattering of her family. An attack that left the castle in smoldering ruin. The faceless image of her betrothed, still a mystery to her. And now, the loss of three days’ time when her mother, father, and sister were possibly in some measure of jeopardy.

  “I don’t wish to distress you, but you need to know the truth. The seriousness of this situation here, and in Paris.”

  “What of Paris?” Her gaze flitted up, meeting his.

  “News has trickled out; the Bastille has fallen.”

  Félicité . . . Papa . . .

  “Fallen. The prison in Paris? You mean it was attacked?”

  “I mean felled completely. Stormed by the populace the same night of the attack here. There were few prisoners to free, but they were after the stockpile of weapons. With the people starving . . . it was only a matter of time. Now, it is feared the king’s rule is in disarray. The people have begun to rise up, just as they did in the Americas. We’ll continue to see the ripple effects in the Loire Valley, even as Paris clings to life. They say it is inevitable now.”

  “What is?”

  “Revolution.”

  Swimming head, burning skin, aching heart—they all warred against her.

  Aveline raised her right hand, the only part of her that didn’t seem to hurt, and steadied it against her brow. “You said my mother is gone from here. North, yes?”

  “She is.”

  “Very well. We shall have to send word to her as soon as possible. She will be in a state, wondering if I’ve suffered the same fate as Gérard.”

  “Who, mademoiselle?”

  He didn’t know to whom she referred, but Aveline hadn’t time to explain.

  Too many thoughts demanded her attention, just as too many fears outranked her ability to fully grasp what the fall of the Bastille prison could mean. Her mind was fixed on the temporal—what must be done and what she could effect from her bed.

  “Monsieur, I’m sorry, but it is too much to explain now. I’d ask that a courier go to my father this very day, if it’s not been thought of before now. He will be in Paris, surely awaiting such a missive. I can give you the exact location of the estate.”

  “Forgive me, but I’ve already seen to it. By now your father will be aware of what has occurred, and that you are safe. We await his reply concerning you. In the meantime, we’ll hide you here.”

  Hide me . . .

  “Why is it necessary to hide me?”

  “Forgive me, but there is much to say. Too much at the moment. But whatever is left, I’ve taken the liberty to have it brought here.”

  Aveline looked to the near-barren bureau top. Meager though it had been, her trousseau was most assuredly gone. The books she’d brought. Philippe’s brooch and even Félicité’s letter . . . all burnt to ash or lost in the chaos, it seemed. She was to be a guest among strangers—without the comfort of any familiarity.

  It was too much. To think. Feel. Make sense of anything in the moments after waking from such a terrible dream.

  “You say I may not leave this bed, and I give you my word that I will not. But I should need some assurance as to the safety of the estate, and this cottage, both for my mother’s care when she returns, and for my own now. I know you are not in the habit of taking orders from a woman, but I assume the sacking of a duke’s castle should give some allowance for impropriety. And as I am the only ranking member of my family left to render such decisions, I would ask for your help to fulfill them.”

  “At your service. Tell me what you have need of and I’ll see to it.”

  That was curious, if he meant it.

  “I wish to see my fiancé so I might discuss these matters with him. We haven’t met, formally . . . but that will have to be overlooked for now.” Aveline shifted in the bed, uncomfortable both in body and at the prospect of meeting her fiancé in such a state. But matters of vanity would have to subside.

  “Mademoiselle—” Robert stared back, this time without the former softness in his eyes. Something in him had gone cold. Aveline wasn’t sure she wanted to know why.

  “But surely Philippe is aware of all this.”

  Robert shook his head, saying nothing. Just issued a glance.

  Something was terribly wrong.

  “Pray go on. Whatever tidings you have cannot be worse than what has already transpired here.”

  “I’m sorry, but your fiancé is presently unaccounted for.”

  She swallowed ha
rd. “But you said he was alive.”

  “He is.”

  It was some small measure of relief, but not enough.

  “Captured then?”

  “No.” The line of his jaw flexed. “Fled.”

  The single word sliced through Aveline’s heart like a serrated knife, cutting her with pain all over again.

  Philippe fled? He left his family . . . guests . . . me . . . even as his castle burned?

  Aveline refused to accept that her fiancé could have tucked tail and run, leaving the castle and his party guests to fend for themselves.

  “You’re quite sure he’s alive?”

  Robert nodded. “Yes. It is by God’s grace that there was no loss of life. We had minimal notice of the attack—not enough to send guests out into the grove without defense. The duke and your fiancé were aware of what was happening, and they were seen fleeing on horseback, riding away in the first waves of the attack.”

  “That is impossible.” Unable to accept the possibility of such cowardice, she demanded, “Who saw them to claim such an injustice?”

  “I did.”

  Aveline’s thoughts drifted to the brooch.

  The gift that she’d foolishly thought would give some understanding of a man’s character. How naive she’d been, to think a simple golden trinket could define a man’s innermost virtues.

  “You are mistaken. That cannot be the character of the man my father has assured is a gentleman of the highest rank. Philippe is a man of honor, from a family with a most prestigious name.”

  “I agree. If it is proven to be the man’s character, it is not befitting his family name at all.”

  “There you are. As master vigneron, surely you are aware of the fortitude required to manage the duke’s estate, to look after the farmers who tend the land and the people who live and work under such an immense yoke that the wine production demands. Philippe would not dare abandon them.”

  “I am well aware of the people’s plight here.”

  “Then surely there is an explanation.”

  “If there is, I’d like to hear it.”

  “Perhaps a misfortune has befallen Philippe, or else he would be here in your stead. With all that has happened, perhaps the rabble seized him and the duke as they were going for help? Maybe took them back to Paris?”

  He closed his eyes for a breath, as if her question had pained him in some way. “Please. Don’t use that word.”

  “What word?”

  “Rabble. Please do not call them that.” He paused, shook his head. “They’re people, like you and me, and not what you label them.”

  “I know of the Third Estate, monsieur. And the problem of taxation against the masses. I am well aware of what occurred at the Estates-General on 5 May of this year. You do not need to instruct me on labels and the reason for applying them.”

  Robert started, his mouth slightly aghast and his brow curiously tipped at her mention of the commoners’ estate—the lowest rank in the ancien régime of their society—the working and starving and dying people who survived on the rungs below both the clergy and the nobility.

  If he was astonished, he hid it, though not completely.

  “Housing costs have risen by 80 percent in some areas,” she went on, hard-pressed to stop once they’d broached the subject of taxation upon the masses. “While wages for the working haven’t seen a rise more than a quarter of that in the last decades. The people see only the taxes of a palace in Paris, with both king and clergy who understand nothing of the extremity of their circumstances. The prolonged deficit of hunger has driven them mad. It is understandable to a point. But I will call the people rabble if they behave in such a manner. And here, with torches that felled an innocent man’s castle, I call it deserved. They deserve the fiercest punishment leveled by God himself.”

  Women were not expected to possess a mind for politics. Or economics. Those topics were of little use outside a ladies’ salon. So whether she’d shocked him mattered little. Aveline had seen it before: a gentle tip of the head. Bewilderment in the eyes. Adopted consternation on the face of a gentleman each time she made a statement that defied the constraints of her station—and those strict appropriations of her gender.

  Robert stared back, studying her. Perhaps searching for a retort in light of the fact she possessed a brain of some function, and a head for figures that expanded beyond counting how many pairs of evening gloves she owned.

  “You are very direct, mademoiselle.”

  “I must be. These are uncertain times. To be direct is the only foothold we possess.”

  “Then I will do you the courtesy of being equally forthright. As the whereabouts of both your fiancé and the duke are unknown, it is incumbent upon us to look after you. That we will do as long as you are left to our charge. But I assure you this: If your fiancé does come back and dare show his face to the people he abandoned, I’ll level a fist so far into his jaw that he shall not remember his own name.”

  Any reply she might have owned died in her throat.

  Robert had adopted an emotion far beyond anything Aveline had thought. Steady on the surface, his was a fury that boiled beneath the surface—and seemed only just held at bay. How much longer might it be restricted, if at all?

  “Pardon, Master Robert?” A lady’s intrusion behind them had been soft, her words respectful and meek from across the room. “I’ve brought water for mademoiselle.”

  Aveline entertained little hope to reconcile much of the news she’d just received. Her recourse was to turn away, or else weep in front of him without filter. She looked to the window, sunlight the only thing she recognized as constant, and bit down on her bottom lip to suppress the wave of emotion.

  “I will leave you then. Au revoir.”

  Robert’s response was clipped: a bow and boot falls echoing with each step he took away from them. Tired stairs groaned as he stepped upon them, then his footsteps faded with a slam of a door. He’d gone from the cottage completely.

  Aveline found herself truly washed over in that moment, first from the shock of pain and injury, perhaps more for the stark revelations of cowardice Robert had leveled against the estate masters. She wasn’t sure any measure of courage was left in her. Thankfully, Robert had taken his leave. Perhaps with a woman, she could think clearly. Breathe again. Maybe even crumble, if she needed to, and receive grace in doing so.

  She turned, lifting her gaze to meet the other occupant of the cottage. Her lady’s maid stepped into the light. “Fanetta?”

  “Mademoiselle.” She dipped her head in a bow.

  Fanetta bore a weakness of spirit, with eyes red-tinged as her auburn hair, and a brow tipped in sorrow. She wasn’t dressed in formal service attire as she’d been at the castle. Rather, she wore a simple dress of linen, the bodice and skirts in faded indigo, and gripped tight to the porcelain pitcher in her hands.

  “I don’t understand . . . What are you doing here?”

  “We rescued you, mademoiselle. Or rather, Master Robert did. He brought you here and we’ve tended you in secret.” Fanetta set the pitcher on the bureau, then turned back, her eyes lined in worry. “The vanity stool too. He brought that, with whatever else he could from your chamber. But no one must know where you are.”

  “Why tend me in secret? He said something about hiding me. What do I need safety from now that the castle is burned to the ground and my fiancé is missing?” Aveline did cry then, tears rolling from her eyes, begging their due. “And you’re a part of this! You brought me the brooch . . . the note . . . You knew this was going to happen, didn’t you? So why? What in heaven’s name is left to steal or kill?”

  “You are, mademoiselle. La Belle au bois dormant, they’re calling you—the beauty sleeping in the wood, like in Perrault’s fairy story. You’ve become a fable in the last few days, even before the smoke ceased rising from the ruins. The duke and his son fled under their noses. But you are the princess that simply disappeared into the night. They vow to do anything to fi
nd you, to make you an example of their anger at the duke—and the king.”

  Aveline flitted her glance to the stairs, the loft’s only exit.

  Fleeing France after her mother or attempting to make her way to Paris, alone . . . There was little she could do with a broken body. Even less without the aid of a carriage or horse. Should she try to usurp her captors, Aveline wouldn’t make it far before collapse or capture.

  There was no choice. She must place her trust in the hands of strangers who were of the very populace who wished her dead.

  “An example. I see.” She exhaled, praying now only for survival. “And what do you say?”

  Fanetta leaned over the side of the bed, taking the palm of Aveline’s uninjured hand in her own. “The same thing that Master Robert does—that we would die before we hand you over to them.”

  There it is again—Master Robert . . .

  “Why do you call him Master?”

  Fanetta shook her head, as if the answer should have been plainly known. “Why, he’s the master vigneron on the estate.”

  “Yes, that he said. But is it the reason for his title?”

  “He is a man of the people, yes. A matchless worker and well respected among all here. Master Robert has always served as a bridge between the nobility and the people working beneath them. He took you as our responsibility out of character, seeing as your fiancé is the one who fled. No doubt that is why he made no mention of his title. A winemaker has none by rule, unless of course he’s a master vigneron, and here, demands respect as the duke’s younger son—and your fiancé’s brother.”

  EIGHT

  PRESENT DAY

  LES TROIS-MOUTIERS

  LOIRE VALLEY, FRANCE

  “Titus!” Quinn called out his grandfather’s name the instant he stopped in front of the estate house, cutting the truck engine with a jolt.