The Lost Castle

by Kristy Cambron

  Julien folded his hand across his chest, pride holding his stance firm. “There’s an old Matford stowed along the road leading to the castle. She’s a bit worse for wear, but she’s got a strong engine and four tires that work, so she can pull Gertie here out in the open. We can have her operational in a number of minutes if we have to. The other tarp in the corner of the ballroom covers the weapons we haven’t distributed yet. In addition to the plastic explosives we get for Brig, we have a cache of Stens and Welrods—both sturdy weapons with simple designs for wide use. We’ve also stocked enough ammunition to keep us in arms for days, if necessary. And we’ve stockpiled cans of paint, so we’re all set.”

  “Paint?”

  He nodded. “That’s right. When le Professeur gets the call through the wire, we paint the largest V we can on the castle façade—for Victory. It’s de Gaulle’s sign for the resistance to rise up. Elder will see it from the woods and know it’s time to call the fighting men and women to arms. That’s what I meant when I said we know the Allies are coming. We just don’t know when. But when they do, we’ll be ready. The castle is the heart of everything we’re fighting for in this place.”

  When Vi didn’t respond right away, he leaned in, meeting her gaze. “Well, what do you think?”

  “What do I think?” Vi ran her hand over the cold metal of Gertie’s side and around the rough divots of the two-wheeled cart’s tire. “I think . . . you’re anticipating far more of a fight than I did.”

  “Anything wrong with putting up a fight?”

  “No. It shows real courage that you wish to fight back.”

  “But . . .”

  “But what I still don’t understand is why you’d let me stay here when so much is at risk. It breaks my heart to see what’s happened to this castle. To your family. To the land and the people here. But if the fight comes, God help us, what will be left?”

  “What’s left when the smoke clears isn’t nearly as important as what you’re fighting for to start out with. Sometimes we have to choose between what is easy and . . . what we know is right. The entire war has been anchored by men fighting for the notion, and I believe in it.”

  Birds flew overhead, little wings carrying the hint of sound to cut the silence between them. It hushed them, the mix of nature and talk of humanity in the same breath.

  Julien took a step closer to her.

  He shook his head, lowering his voice to a whisper. “Lady, you can trust me. I don’t know what you’ve been through, don’t know what’s happened to you—”

  “I cannot tell you.”

  “And I’m not asking you to.”

  “But why put up a fight that you can’t possibly win? When there’s so much at risk?”

  His brow darkened a shade as he looked down on her. “Who says we can’t win?”

  Vi blocked out the harsh reminders of death, of fighting and loss that permeated every moment of her recent memory. The whistle of bombs falling over London . . . the cries of the injured at the RES building as it burned around them . . . the cocking of a pistol and a series of shots as an SS guard fired into the skulls of the other secretaries at Château de La Roche-Guyon . . . and she got away.

  Fled, while others died.

  “I’ve seen what the Nazis can do, Julien.”

  “As have I.”

  “Then you know it will take more than Gertie to hold back what they’ll bring. I worry that you’re getting into something that’s far over your head. The estate has children. Think of Marie. Her baby and Criquet. And everyone here. If the Nazis find Gertie, you’ll be hanged. Every one of you. And if they find me . . .” She shook her head, fear penetrating the confines of her chest. “They’ll do the same. All of you are at risk by having me here.”

  “I didn’t let you stay because we need another man in the fight.” He smiled down on her, his hand reaching up to tug a lock of hair that had swept over the apple of her cheek. “Is that what you think?”

  “Why are you showing me all of this?”

  “Because I saw your face when I walked in that chapel. I knew you needed someone to help you, and I made up my mind then that I wanted to be the man to do it. You’re a part of our makeshift family here, if you want to be. We’ll protect you, even if all we have is Gertie to do it.”

  Julien looked at her with the same eyes he had the day they’d met in the chapel. Kindness emanated from them, looking on her with an openness and bringing a calm like she’d never known before. In his eyes she saw earnest belief, courage, and selflessness, all in a single, heart-pounding look.

  It made her want only to believe in him—to trust him without reservation.

  “I’d die before I let anyone hurt you, or anyone else at this estate.” He reached out, pressing a palm to her cheek. His thumb brushed an invisible line to her jaw. “Did you need to hear that, Lady? That we won’t back down?”

  “And if the worst happens? If the Nazis come before the Allies do. What then?”

  “Then our mission is to blow up the bridge to Loudun and hold them off at the castle. It won’t be easy, but it’s right. And if it comes to that, I intend to see it through.”

  NINETEEN

  JUNE 21, 1789

  RUE DU FAUBOURG SAINT-HONORÉ

  PARIS, FRANCE

  “They called it the Serment du Jeu de Paume—the Tennis Court Oath. The king had to take drastic measures, locking the beasts of the Third Estate out of their Versailles meeting hall altogether.” The nobleman took a snuff box from his vest pocket, then coughed along with a sniff. “They say the men had to go to tennis court, of all things, and made an oath as the National Assembly, not to disband until a new constitution is drawn up.”

  Aveline sifted her gloved palm along a line of hanging ribbons in Rose Bertin’s Le Grand Mogol shop, pretending to find the array of peach and rose hues most fascinating. Instead, she was far more interested in the hushed conversation between a shopkeeper at the high-end clothier and a gentleman adorned in robin’s-egg satin who stood by, nodding to the notion that the king would soon put a stop to the audacity of the Third Estate to take state matters into their own hands.

  It was morose talk indeed at the early morning hour, and for the general fluff of their surroundings. Aveline hadn’t expected to hear anything save for blather about plumes and chapeaus, so to have discovered talk of the latest events in a ladies’ clothier shop was a stroke of genuine luck.

  “But the king has sent out royal guards to quell insurrection before, and no doubt will do the same to prevent further infections of violence across the city. May the king string up gallows at the Élysée Palace if necessary to silence the devils who make up the discontented rabble. We should soon find the streets outside your shop peaceful again.”

  “Quite right. Madame Bertin is most aggrieved at the rumblings of violence, even in this most genteel part of the Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré.”

  “Then let the king eliminate all impediments to keep it such. And if necessary, lock all the doors of Versailles in the process!”

  While the talk of affairs in the National Assembly was nearly inaudible, the merciless laughter of “gentlemen” was not. They made no effort to hush that from the delicate ears of women who browsed through the famed designer’s boutique, flitting over ribbons and plumes made famous in Marie Antoinette’s court.

  Aveline closed a fist around a handful of ribbons, squeezing in a tight grip.

  “Pardon, mademoiselle. Were you looking for something?”

  Aveline glanced up. She’d drawn the attention of the men with her ireful response. She shook her head, placating them with a sweet smile of naivety as she released the ribbons back to free-floating from their wooden harness overhead.

  “Oui, monsieur. It is said that Madame Tallien recommends a pale-blue cotton for the aprons similar to those in The Marriage of Figaro. I understand the Duchess of Chartres has one with two rows of ruffles. I should like to see the choices for the pattern I’ve selected so I may order one identic
al to hers.”

  “C’est bon, mademoiselle. You are the third lady to request such an adornment today. We have them right over here.”

  The inflated nobleman in blue satin and his inane chuckling moved on then, no doubt to reunite with a wife or daughter who was also sifting through the luxury of wares around them. The shopkeeper bowed, scurrying off to a ream of fabric samples in an array of sky colors stacked on a far wall. He returned not long after, exclaiming over the bundle of fabric in his arms.

  Aveline selected a shade of blue cotton without looking and told the gentleman to which account the request should be billed. He scurried off to document the sale and would be pleased, no doubt, to come back and assist her once he learned that she had a near inexhaustible account to fund the purchase of her trousseau.

  It was remarkable to think that from where she stood, the world was all pastels and plumes, while a mere carriage ride away stood the street market where she’d traded her gloves. She’d not returned since that day.

  “Mademoiselle, I shall personally see to the procurement of your requested item.” The shopkeeper bowed low, his simper sweet to the point of nauseating. “And may I congratulate you on your impending alliance with the family of the Duc et Vivay. I am most honored to wait on you.”

  “Merci,” she sighed out, upholding the dictations of her mother’s instruction only as much as required to slip from the shop without boxes of fluff sewn to her person.

  “Will there be anything else, mademoiselle?”

  Aveline scanned the shop, her gaze sailing over hats and plumes, jumbles of waxed fruit for the adornment of courtly pompadours, and a seemingly endless array of brocades and striped satin. Until . . . gloves. Scores of them lined up in tiny boxes with lavender-scented paper and courtly hues of blush, chartreuse, and bright azure. There among them, dove gray—innocent and subdued, and paining her with their very existence.

  An idea struck then, one she knew her father would abhor were it made known, unless she were to proceed with the utmost care.

  “Oui, monsieur. I wonder, did you happen to see the extent of my father’s account at this shop?”

  “I may have become aware of it, mademoiselle.”

  “Bien. I have been told that my mother has already ordered my gowns. But as to the rest, please do find a parchment and quill to document all that I request in earnest. I shall need whatever you currently have in stock of a number of items.” She gave him a pointed look and walked over to the gloves, picking through the brightest colors of the lot. “I shall be making a very large purchase today. A very large purchase indeed.”

  AUGUST 9, 1789

  LES TROIS-MOUTIERS

  LOIRE VALLEY, FRANCE

  Aveline’s view from inside the fire-ravaged castle was worlds away from a clothier’s shop in Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré.

  No frivolities were left to the eye here—only the evidence of the wretchedness from weeks before. The beautiful linens and fabrics, inlaid floors, and sumptuous furnishings that had adorned the halls around her were now marred by bled dyes, water damage, and a layer of soot that painted nearly every surface in a thick, black grime.

  Robert had allowed Aveline and Fan to accompany the men who were to finish clearing the castle. She’d been pleased to fall into the ranks of those able to go, that is, until she beheld more than just the remnants of the felled entryway. Questions of stability around the façade would have to come later. But this time, the task was to sort through the remaining rooms at the back wing—those that were heavily damaged by water and smoke—to see what, if anything, remained to salvage.

  The men lined up in boats along the stone landing, ready to transport any remaining wares that might be saved. The ones that couldn’t would be piled in a great heap by the road. The ones that could would be stored at a neighboring estate until such time as they could be used again.

  Aveline’s shoes echoed as she walked the grand hall in the back wing, facing the moat. She gazed out to the terrace, moving along by a row of open-air frames. No glass remained; they were likely broken in order that the castle might air out. Sunlight fractured a curious pattern of light at her feet, cut by the moving shadows of men in their boats along the castle’s back side. Curtains still hung on gilt rods at one end, with colors bled down to the tips as if watercolor paints had been left out to dry upon them. Settees that had once lined the walls. Sideboards and mirrors too; she remembered those from the night of the party. They’d all been cast out—likely already taken over by the pungent enemy of mold. Silver candelabras were piled in a heap against the wall, blackened from soot but still alive. They could be reused, and perhaps play host to new flames one day.

  “Here you are.” Fanetta’s voice rose in the empty hall, echoing against the high ceiling. She’d nearly passed by in the service hall but stopped and whisked in when she saw Aveline.

  “I can’t believe these rooms survived,” Aveline said, looking up to the engraved ceiling that remained. So meticulous in design and exquisite in its rendering. She hoped it could be saved under the layers of smoke and soot. “They’re a ghost of what was here only a few weeks ago. It’s as if everything was plunged underwater and time simply . . . stopped turning.”

  Fan brought a hand up to cover her nose. “You can smell the fetid water, that’s for sure.”

  Aveline smiled. “Oui, decay does have a certain aroma. We’ll have to do something about that if these rooms can be used at all.”

  “This one I’d love to abandon with all haste, if you please.” She swept in, hooking her arm around Aveline’s elbow to pull her from the hall. “The men have already cleared this hall. But come with me. We found some things in the portrait room Robert thinks still might be saved.”

  Realization fell like a shadow.

  The portrait room . . .

  Aveline had forgotten until that very moment.

  With a tight squeeze to Fan’s arm, she eased back into the shadows of the hall. “I can’t go in there. Not now.”

  “Why ever not? Master Robert says it’s safe. There’s no structural damage to this part of the castle, and all the rooms have been aired.”

  Aveline shook her head like mad, a sense of panic rising from her midsection. “You don’t understand. I’m in there. My face is on the wall—a portrait that my parents commissioned in Paris. It was to be a wedding present for Philippe. If anyone sees it, they’ll know who I am.”

  Aveline swallowed hard, willing fear to be held at bay. She steadied her stance, staring back at the growing worry upon Fan’s face. “If what you say is true, that the people are looking for the betrothed of the son of the Duc et Vivay’s, even with the scars, it would be possible to compare the likeness.”

  Fan’s eyes widened. “You’re certain of this.”

  “I am. I was told upon my arrival that it would be done, though I hadn’t the chance to see it. I’d made plans to stop by the portrait room before the ball began, but I received my sister’s letter and then everything happened so fast.”

  “Then I wonder . . .” She looked to Aveline, clearing her throat as she searched for words. “Where was it to hang? Do you know?”

  “Over the mantel. They’d moved the former duchess’s portrait to accommodate mine, or so my mother relayed.”

  Aveline shuddered, thinking the honor of its placement shouldn’t have belonged to her. She’d done nothing to earn it. And now, if the castle were rebuilt, Aveline feared seeing her likeness hang anywhere, not with scars and red pigment slashing over her porcelain skin.

  She pushed the thought away.

  Perhaps Philippe would not want her as she was now. That would abate the fear and the problem itself in one fell swoop.

  “If your face is to be hanging upon that wall, then I’m afraid someone may already know you’re here.”

  “How can that be?”

  She squeezed Aveline’s hand, her brow etched in distress.

  “Because, mademoiselle—your portrait is missing.”

&
nbsp; TWENTY

  PRESENT DAY

  LES TROIS-MOUTIERS

  LOIRE VALLEY, FRANCE

  Butterflies danced through the patch of wildflowers that had sprung up along the road to the winery—bright buttercup-yellow blooms and sprigs of wild violets that poked up from the field grasses. A sudden crash penetrated the air, stirring the winged creatures to carry their colors away.

  Ellie looked up, heading in the direction of the thatch-roofed barn on the hill. The setting sun cut past open doors, illuminating weathered wood in a small alcove of the entry. Quinn knelt before a rustic potter’s table, jeans ground against dust and stone, his attention fixed on digging through a crate of old wares stowed underneath.

  He’d managed to break an impressive amount of pottery, the evidence of the crash strewn about him like sharp clay land mines.

  Ellie rapped her knuckles on the door frame. “Titus said you might be here. I didn’t think you’d taken to outright mutiny though. This really isn’t the way to get through to him.”

  “You’ve found me.” He sighed. “And not quite a mutiny, yet. But ’tis still a royal mess.”

  “Can I help?” Ellie knelt alongside and swept up the pottery shards in her palm, discarding them in a wastebasket nearby. “What were you doing out here? It looks like this old place hasn’t seen any visitors in a while.”

  “Doesn’t usually. But Titus had me searchin’ for somethin’ I’ll never find in this graveyard for old tools. Wants a set of shears that have been gatherin’ dust out here. Says he can’t keep up in the harvest without ’em. But tell me how dull blades are goin’ to help cut through grape tannins?” He tossed a span of twine and rusted garden tools in a crate, then rocked back on his heels, running his hands through his dark hair in frustration. “I think he sent me on a goose chase. But the question is why.”