The Lost Castle

by Kristy Cambron

The maid nodded, enthusiasm agreeing with Robert’s logic. “Yes. As the castle will heal over time, you will also. Look at all that’s been lost. Many goods were tossed away immediately after the fire, and an equal amount today. A great number of portraits were among the items that could not be saved. Isn’t that right, Master Robert?”

  He paused, gaze moving from the activity back to Aveline. “It is.”

  “See? There you are. You’re not even certain that your portrait was hung in that room. Isn’t it possible the painting was still boxed up, waiting for a grand debut after the engagement ball? Most likely it, too, has been lost in the fire.”

  Aveline steadied her breath, wariness still there, but the arguments of those she trusted were managing to win over in some small measure.

  A gentle rumble cut the sky—a sure sign rain would soon be upon them.

  Robert noticed, of course, that time was wearing thin, and shouted at Gabin to ready the men around the pile. The instruction set about more activity with boats backing away to the outer circle of the moat and men readying buckets of water, tying linen strips over their mouths to protect from smoke.

  Aveline’s heart squeezed. “You’re going to burn it?”

  Suddenly, the intent felt barbaric. The wares couldn’t be used, that she knew full well. But to see the family’s loss on display and then to have it ravaged all over again . . .

  Robert braced his hands behind his back. “Fan, I wonder if I may have a word with mademoiselle.” He cleared his throat. “Alone.”

  “Certainly,” she whispered, and dropped into a soft bow. She locked eyes with Aveline before whisking away—the tiny impression of a smile brushing over her lips.

  Robert waited patiently, still, until Fan rushed down the steps to join the others on the road. It wasn’t until the rest were a safe distance away that he continued.

  “Aveline, you have nothing to fear. I’ve ensured that your portrait was put back. It was damaged, but—” He looked away from her, settling his gaze on the safer view down the castle steps. “It’s still private enough that it should be for your betrothed to decide whether to keep it or commission a new portrait sitting.”

  She exhaled, a small measure of comfort allowing her to do so. “You didn’t wish to say so in front of Fan.”

  “No. I didn’t want to add injury to what you’ve already been through, so put it back upon discovery. My apologies. I hadn’t considered how any of this might pain you. But as for the fire—it’s the only spot not covered over in trees, and I can’t risk setting fire to the grove or the vineyards behind. I’m happy to take you back to the cottage if you don’t want to be here, but this must be done—damaged portraits and all.”

  Aveline nodded. Though his offer was a comfort, the sentiment was misplaced.

  “I thank you for your generosity, but you misunderstand. I don’t fear the fire. In fact, I wish I were more delicate, but my father always said I was too unyielding to be a placation at court. Perhaps it’s why I’m beginning to feel at home out here in the countryside.”

  “You’re at home here?” Robert’s eyes calmed, concern replaced with the edge of a smile at their corners. “That’s good. Philippe will be pleased to hear it.”

  “Perhaps. But what pains me is that I can’t bear to watch it again. Not when your family has already lost so much. It’s a blackness I don’t wish for you, or for Philippe. Who knows what will happen now? Paris is in upheaval. And the king’s rule will be challenged more than it already has. I fear this is the first of many fires of the past we’ll be forced to watch before France can heal. Smoke . . .” She sighed, spilling into a laugh to cover the threat of building emotion. “More blackness. Why can’t the road be bathed in color?”

  “It is in the spring. Wild plum trees blossom all the way down to the gate.”

  “But that’s for such a short time, and it’s always above us. Why not violets? They’re wild and resilient. They could flourish in a place like this. And they keep their petals close to the ground, so they’d add color whenever one looked down in sorrow.”

  “Violets stealing away sorrows?” He tipped his brow in consideration, nodding along with her.

  “Yes. Like Paris gardens that bloom in the spring. You should see them. Violets bring the most remarkable color to the places that have none. I think they’re God’s gift to a burdened world. If I could, I’d plant violets over every inch of the grove to remind those visiting the castle that there will be life and color here again—especially in those times when sorrow reigns.”

  The whoosh of wind drew Aveline’s attention down below. The pile had been lit and was fast being consumed, eaten up in orange flames that licked the sky. The crackling sound she remembered. Smoke and ash tingeing the air, a sudden familiarity. She wrapped a hand around her waist, leveling her breathing against the sight.

  “I saw Philippe’s portrait before you had it carried out.” She cast her gaze out on the fire. “What a relief that it could be saved.”

  “So he is faceless to you no more. Must be some measure of relief. My brother is said to have a noble brow.”

  “Oui. A very noble brow . . .” She thought it over, how Robert had a likeness not far off from his elder brother’s. They were quite obviously family. Same lean build. Similar dark hair. An intense, brooding glare. Save for the eyes. Robert’s owned the subtlety of kindness that paint could never capture. “The heritage of the Vivay family, no doubt.”

  “And it will be your heritage now too.”

  The last thing Aveline had expected was to feel the warmth of Robert’s hand covering the fingertips of her damaged one. He held them gently, but not laced in an intimate way—anchoring in a show of solidarity. Of family they’d one day become. Without the necessity of words, he’d reminded Aveline that she wasn’t alone. That in a new life, she would rise from the ashes. That the castle, too, would awaken again after a cleansing by fire.

  “I beg you to forgive me, but—” Robert didn’t look at her but paused, his voice an odd combination of strength and wavering at the same time. “I should have told you something the night of the celebration. But you were so happy. I was afraid it would break you, and I couldn’t stand to be the harbinger of more pain upon you.”

  “Tell me what, pray?”

  “The missive about the meeting of the National Assembly on 4 August arrived from your father. It was addressed to you. As the ranking member of my family here, I had to open it. I didn’t know whether it held news of your family or mine—perhaps even Philippe’s death. And I meant to tell you gently if that were the case.”

  Aveline nodded understanding. And she did understand. More than he realized. “But he mustn’t be dead. Surely you would have told me.”

  Robert squeezed her hand and, with a cold absence that cut through her, let go. “I thank God, he is not. Both he and my father are quite well. In Paris these last weeks.”

  It took little to read between the lines and understand what he was trying so hard to avoid telling her.

  “But the missive said I am leaving, didn’t it?” She brushed a tear that threatened to drop from the tips of her lashes. “I’m to return to Paris too.”

  “Oui. Eventually. What with the fall of the ancien régime, they fear Paris will be a risk for the nobility. Philippe and your father will return to fetch us north to Lisieux, where we have a family estate. We will rendezvous with your mother there, and you and Philippe can be married. Arrangements have been made for your family and mine to go on to the port at Le Havre, in the event that a sea voyage is necessary. It is a sound plan, at least until the madness in Paris is settled.”

  “A plan to sail to England. Is that what you’re telling me? That I’m to leave the only home I’ve ever known and cross the sea to a country of our enemy?”

  The tear that had hidden on her lashes so convincingly moments before now edged out and left a trail down the side of Aveline’s cheek. She left it, unable to let go of the connection of where his hand had been, even to s
wipe it away.

  “It’s a remote possibility only. Just to ensure your safety.”

  “But you’re not going, are you? You’re staying here.”

  “The people here, Aveline . . . the vineyard . . . even this castle—they are my home. I cannot abandon them.”

  “Yet you’d ask me to do the same.”

  The storm grew closer. Thunder rumbled, cutting the sky in two with its warning. She shivered, despite the thickness of the air.

  “You sent my father a missive in reply?”

  “I did. The night of the fête on the ridge.”

  Aveline drew in a breath, willing herself to be brave and ask the question. He must have known it was on her mind—her scars—or surely he would have already addressed them.

  “And you warned Philippe about me?”

  Robert turned, an abrupt face-to-face, his eyes searching her with ardent attention and his stance dangerously close to hers.

  “And what would I tell him, Aveline? Save that he may rejoice that his betrothed is still alive and well? And healing from something that never should have happened to her while we still had breath in our bodies? Believe me, it took everything I had to relay events with even the smallest measure of civility after what he’s done. Do not make me dishonor you further by relaying scars of a nature that are mere surface affectations. Forgive me—but they should never matter to the confines of a gentleman’s heart!”

  The sky cried, gentle drops of rain tumbling down in a soft veil between them. Uncaring for their intrusion, Aveline stared back, her eyes following his through the building storm between them.

  “Philippe knows nothing of me outside of the virtues my father relayed when he brokered our marriage arrangement.”

  “That is meritless.”

  “But I am altered. Forever, Robert. You dare speak of the heart against a man who has yet to meet me or accept me as I am now?”

  Robert swallowed hard as rain collected and dripped off the bottom of his chin. He chose to ignore it, as if seeing only her, for long seconds afterward. “No. I speak with the knowledge of a man who already has.”

  He backed away.

  A clear step when he might have brushed forward a tiny breath and simply pressed his lips against hers. Instead, the convictions of propriety put a solid barrier of rain and much-needed space between them.

  The fire burned, illuminating oil-painted faces of past generations of Vivays, as raindrops sizzled in gray smoke, instead of the deep black cloud that should have consumed the sky.

  Aveline watched the glint of firelight illuminating Robert’s profile. There was no doubt he owned a noble brow. But it was made more so in that he stood on the steps of his father’s castle, resolute where Philippe had lacked, and impassioned in his convictions, when her own fiancé’s heart was still a mystery.

  Even then, she clung to the hope that when reunited with his brother, the affections of her heart would no longer be softened by the man who stood at her side and would no longer ache to watch the legacy of past generations burn.

  TWENTY-THREE

  PRESENT DAY

  LES TROIS-MOUTIERS

  LOIRE VALLEY, FRANCE

  “Trespassers—especially the enchanted American kind—are fair game for the police. Best to be keepin’ that front of mind while we’re here.”

  Best-case scenario, they’d spend the night in jail.

  It’s what Quinn warned her, among other things. To stay still. And quiet. To keep their voices low as they traversed the wide moat to the castle ruins and certainly avoid making any hasty movements in the patched wooden dory, or the two of them could end up in the water.

  He said he could sneak her in, sight unseen. But sink the boat in a great splash and there’d be little he could do to ensure their undertaking remained a secret. He’d agreed to the midnight excursion reluctantly, and with repeated deep sighs, only when Ellie reminded him they’d accepted her payment for a tour in advance and promised her full agreement to follow orders once they were on the water.

  Quinn sat behind her, steady and silent, rowing them headlong into the night.

  “So this is Fox Grove?” she breathed out, her words fogging to a slight cloud in the night air. “It’s bigger than it looks from the outside.”

  The boat creaked as Quinn stretched back and rowed again, the oars cutting a lilting refrain of wood to water. “That it is.”

  “And how do you say it?”

  “Bosquet du Renard,” he whispered back, his Dubliner upbringing somehow managing to cling to his words even then.

  “You’ve seen this before? You know, the view of the grove from the inside?”

  She turned, having expected Quinn’s reply, but caught only his quarter-profile, etched in silence as he rowed on. He’d pulled his hair back, tucking it behind the ears, and still hadn’t shaved. Probably because he was at war with the expectations of his grandfather’s world, and it was a show of defiance to cut his own path in something.

  He cleared his throat but didn’t answer—just kept rowing.

  A muffled laugh, perhaps? Maybe he’d seen an American tourist’s reaction too many times before. It must all seem cliché to him. Countless boat rides across the moat and somewhere along the line, even a fairy-tale castle can manage to lose its luster.

  “Something to add, Mr. Foley?”

  Quinn paused, long enough that she stole a full glance over her shoulder to see if her instincts had been correct. He didn’t appear to be laughing then, but he was waiting this time, like he knew she’d turn back. He met her with the oars resting in his lap and the green pools of his eyes staring back. His typical buttoned-up nature might have kept him glued to short answers, but he could punctuate the words with a single look.

  “Just that I’ve seen it. Once.”

  “You mean to tell me you live here, have tourists stopping by the vineyard every single day, and yet you’ve only been out here once?”

  He shrugged it off. “That’s right.”

  “How is that even possible, that you can know this place exists, see it staring back every time you look out your window, and not want to come here every day? I think I’d live here if I had the chance.”

  “We live where we live. Isn’t that what you said? But you forget, I’m not in the habit of trespassin’ upon private property. I don’t take this trip lightly.”

  “I haven’t forgotten.”

  “You’re still darin’ though, yeah? The letter of the law doesn’t stop Ellie Carver.”

  “Has it stopped you?” She pitched an eyebrow at him, firing his question back. “And if you’ve only seen it once, then why choose now to see it again?”

  “Let’s just say that your persuasiveness won out, mainly so I wouldn’t have to hear you ask for the hundredth time. But I warn you that others have come and gone, lookin’ for the same thing you are. The ruins won’t be disturbed. You’ll find yourself disappointed if you set your heart on rescuing this place.”

  “Rescuing?” Ellie waved him off with a flick of her wrist. “Don’t be ridiculous. I just want to see it.”

  Quinn stopped, bracing the oars on his knees again, but leaned in far this time, as if she’d struck a chord somewhere inside. He sent her a knowing look and tapped a fingertip to his temple. “Tourists always want to see it. And whether they say it aloud, it’s always what they’re thinking. Admit it—it’s what you were thinkin’. See the ruins first, then spearhead an international social-media campaign to garner support and return an important historical landmark to its former glory. If you sell mountains of tourist tickets afterward, that’s a craicin’ outcome for the cause.”

  “Craicing?”

  “Yeah. Since you can’t look that one up in your Irish dictionary at the moment, it means a good time, to you Americans.”

  “Wouldn’t be the first time someone’s found a good time in doing something positive.”

  “And here I thought you wanted more than a good time. That plan may have worked for other
castles in the Loire Valley, but I told you the property owner wants nothin’ of it. And he’s persistent enough to employ security staff who are passionate in ferretin’ out intruders on the grounds. So no, I don’t come here. I live on the other side of the estate, let the castle be, and I’m quite content with that.”

  “I’m sure you are. And I’m not a lawbreaker either, come to think of it. Just the opposite. We homebodies don’t pick up and go that often—certainly not as far as France. But I’d still come back here. To this place,” she confessed, enchantment pulling her back to the landscape ahead of them. “I’d have to.”

  Ellie turned around for a breath, somehow unafraid to show her excitement this time, even if he would mark it as vulnerability. Or cliché. Or whatever might make a Loire Valley vineyard owner find humor in a tourist’s dumbstruck moment. It was enough that they were here, dancing around the edges of uncovering the castle’s secrets.

  Whatever response he chose, Quinn couldn’t make her sorry for it. Not now.

  “I wanted to know what might have been in this place—what story was here in the valley of castles and kings. I never even knew The Sleeping Beauty existed until a couple of weeks ago. And now that I’m here . . . she’s all I see.”

  Ellie pictured her Grandma Vi, the proper English lady, leaning forward in the dory with the same excitement she felt then, like a child at a thousand Christmases. This was a fairy tale come to life. It was generations past. The foundation of another time, another place, daring to reach out and ripple the cadence of their present.

  “It’s better than I ever could have imagined.”

  Quinn leaned in slow, the boat creaking with the shifting weight. “Look over there.” He pointed into the trees to their left. She turned with him, peering through the mingling darkness. “Buried off in the woods behind. See it?”

  Gangly trees tried to hide it. Ivy delighted in blanketing its sides, just like on its larger sister. A tiny cross and spire rose out of the overgrowth, and Ellie followed it down with her gaze until it connected to stone walls and a pitched roof lined in haunting portals of rainbow-stained glass. The windows were narrow, aged and unkempt, with a noticeable break dominating the corner of one. Fractured glass stole no beauty from the forgotten place; it meant life had happened there.