The Lost Castle

by Kristy Cambron

  “No. We didn’t know anything. We were fighting our own battles just then.”

  “But you’re with the SOE? Is that what you’re telling me?”

  She stretched out her hand and rolled the film cartridge into his palm. “Four SOE operatives at Château de La Roche-Guyon in Giverny, and countless maquisard fighters at the Château des Doux-Rêves, gave their lives to get that into your hands and out of France. I have their names. I have photographs in this camera, and their stories recorded in a journal. Their families and their government will want to know what’s become of them all.”

  He stared down at the film cartridge, then turned it over in his hand. “And you, Lady Vi? What should I tell London has become of you?”

  Vi pressed her hand over the brooch pinned to her collar, looking out over the span of Loudun’s townscape before them. Would it be overrun? Would the people living and fighting and dying behind its sandbag barriers have a record of their stories too?

  “Tell them the people here made certain I am safe. I will fight in this place until the last battle has been won. And now that The Sleeping Beauty is awake, I intend to ensure that her story never dies.”

  THIRTY-THREE

  PRESENT DAY

  MARQUETTE, MICHIGAN

  “June 19, 1944 . . .”

  Ellie paused in reading the journal entry long enough to look over at the form of her grandmother, sleeping in the bed.

  It wasn’t clear whether Grandma Vi could hear anything she said.

  Maybe reading the castle’s story aloud was for the benefit of her heart more than her grandmother’s. But somehow, in the depths of a sleep that refused to wane in recent days, Ellie hoped she could hear her voice. That Lady Vi would know her granddaughter had uncovered the story of the Château des Doux-Rêves, and that she finally understood what it meant:

  Julien died on a Monday . . .

  He slipped away, just as the sun rose and cut light through the chapel’s stained glass. I’d held his hand through the early morning hours, thinking how rare it was that peace should belong in each tick of the clock . . . and how kindred the view was to the hidden chapel where we’d first met.

  I told him that the wire carried news he was an uncle, that Titus and Marie had a healthy boy to carry on the Vivay name. I talked about his remarkable sister, little Claire—Criquet, as he liked to call her. I said she owned grit similar to her older brother, for she’d stood unflinching in the face of fear as he’d always taught her to and gifted me with her most prized possession—a book of fairy stories. I told him about where I grew up, of my parents and Andrew, my only brother—the one person in my life who had always supported me without fault. And how I had a niece and a nephew, Pippa and William, who’d have loved exploring the hidden corners of our castle ruins.

  I dreamed aloud, my voice battling against the speed of the clock. I told him how one day, we’d restore the castle together. I promised him that if he’d only open his eyes and look at me, he’d know my answer. That I’d never leave this place, and he would have my heart as long as I lived.

  We heard over the wire that a great battle had begun at Normandy on the 19th of June. And through clapping and cheers in the sanctuary at Cathédrale Espoir Sacré, we celebrated the Allies’ liberation of Montebourg that day. And I kissed his hand, whispering, “Remember this, remember this . . .” because I knew one day I’d give anything to return to this one moment.

  I said good-bye, and never saw those golden eyes again.

  Ellie closed the journal and looked up, watching the even up-down cadence of breathing from her grandmother’s petite form.

  “So that’s what you meant. You told Grandpa that in a way, you would always love Julien. And he married you still, and the two of you made a beautiful life together. Julien wanted you to have the castle, but you just couldn’t love it without him, could you? You knew when the diagnosis brought you here that the castle would one day go to me. And you didn’t want me to have it without the story you held dear.” Ellie kissed the fox brooch and leaned over, pressing it into the faint warmth of her grandmother’s hand. “You’ve lived une belle vie, Lady Vi. And I am so very proud of you.”

  “Ellie?”

  She brushed a tear from her cheek and turned in the chair, finding she hadn’t imagined the whisper from the doorway.

  Quinn was really there, as she’d hoped to find him—unshaven as usual, clad in an Irish pub tee and gripping a guitar case instead of luggage. He set the case on the floor and nearly dropped a delicate paper-wrapped bouquet in the process, catching it with all thumbs.

  He smiled, exposed and real, the softness in his eyes settling over her like a blanket.

  “I was thinkin’ about that song on the plane ride over. ‘Blackbird’? The one your da used to play for ya when you were young?”

  “And I have you to thank for the memory. I’d almost forgotten what a guitar sounds like.”

  “Do you know the lyrics?”

  Ellie shook her head. He took a step inside.

  “It talks about a blackbird, taking its broken wings and learnin’ to fly again. It says, ‘You were only waiting for this moment to arise.’ Reminded me of somethin’. That I’ve been walkin’ like this for a long while now. Too long. And I think if you were brave enough to walk the road to the castle not knowin’ what was at the other end, then maybe I could too.”

  He eased in the rest of the way and knelt at the side of her chair with the bouquet in his hand: violets and wildflowers, wrapped in lavender paper. They perfumed the air with the fragrance of Fox Grove.

  “There’s a bit of the old Frenchman in his Irish grandson, so you’ll have to forgive me for bein’ of the old-fashioned lot to ask.” Quinn held the flowers out to Ellie. “But these are for Lady Vi. I wanted to know if I could court her granddaughter. If I promise no more rides in dodgy dories, and if I can keep my olagonin’ about the castle to a minimum.”

  Ellie took the flowers in hand, trying her best to manage a smile and tears at the same time. “Court her granddaughter, hmm?”

  “Old-fashioned term.” He shrugged. “I think posh people call it vintage, or some such nonsense. In any case, I wanted to hear the rest of it. The entire story of Ellison Carver. And I can’t learn that if I’m trekkin’ through a vineyard half a world away.”

  Quinn softened his features as he looked around, taking in the sight of wartime photos on the bureau, the pin-board with postcards, and shelves teeming with Vi’s beloved books. And then Ellie. She’d waited until his gaze returned to her, then drifted to the sleeping form in the bed.

  “I’ve been reading to her.” She patted the journal in her lap. “From this.”

  “Titus said it was all there. The story of your grandmother, and Julien. And the history of the castle goin’ as far back as the time of the Revolution. Funny—I never knew how the Muscadet got its name. And now we do. There really was a lady named Aveline, and she was a princess of the castle who was to marry the duke’s eldest son but fell in love with his brother instead. I admit to likin’ that part, bein’ a younger brother myself. But she was the first to want to bring the castle back to life.” He smiled, and Ellie thought she read a glimmer of pride in his features. “You are one of a long line of women who fought to rebuild those old stones. Rather remarkable company to share, yeah?”

  “Tell me the truth. Are you here because you want to be, or because Titus made you? I’d wager he doesn’t want to see the castle forgotten after all these years.”

  “Clever, my girl is.” Quinn stood and turned, going after the guitar in the doorway. He eased a chair up next to hers and sat down. “Would you believe he and Auntie Claire figured out how to buy a plane ticket online? I swear by the Almighty I’m goin’ to have to destroy that laptop, or those two will be the death of me yet.”

  She laughed. “Why am I not surprised?”

  “But there’s still truth in it. Titus said I’d be a grand fool if I didn’t go on after ya. Flipped me on the back of the
skull somethin’ fierce, and said I’d learned nothin’ from all this. But I would have bought a ticket without his meddlin’. I did, actually. The moment you left. So now I have two return tickets to the Loire Valley . . . and the dates are open ended.”

  Quinn leaned down and flipped open the latches on the case at his feet. He pulled the guitar into his lap and let it rest on his knees, ready to play. “May I stay?”

  Ellie eased deeper into the chair, turning the bouquet over in her hands. She raised the violets to her nose, loving the familiar scent . . . of home.

  “It could be a while.” She looked up. “Grandma Vi could rally or . . . Either way, the castle will have to wait. At least I know she wanted me to have it. That it’s always been a part of who she is and now, it’s a part of me. I’ll go back one day, but it’s not anywhere near as important as what’s in this room right now. And I won’t leave her. Not for a moment.”

  “Neither will I.” He leaned in, brushed a soft kiss to her lips as he began to play, fingerpicking the melody of familiar notes to envelop the room. “We’ll walk this road together, however long it takes.”

  EPILOGUE

  SPRING

  LES TROIS-MOUTIERS

  LOIRE VALLEY, FRANCE

  Ellie and Quinn walked hand in hand through the grove. She ran fingertips from her free hand along the bumpy ridges of the stone wall.

  It was her first spring in France. Their first together. And though the castle had slept through a very, very long winter, their Sleeping Beauty could soon awaken with the changing of the seasons. With the wild plum trees blossoming along the road, wildflowers picking their spots in the fields, and tiny grape buds just starting to weigh down Titus’s vines, the land was exploding to life.

  Butterflies returned. The night markets would open in mere weeks. And the sun would sojourn for longer periods each day, to ensure the mornings of sweater-wearing would soon pass into summer. From summer, to harvest again. And while she didn’t favor predictability in her new life, Ellie had worn a favorite sweater for their morning walk and wrapped her wine-and-ivory pin-dot scarf around her hair. Ebony waves—barrel-rolled and natural, as Grandma Vi would have worn it long ago, spilled over her shoulders as they moved along, getting caught up in the last chilly breezes of the season.

  Soon they could have a garden where they walked.

  Ellie imagined lilacs to go with the wild violets lining the castle road. Lovely French peony bushes bursting with ivory and blush pinks and hedgerows of deep evergreen. A stone bench, perhaps in the center of the garden, near where Julien had been laid to rest so many decades before. Maybe they’d engrave the long-ago names of Aveline and Robert, the more recent Lady and Julien, Dr. Carver, and Titus’s nearly forgotten Elder—all the names that may have belonged to the past but signified lives that had led Ellie and Quinn to the next chapter in the castle’s story.

  She stopped, sinking the soles of her boots in the brush. “I think we should start here.” Ellie turned a half circle, gazing around the canopy of trees and the lush arbor rows beyond. “Right here, with the wall.”

  “We have an entire castle to rebuild and you want to start . . . with a pile of stones?” Quinn’s tone was less than convinced as he let go of her hand and inspected the crumbling wall.

  “Yeah.” Ellie raised her palm to shield her eyes, dreaming along with the rising sun. “I do.”

  Something about it felt right. The photo taken there on June 5, 1944, had turned out to be one of many taken in the days that followed the Normandy invasion. But it was the singular image that had brought Grandma Vi back to life and called Ellie through the castle gates. And she stood happy, her heart somehow full by the measure that life could still breathe through castle ruins, a crumbling stone wall, and an overgrown thicket.

  “I love that Grandma Vi stayed in Loudun after Julien died, fighting with the rest of the people until the end of the war. She must have made quite an impression on my grandfather for him to track her down at Cambridge after it was all over. But she never gave up. All those years, she researched everything she could so one day, we could tell the castle’s story. And I finally understand. She dearly loved my grandfather. He was a good man. But she also loved this place, and even if it was only for a short time, that time forever changed her. And if it’s succeeded, isn’t that what a story should do? Change us in some way?”

  Ellie half turned, the way she did when she knew she’d posed something Quinn would take issue with and wasn’t sure she really wanted to know his answer. Catching him out of the corner of her eye, she nibbled her bottom lip, waiting.

  He stood, slipped his hands in his jeans pockets, and remained silent while studying the scene in earnest.

  “So, what do you think?”

  He gave a hefty sigh. “That it’s goin’ to be a lot of work.”

  She nodded. “I know. But you’ve seen me harvesting grapes. I’m good for it. I won’t complain a bit, no matter how many spiders try to make friends with me in the process.”

  “I hate to tell ya, but there’s bound to be more than spiders in those ruins over there.” He furrowed his brow, issuing a mock glare. “I can’t believe I’m sayin’ this, but if your heart’s set on reopenin’, we’re goin’ to need funds. We’ll have to set up some kind of social-media campaign . . . get the town to agree . . . I don’t want to begin to wonder about what kind of permits we’re goin’ to need. I get a headache just thinkin’ about it.”

  Quinn sighed again and ran his fingers through his dark hair, the way he always did when he bristled but was willing to give a little. Funny how he’d thought his grandfather’s ways were the antiquated ones; the mere mention of social media and permits looked as if it pained him considerably, and Ellie had to bite her bottom lip to suppress an ill-timed laugh.

  “But . . . you like the idea? And you think the family will agree, to share the story of this place?”

  “Agree or not, it’s your castle now. I could ask Titus to put his oar in, but mind, once I do, there’s no pullin’ him back. He’ll appoint himself president of this whole operation, and he’ll have my grandmother and Auntie Claire feeding every tourist until they pop. That’s a great lot of liability you’d be takin’ on.”

  “I know that too. And it’s why I didn’t just assume you’d be in agreement. I wanted us to make this decision together.” Ellie wrapped her arms around her waist, easing into a hopeful smile before him. “So, maybe we take it in stages. Rebuild the wall first. Gardens second. Raise funds through tourism and wine sales. I’d never considered writing when I was young, though Grandma Vi always tried to push me to do it. But maybe I do that too—start a website, record all that we do to bring the castle back to life. Room by room, if we have to. But at the very least, she’ll welcome people again.

  “And maybe someone will walk down that road to her front doors, someone who wants more than just a calendar photo for a desk frame. Maybe they’ll see the fairy tale in this place too. Maybe it will inspire someone else to step out and take a risk for something that truly matters. I know it would honor Grandma Vi. I think all along, it’s what she was trying to tell me. That the story we’re writing in this life, day by day, it’s a gift from God and we can’t afford to waste a moment of it.”

  Quinn listened and nodded, his quiet way fully intact.

  “Well, if that’s all true, you’re goin’ to need this.” He pulled a brown-paper parcel from his pocket, tied up in a simple twine bow. “Or at least . . . I’m goin’ to need it.”

  “Need what? Despite what that paper suggests, I sincerely hope you did not put a pain au chocolat in your pocket. I’m not that hungry.” She took the parcel, then turned to open it atop the wall. The twine gave. The brown paper blossomed open. “And I already have a scarf, so—”

  The tiny wink of a row of diamonds on a white-gold band froze her hands in place.

  Ellie spun on her heel, finding Quinn’s height had been halved by the knee he’d pressed against the forest floor.

/>   “I like the idea about buildin’ up the wall again. It’s grand. But I thought maybe we could start with the chapel? If you say yes, we’re goin’ to need it first.” He paused, swallowing over his words. “So I’ll say yes to all this, if you say yes to me.”

  Ellie could have cried for how nervous he looked, and did, for how completely happy her heart was in that moment.

  Like in every fairy tale she’d ever read, she nodded to the man kneeling before the one he’d asked to be his wife—except she was the girl and he was the boy, and this was real life. In their story, he slipped a ring on her finger and lifted her boots from the ground, turning her in circles as they laughed.

  And kissed.

  And dreamed of a future where the castle’s legacy lived on, and the stories were written in generations of weathered stone.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Once upon a time, I was an Ellie.

  I walked into my grandmother’s room at an Alzheimer’s care facility, praying she would know me just once more. After telling her who I was a few times, the scene you read in this book unfolded brilliantly. Like Lady Vi Carver, my grandmother, too, had been a college professor and could still claim a spark of the elegant woman I’d looked up to in my youth. As is the story with so many who battle Alzheimer’s—whether patient, family, friends, or caregivers—this disease steals indiscriminately. This book gifted me an opportunity to take something back and write about such loss from a place of deep understanding. It’s why the dedication goes to the grandmothers in my life, for the legacy of our generation is first written in the indelible ink of theirs.

  Several accounts in this book come from historical fact—the first of which provided loose inspiration for Ellie’s lost castle. Château de la Mothe-Chandeniers is an abandoned thirteenth-century–castle–turned-storybook château, surrounded by a moat and nestled in the heart of French wine country. It’s not open to the public, but at the time of this novel’s publication, restoration discussions continue. It felt right that a mix of fairy-tale inspiration and childhood memories should turn into a main character that, surprisingly, had no lines in this book. A lost castle emerged with a hint of French romance, and a beauty that was forced to unfold alongside the grim realities of war.