The Chateau by the River

by Chloé Duval

A noise came from the wall, and two powerful hands reached out to grab her and hold her steady.

  And now the walls move and talk. Curiouser and curiouser.

  Had she fallen down the rabbit hole? She was suddenly aware that said wall wore a thick black wool coat, still damp, and exuded far too much warmth for an inanimate object. Still breathless, Gabrielle let her eyes wander up the coat’s arm to broad shoulders, absently noting the tie partially hidden behind a black scarf, and from there to a man’s face half shadowed by the brim of a hat, where they fell prey to the steel-gray gaze.

  The world fell away in an instant. The bookstore, Étienne and Mr. Demers, the great Exposition Universelle, her disheveled appearance, the drenched books she had to dry as soon as possible, the water streaming from her clothes and hair and puddling at her feet… Everything disappeared, leaving only the gray gaze plunging deep into her own, undecipherable, unfathomable, bewitching.

  And just like that, Gabrielle’s heart skipped a beat.

  The moment lasted only a few seconds, a few brief heartbeats during which she felt adrift in a timeless bubble, soaring away from reality, toward a world she never wanted to leave. Then her father exited his study, papers in his hand and glasses on the end of his nose, and the bubble burst, disappearing as fast as it had appeared. With great regret, Gabrielle’s feet returned to earth. It had been so nice, up there in the clouds.…

  “There you are, Gabrielle!” Maurice exclaimed as he spotted her. “I was looking for you!”

  His voice made the gray-eyed man turn away. Blinking as though to gather his thoughts, he stepped back, resolutely looking somewhere toward the door to the bookstore.

  “Are you all right?” Maurice asked, brows furrowed. “You’re soaked to the skin!”

  “Don’t worry, Papa,” she replied, gathering from somewhere a calm she did not feel. “I just got caught in the rain as I made my way back from lunch with Sophie. I was about to go up and change when I bumped into this gentleman. My apologies.” She smiled. “I hope I didn’t hurt you.”

  “You didn’t.”

  His voice was deep and gravelly, and he suddenly looked embarrassed.

  Now she was at a more respectable distance from the stranger, Gabrielle was able to take in the rest of his appearance. He was impressively tall and well built, with jet-black hair that curled as wildly as hers did, a square, determined jaw covered in several days’ stubble.… And a scar running over his left eyebrow down to his ear. Pale and jagged, it seemed old—and it looked as if he had only barely kept his eye. Despite the scar—or maybe because of it?—he exuded an old-fashioned sort of presence, reminiscent of a knight ready to lay down his life for what he believed in, an animal charisma that radiated from him and awoke feelings and emotions Gabrielle had never experienced before.

  “This is precisely why I was looking for you,” her father continued, unaware of her turmoil. “Let me introduce our new patron, Mr. D’Arcy. Mr. D’Arcy, this is my daughter Gabrielle.”

  Gabrielle froze. Had she heard right? Darcy?

  * * *

  3 Héloïse’s Books.

  Chapter 3

  Alexandra

  Chandeniers-sur-Viennes

  Present day

  “Mrrrraow!”

  I set the photo of Gabrielle aside and leaned down to reach for the adorable black fuzzy furball creeping into the room.

  “Ooooh! Hello, you!” I cooed, depositing him gently onto my lap. “Aren’t you the cutest thing ever?”

  I stroked his ears. The kitten purred blissfully and nestled closer to me.

  “Comfy, huh? But are you sure you’re allowed in here?”

  The cat raised its head and meowed some more at me.

  Of course I’m allowed, his eyes seemed to say. I’m a kitten, I’m allowed everywhere. Haven’t you seen Shrek?

  “You’re just trying to wheedle me into letting you stay.”

  And it was working. I loved cats, and had two of my own, a handsome pair that went by the names D’Artagnan and Milady. I’d left them in Bea’s care—Spencer was way too busy to remember to feed them.

  “You can’t stay here, you know.” I didn’t stop petting him, though. “I’m parched and there’s a delicious glass of fresh hibiscus juice waiting for me downstairs. And then I’ve got a suitcase to unpack and research to do. My ancestors aren’t going to just find themselves, you know.”

  You aren’t going to do any of that, the green orbs seemed to say. You’re going to stay here and play with me.

  Was it just me, or was this kitten trying to use the Force on me?

  “No deal. You won’t catch me that easily, Mr. Kitten!” I pretended to scold him. “I do have things to do, Your Highness!”

  I got to my feet, cradling him in my left hand. With my free hand, I stored the photograph in my handbag. I let the door swing shut behind me as I went in search of my hostess and the promised drink.

  I found her, as anticipated, sitting in the garden reading a book whose cover I immediately recognized—the latest volume of Diana Gabaldon’s Outlander saga.

  I’d read and reread each book in the series at least four times. It had been good fodder for many an evening of discussions and daydreams with Bea.

  Not to mention the TV show. Aaah, that show… My soft little heart hadn’t quite gotten over it yet, I had to admit.

  I skipped the few steps down from the porch and joined her. Marine looked up as the gravel crunched under my feet, and she smiled.

  “I found a stowaway in my room.” I pointed to the kitten I was carrying. “I think he likes me!”

  “Berlioz!” Marine exclaimed. She set her book aside and reached for him, lifting him out of my hands. “I’m sorry! He belongs to my daughter, Océane. She’s with her father right now, so I’m the one left with this little kitty to take care of. He’s not allowed in that part of the house, but you know cats. There’s no stopping them when they’ve decided on something.”

  “I do know, but don’t worry. I don’t mind, I love cats.”

  “I’ll make sure he doesn’t wander into your room.”

  “Really, don’t bother. I’m glad to have the company.”

  “That’s sweet of you, but I’m sure you’d prefer to have the bed to yourself at night. Please, sit down. Drink?” she offered, waving at the pitcher full of clear pink juice. Two glasses and a mouthwatering assortment of biscuits sat next to it.

  “Yes, thank you.”

  “Do you want a biscuit? I bake them myself. Peanut butter and chocolate chip.”

  “You know how to speak to women!” I bit into one. “They’re delicious.”

  Marine laughed and poured a glass of hibiscus juice. I sipped at it and sighed blissfully. It was so refreshing I barely stopped myself from draining all of it in one go.

  I took another biscuit and pointed to her book with a sly glance.

  “So. Jamie, huh?”

  Marine grinned.

  “Jamie indeed.”

  “They don’t make them like that anymore, unfortunately.”

  “Such a shame. I’d give up a lot of modern amenities for a Jamie in my life.”

  “I don’t know. I kind of like the small creature comforts. You know, running water, heating, medicine.… Keeping my teeth past the age of thirty…”

  “Ah, what a cruel choice. Then what say we bring Jamie back to the future.”

  “The perfect solution.”

  “All right. Next step—find some standing stones and cross our fingers. Brittany is almost as good as Scotland, and it’s not that far from here. I have a friend there, so we could visit her. I’m sure Flavie knows a good place to time-travel to catch ourselves a Jamie.”

  “Done!” I giggled. “Let me pack a toothbrush and I’ll be right behind you!”

  * * * *

  Later, af
ter a serious talk the like of which only two passionate booklovers can have, Marine asked why I’d come to this part of France.

  “I hope you don’t mind me asking, but American tourists are kind of rare here.”

  “Oh, it’s no secret. I’m not here just to play tourist. I’m doing some genealogy research.”

  Her eyebrows rose.

  “You have ancestors from around here?”

  “It seems so.” Marine leaned forward, apparently intrigued. “After my great-grandmother died, three years ago, I found a photograph among her belongings. It features a woman who looks a lot like me, and on the back you can read, just barely, ‘Gabrielle Villeneuve, Chandeniers, 1899.’”

  Marine grimaced slightly, apologetic.

  “I’m sorry, that doesn’t ring any bells.”

  “Don’t apologize. I wasn’t expecting you to recognize the name. According to my grandmother, she was her French great-grandmother. She remembers her mother saying that some of our ancestors came from France to the States a long time ago, but she didn’t know anything more. So I did some digging. Finding Chandeniers was easy enough, but Gabrielle was harder to track. I wrote to your town council to find out if they had any information, but they said they couldn’t help me unless I knew the year of her birth, which I didn’t, of course. So I decided to start from the bottom and I traced out my family tree. And it was kind of fun.”

  “I can understand that,” Marine agreed. “I also did some research on the history of the region and I learned some fairly outlandish stories about people who lived here a few centuries ago. Enough to write another Game of Thrones!” She laughed. “Did you find Gabrielle in the end?”

  “I did.”

  I gave her a victorious smile as I related how I’d tracked down Héloïse, Gabrielle’s daughter, after many research-filled evenings and weekends.

  I’d been leafing through a seemingly endless register when a name had caught my attention. ‘Héloïse D’Arcy, married name Forsythe, born New York, 1902, from Gabrielle Villeneuve, married name D’Arcy, and from Thomas D’Arcy,’ and deceased slightly after WWII. That was how I had discovered, upon reading the whole record, that my ancestor was in fact from Angers, and her husband had been the one who was born and had lived in Chandeniers.

  “A few days after I found Héloïse’s birth certificate, the wine company I work for announced it wanted to open a branch in France and create a French vintage. Which meant they had to send a team to find a site. The chance was too good to pass up, so I moved heaven and earth to get appointed as interpreter, arguing that I’m fluent in French. And here I am!”

  “Amazing. Have you been to Angers yet?”

  “No, I intend to go this week. Since the picture mentions Chandeniers, curiosity led me here first. Actually, I think it was taken in the castle of Chandeniers.”

  “The castle? You mean your ancestors lived there?”

  Surprise bled through Marine’s voice.

  “I think so. Or at least they worked there. Let me show you the picture; you can tell me what you think.”

  I ran upstairs to fetch the picture and was back before you could say “ballroom.” “She’s gorgeous!” Marine exclaimed, staring at the photograph. “You’re right, you do look a lot like her.”

  “Right? And look here, on the other side.”

  She flipped the picture and deciphered the writing that I now knew by heart. I’d read and reread it hundreds of time over the last few months.

  ‘…brielle Villeneuve

  …rté-Chandeniers, 1899.’

  “According to my research, this is the only place that matches. It has to be here.”

  “You must be right. How extraordinary! A truly amazing coincidence.”

  The phone rang, cutting Marine off.

  “Sorry. I’ll be right back.” She rose from her seat.

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  I watched her disappear into the house. As I waited for her to return, I examined the picture again. I traced the jagged edges with the tip of my finger, followed the shape of Gabrielle’s face, by now as familiar as my own. It was a black-and-white photograph, a three-quarter view of her sitting on a love seat, an open book in hand. She seemed to be in a library—or so the shelves loaded with books seemed to suggest. She looked beyond the photographer, apparently at someone. Her clear gaze was slightly dreamy, and a half smile stretched her lips. Her face was soft with love and happiness. I sighed, wondering for the millionth time what her story was. I sincerely hoped my time in Chandeniers and Angers would help me uncover something more about this ancestor I resembled so strongly.

  Marine popped her head around the glass door, startling me out of my daydream.

  “Sorry, this is going to take a while.”

  “Oh, no problem, I was about to go out anyway. We can talk later, when you have more time.”

  “Perfect. One last thing—the name of your ancestor is D’Arcy, right?” I nodded. “Hmm. I’ll see what I can find out. I have to go, let me know when you get back!”

  She vanished inside the inn.

  I drained the last of my juice, nibbled on a biscuit and, picture in hand, made for my car to retrieve and unpack my suitcase.

  Next stop, Ferté-Chandeniers castle.

  Chapter 4

  Gabrielle

  Angers

  November 1899

  In the end, the mysterious stranger from the bookstore turned out not to be a dark, modern reincarnation of Jane Austen’s iconic hero, despite what Gabrielle’s vivid imagination would have her believe. Mr. D’Arcy—with an apostrophe—was a French businessman who had emigrated to England many years ago and now found himself—for reasons he declined to disclose—the executor of the late baron Victor Leroy de Saint-Armand. The baron, recently deceased, had owned a castle near Angers filled with various works of art and an immense library that held several thousand books, including a few parchments dating back to the Middle Ages and old maps of the world. The prestigious Society of Bibliophiles had recommended Gabrielle’s father to Mr. D’Arcy for a comprehensive inventory in order to sell off the books as soon as possible. Maurice Villeneuve had immediately accepted, of course, and Mr. D’Arcy had soon left the shop with all the details arranged, leaving in his wake an equally bright-eyed father and daughter—though not quite for the same reasons.

  A few days later, Maurice departed for the castle of Ferté-Chandeniers, suitcase in hand, promising to write frequently to keep his daughter updated on his progress.

  * * * *

  In her father’s absence, Gabrielle took over the bookstore, assisted by Étienne. True to his word, Maurice sent regular letters detailing his long but fulfilling days, the rare and precious books he handled. He carried out the inventory and little else, but he still found time to talk with the other inhabitants of the castle during mealtimes. As letters piled up, their names kept recurring: Hélène, Guillaume, Agnès, Céleste. And Mr. D’Arcy, whom Maurice seemed to have grown very fond of. Every time his name appeared on the paper, Gabrielle’s heart leapt in her chest. In spite of all her efforts, she could not chase her encounter with the mysterious, troubling man from her mind. On several occasions, she found herself thinking of him, dreaming of his eyes on hers, of the sound of his voice.

  But Gabrielle did not truly expect to see him again, even though she secretly wished it a little more every day. Hence her surprise when two weeks after her father’s departure, upon returning from delivering a book to one of their patrons, she found the object of her thoughts in her office. “Mr. D’Arcy!” she exclaimed, surprised.

  Their eyes met, and she felt her cheeks heat up as her fantasies clashed with reality. Her heart started beating in earnest, so loudly that for a moment she feared he might hear it.

  “I did not expect to see you here.” She moved closer to him, hoping to conceal her turmoil. “What…?”r />
  She cut herself short when she caught sight of his somber demeanor. All thoughts vanished as fear washed over her.

  “What happened?” She didn’t bother with manners. “Did something happen to my father?”

  Distress lit up Mr. D’Arcy’s face as he nodded.

  “I’m afraid he’s taken seriously ill.”

  He stepped toward her.

  “I think he needs you.”

  * * * *

  An hour later, they were on board a train for Chandeniers.

  Snow fell heavily outside, draping the entire world in a cocoon that stretched across the horizon. Hands clenched tightly together in her lap, Gabrielle stared sightlessly out the window.

  She had always loved snow. The slow twirl of snowflakes in the sky, as though all the stars had suddenly begun to dance. The caress of the snow on her cheeks, the cool taste of snowflakes melting on the tip of her tongue. And the calm, serene silence that seemed to cover the entire world after a storm, muffling sound and swallowing color. It was a sight she never tired of. But today, even the billowing gusts of snow that buffeted the train could not capture her attention. One thought only ran through her mind, making her throat tighten and her insides burn.

  Please don’t let it be serious.

  She wished she could already be at her father’s side and care for him as he so often had, from the time she was a child. She hoped it wasn’t too late, that her father would have the strength to recover. She did not know what she would do if the worst were to happen.

  A shiver ran through her, and a hand, strong yet gentle, draped a heavy wool coat over her shoulders. It was only then that she realized that she was positively chilled to the bone, her fingers stiff and numb in spite of the thick woolen gloves she was wearing.

  “Thank you,” she murmured, nestling deeper into the comforting heat his body had left behind.

  “Everything will be fine,” Mr. D’Arcy assured her softly, wrapping his hands around hers. “Everything will be fine.”

  Perhaps it was the feeling of his hands on hers, his thumb rubbing gentle circles into her skin as though it were the most natural thing in the world. Perhaps it was the quiet, reassuring rumble of his voice, a cocoon that soothed and blanketed her away from the world. Perhaps it was simply his presence at her side. Whatever the reason, the instant his hands touched hers, Gabrielle did not feel alone anymore.