The Chateau on the Lake (10 page)

It’s bitterly cold and Sophie and I huddle together under a blanket as Monsieur d’Aubery’s carriage jolts along the road. It was snowing when we left the inn this morning but now only an occasional flurry patters against the windows. The leaden sky has given way to bright sunshine and the countryside is blanketed in white, rendering it beautiful but hard to read.

‘Not far now,’ says Monsieur d’Aubery, blowing on his fingers. ‘I hope Madame Viard received my note and has lit the fires to welcome us.’

I glance at his face and see that the tense set of his features has softened. We’ve barely spoken during the journey, his forbidding expression making me too nervous to disturb him.

A moment later the carriage grinds to a halt before two stone pillars flanking ornate ironwork gates. A boy runs from the lodge and heaves open the tall iron gates, pushing back the snow. The coachman flicks his whip and the horses set off again at a brisk pace into a dense pine forest.

After several minutes we emerge from the darkness into the dazzling light reflected from snow-covered parkland.

Monsieur d’Aubery pulls down a window. ‘Château Mirabelle,’ he says, the freezing air transforming his breath into a cloud.

Shivering, I lean out of the window to look. The carriageway continues straight ahead between an avenue of oak trees and, in the distance, silhouetted against the pristine expanse of sunlit snow, is a substantial building of honey-coloured stone. The grey slate roof glistens with frost. A turret topped by a conical tower rises from each corner of it.

‘Oh!’ I breathe. ‘It’s like a castle in a fairy tale.’

Even Sophie, who has barely spoken all day, sits up and looks out of the other window with a semblance of interest.

I observe with interest that Monsieur d’Aubery’s smile is as fond as a lover’s as he gazes at his country home.

My own delight mounts as we draw closer. Formal gardens are laid out to the front, with low hedges forming an intricate knot garden no less attractive for being covered in snow. The carriage drive leads to a large turning circle with a stone pool as its centrepiece, in which a prancing horse, a collection of mythical sea creatures and several cherubs adorn a fountain. Icicles hanging from the sculpture glitter like daggers of diamonds.

‘How beautiful!’ I say, and am rewarded by Monsieur d’Aubery’s smile. I’d forgotten how attractive he is when his eyes light up with pleasure.

The carriage stops and the coachman unfolds the steps. As I descend my eye is caught by the figure of a man hurrying down the steps from the front entrance to the château.

Monsieur d’Aubery waves and calls out, ‘Jean-Luc!’

The man’s feet crunch in the snow as he bounds towards us and claps Monsieur d’Aubery on the shoulder. He’s tall and powerfully built with thick brown hair, and wears an elaborately embroidered silk waistcoat, I see.

‘We thought you were never coming back to Château Mirabelle!’ the man says. ‘How the devil are you, Etienne?’ His teeth are very white when he smiles and he exudes good health and humour.

‘I’m well, although glad to be out of Paris.’ Monsieur d’Aubery is darker and more slight of figure than his friend, but the two of them are fine-looking men.

‘Difficult times?’ asks Jean-Luc.

‘Indeed.’

‘And you have brought us two lovely guests?’

‘Madame Levesque and Mademoiselle Moreau, may I present Monsieur Jean-Luc Viard, my estate manager?’

I conceal my surprise that Monsieur d’Aubery appears to be on such familiar terms with his employee. I had assumed Monsieur Viard to be a former member of the nobility also.

‘Enchanted to make your acquaintance,’ he says, bowing. His hazel eyes shine and it’s impossible not to respond to his infectious smile. ‘You must be cold after your journey. Please come inside and warm yourselves.’ He offers me his arm. ‘Take care not to slip on the snow.’

I glance at Monsieur d’Aubery to see if he appears to be discomfited by his position as host being usurped but he merely offers to escort Sophie up the steps.

The portico leads into a grand hall and our footsteps echo as we cross the white marble floor to warm our hands before the flames leaping in the great stone fireplace. There are marble busts of Roman emperors standing on plinths in each corner of the hall.

‘Has all been well here while I’ve been away, Jean-Luc?’

Monsieur Viard smiles. ‘Have I not always looked after the château as if it were my own? Of course all is well. Except for poor Antoine Gerard, who passed away of a seizure.’

Monsieur d’Aubery frowns. ‘I’m sorry to hear that. I shall visit his widow tomorrow.’

The two men continue to discuss estate business and I take the opportunity to study my surroundings discreetly. An elegant double staircase curves up to the first floor, past walls lined with ancestral portraits. Gilded console tables and mirrors enhance the impression of opulence. As the heat begins to thaw my fingers, I glance at Sophie to see if she is as overwhelmed as I am by the grandeur all around but she stares into the flames, looking half-dead with exhaustion.

Footsteps tap across the marble floor and a handsome woman dressed in black approaches.

Monsieur d’Aubery acknowledges her with a nod. ‘Madame Viard.’

‘Welcome home, sir.’ She glances at Sophie and me. ‘All is ready for your guests.’ She has an hourglass figure and the frilled lace cap she wears doesn’t entirely conceal thick black hair with a single white streak at the front.

‘I apologise, Mademoiselle Moreau, but I have estate matters to attend to,’ says Monsieur d’Aubery.

‘Please do not trouble yourself on our account,’ I say.

‘Madame Viard will show you to your rooms now and I shall see you at breakfast.’ Monsieur d’Aubery bows. ‘Please make use of the salon and the library, if you wish.’

We follow the housekeeper up the wide staircase while I wonder about her name. She is of mature years yet doesn’t appear to be old enough to be Jean-Luc’s mother, but surely she’s too old to be his wife? Puzzled, I study her curvaceous figure as she walks in front of us. His elder sister, perhaps?

Upstairs, she opens the doors to our rooms. ‘I believe you will find everything you require,’ she says.

After she has left, I sit on Sophie’s bed and bounce up and down to test the mattress. The richly embroidered bedcover is faded but the carpet is thick and the silk wall hangings delicately painted.

Sophie sinks down on to a velvet chair and peels off her gloves. ‘I’m going to lie down.’

‘Let me draw the curtains then.’ I move to the window and pause as I look outside. ‘Sophie, come and see this!’

Our rooms are at the back, facing out over the gardens and parkland. Rooks circle in the air, calling mournfully to each other. To one side is a wooded copse but what immediately draws my attention is a large lake. Ice-covered, it sparkles in the sunshine and I see that there is an island in the centre, on which are the ruins of what appears to be a Greek temple.

‘Very pretty,’ says Sophie listlessly.

On the far side of the lake is an elegant stone building with shuttered windows, which looks like a perfectly proportioned doll’s house.

I close the drapes, help Sophie to remove her outer clothing and settle her into bed. She curls up on her side without another word.

‘I’ll come and see you later,’ I say.

She murmurs something I cannot hear and I leave her.

In my own room I sit on the window seat, reading and occasionally looking out over the silvery lake and the backdrop of distant snowy hills. A few months ago I could never have imagined that I would be a guest of a man I hardly know in a château in France, soon to meet relatives I hadn’t realised existed. I have always wanted to find Papa’s family but I would trade the opportunity in an instant to be at home again in Soho Square with Mama and Papa beside me.

 

 

The following morning I persuade Sophie to come downstairs for breakfast and we find Monsieur d’Aubery waiting for us in the dining room. Sunshine streams through the window and I can smell the aroma of coffee and fresh bread.

‘Good morning,’ he says. ‘Did you sleep well?’

‘Indeed I did,’ I say. ‘At least, until the cock crowed at first light.’ I note that he’s dressed in tight-fitting riding breeches that show off his lithe form to perfection.

He smiles. ‘I love the peace and fresh air here after I have been in Paris or London.’

I pour coffee from a heavy silver pot and pass a cup to Sophie. She wrinkles her nose and shakes her head. ‘Are you going out riding, Monsieur d’Aubery?’ I ask.

‘I must visit my tenants and ride around the boundaries of the estate.’

‘It’s a beautiful day.’ I glance wistfully out of the window at the snowy gardens.

‘Then why don’t you both come with me?’

‘Oh, no, I couldn’t,’ says Sophie, crumbling a morsel of bread.

‘I should love to,’ I say, ‘but unfortunately I have no riding habit or boots.’

‘My sister left behind a wardrobe of clothes when she went to live in America,’ says Monsieur d’Aubery. ‘Madame Viard will find a suitable outfit for you.’

Fifteen minutes later she has laid out a green velvet riding habit on my bed and I hasten to try it on. The jacket is close-fitting and there’s a matching skirt with black braid to the hem. Since I’m taller than most women the skirt is a little short on me.

‘The colour suits you,’ says Sophie, as I button the jacket. ‘But won’t you be cold?’

‘The sun is shining and I have gloves and my wool scarf,’ I say, pulling on the black riding boots. ‘These are too small but I shan’t be walking far in them. Come down to the stables and see me off, will you, Sophie?’

She sighs. ‘I suppose so.’

I suppress a sigh of irritation and wish she would make more effort.

Monsieur d’Aubery is pacing up and down in the hall, clearly impatient to start the business of the day.

The air outside is crisp and cold. The stables are set to one side of the château, next to a walled vegetable garden and pig stys. White chickens strut through the stable yard where several horses look out from their boxes. A tabby cat is washing itself on the yard wall and looks up enquiringly as we approach.

Monsieur d’Aubery strokes the muzzle of a big black horse, murmuring endearments as he opens the stable door.

‘Isn’t he beautiful!’ I say as the powerful creature steps delicately into the snowy yard, his black coat gleaming in the sun.

‘This is Diable,’ says Monsieur d’Aubery. ‘And I must warn you to keep your distance. He has an unpredictable temper.’

‘He looks gentle enough,’ says Sophie.

‘He’s well-mannered with me,’ says Monsieur d’Aubery, ‘but it took some time to teach him his manners.’ Gently, he fondles Diable’s ears and then takes a carrot from his pocket and holds it out to him on the flat of his palm. ‘He once had a habit of bolting and throwing his rider, but he knows who is his master now.’

The groom, Colbert, opens another of the boxes and leads out a pretty chestnut mare.

‘This is Minette,’ says Monsieur d’Aubery. ‘You need not worry about her temper as she is the most biddable creature imaginable.’

Certainly from the limpid look that Minette gives me I have nothing to fear.

The stable boy helps me to mount and Sophie, shoulders drooping, returns inside. I sigh. Her unhappiness taints my enjoyment of the day.

Leaving the stables behind us, we progress along the bridleway running around the perimeter of the park. There is a bitter wind but the sun is on my face, the air is pure and clean, and I’m filled with a sudden sense of well-being. I’ll try and talk Sophie out of her low spirits later, I decide.

‘When we’re out here,’ I say, ‘where it’s so peaceful, it seems unimaginable that this is a country at war, doesn’t it?’

Monsieur d’Aubery’s expression is sad. ‘My childhood was so free and safe but I wonder now if life will ever be the same again. Even here, where everything looks the same as it always did, there are unhappy undercurrents.’

We trot through a gateway and on to a lane between fields that gradually rise to form a backdrop of low hills.

Monsieur d’Aubery points to one of the slopes and the low stone building at its base. ‘There’s my vineyard,’ he says, ‘and that’s the
chai
, where we store the wine. We’ve extended the vineyard in the last couple of years. You shall try some of the Chateau Mirabelle 1789 tonight.’

‘The year the Revolution began. A year to remember,’ I say.

A flock of sheep cluster together in one corner of another field and Monsieur d’Aubery leans down from his saddle to unhook the rope that secures the gate.

‘Fox prints,’ he says, nodding his head at tracks in the snow. ‘I must warn the shepherd or the new lambs will be lost before they’ve barely seen the light of day.’

A wide river flows along the side of the field, its reedy banks crusted with ice and snow. We close the gate behind us and walk the horses along a lane bounded by an avenue of elms. Despite the bright sunshine, my fingers are numb with cold and I’m sure the tip of my nose is glowing. Minette is warm beneath me and the smell of horseflesh and well-worn leather is peculiarly comforting. At the end of the lane we enter a copse and continue in single file. I duck several times to avoid the leafless branches knocking my hat awry. In the distance is the sound of children’s voices.