The Chateau on the Lake (11 page)

As we emerge from the copse the scent of wood smoke drifts towards us and soon we see a village nestling into a little valley. It is a collection of neat houses with thatched roofs clustered around a frozen duck pond. Children are screaming in delight as they slip and slide across the surface, pushing and pulling at each other.

‘I remember having fun on the ice with Jean-Luc and my brother Laurent when I was a boy,’ says Monsieur d’Aubery, smiling at the memory.

It’s pleasing to see him so at ease. ‘So you have known Monsieur Viard for a long time?’

‘All my life. He’s a few months older than I and he shared our tutor. We grew up together so he is almost like a brother to me.’

So that explains Jean-Luc’s familiarity towards Monsieur d’Aubery. ‘And Madame Viard?’ I ask.

‘Jean-Luc’s mother.’

I cannot conceal my surprise. ‘She doesn’t look old enough.’

‘I believe she was only sixteen when he was born. Her husband Marcel works in the vineyard.’

A slight curl of Monsieur d’Aubery’s lip as he speaks leads me to wonder if he doesn’t care much for his friend’s father.

‘Most of the estate workers live here,’ he continues. ‘I must visit the Gerard family. Poor Antoine, a carpenter, has died of a seizure and leaves a widow and children.’

‘May I come with you?’

He looks at me in surprise. ‘If you won’t find it distressing?’

‘I know what it’s like to lose loved ones.’ My heart constricts momentarily with a pang of grief. Perhaps I’ll be able to ease the meeting for the grieving widow. Her tenuous position must be making her extremely apprehensive and I imagine Monsieur d’Aubery’s severe manner will only increase her anxiety.

He loops the horse’s reins over a gatepost and knocks on the door of one of the cottages. A small boy opens it. Wide-eyed, he steps back to allow us to enter.

The plain little room has a freshly swept floor and cooking dishes and bowls neatly arranged on shelves. Washing, mostly children’s clothes as far as I can see, is drying on a clothes horse before a meagre fire. Small children are squabbling amicably over a pile of bricks on the floor, while two older girls peel potatoes at the table.

Their mother is nursing her baby. She blushes and the child is pulled from her breast and propped up against her shoulder as she hastily adjusts her clothing and bobs a curtsey.

‘Please, we have no wish to disturb you,’ I say.

‘My dear Madame Gerard,’ says Monsieur d’Aubery. ‘I returned from Paris to hear the sad news of your husband’s passing and came to offer my condolences.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ she says with quiet dignity. Her bottom lip quivers. Her eyes look frightened.

‘I wanted to reassure you straight away that you are welcome to remain in your cottage.’

‘Oh, sir!’ She bursts into noisy sobs and the baby on her shoulder begins to wail too. ‘I’ve been so worried.’

Hastily, I proffer my handkerchief and she dabs at her eyes. I’m surprised and relieved that Monsieur d’Aubery is so sensitive in his dealings with the poor widow. He has a more gentle side to his nature than I had supposed.

The door bursts open and a gangly youth of about fifteen drags in a sledge piled with firewood.

‘Mama, look…’ He stops short as he notices the visitors.

‘Good morning, young man! Victor, isn’t it?’ says Mr d’Aubery.

The boy says nothing, pulling his too-short sleeves down over his thin wrists until his sister pinches his arm. ‘Yes, sir.’

‘I’m pleased to see that you are a help to your mother.’ Mr d’Aubery puts his hand in his pocket and pulls out a small bag, which he places on the table. ‘This should see you through the rest of the winter, Madame Gerard. There will be no rent to pay at present, but once your baby is weaned call on Madame Viard. She will find work for you.’

We leave the cottage with the clamour of thanks in our ears and Monsieur d’Aubery hands a coin to the boy minding our horses.

‘That was very well done,’ I say as we ride away. I’ve warmed to Monsieur d’Aubery; it seems that despite his severe manner, he has a kind heart.

Two hours later we have made a circuit of the whole estate and trot back towards the stables. My hands and feet are frozen and I’m looking forward to warming myself by the fire.

‘I’m impressed by how well cared for everything is,’ I say as we dismount.

‘I’m determined to look after the estate and my tenants as well as my father did,’ says Monsieur d’Aubery.

‘You were young to inherit.’

‘It wasn’t until Laurent died that I realised that one day it would be my responsibility. Even then, I expected my father to grow old first,’ he says, his expression sober. ‘But, for me, tradition is everything and I hope with all my heart that one day I shall be able to hand on the estate to my son,’

We ride back in silence. When I glance at the bleak set of his face, I dare not disturb him with idle chatter. I reflect that there is a great deal more to Monsieur d’Aubery than I had imagined.

I’m worried about Sophie who has remained in bed for several days, growing increasingly morose and rejecting all my attempts to improve her spirits.

She glances up at me from the pillows, her eyes puffy again from weeping. ‘You’re not a mother and cannot possibly imagine how much I miss Henry,’ she says, plucking at the embroidered rosebuds on her nightgown.

I curb my irritation. We have talked of nothing else all morning. ‘I do see how miserable it’s made you to have left him behind,’ I say in calm tones. ‘But in the long term your decision to come to France is in his best interests.’

‘I know what you think,’ continues Sophie, ‘that I’ve made my bed and now I must lie in it.’

That, of course, is exactly what I do think but it wouldn’t be helpful to say it.

‘Will Henry even remember me when I return? Meanwhile, Charles is free to set up his mistress in a fine house and to beat me when he’s out of humour. Because I made one mistake, I stand to lose everything and society condones it!
It isn’t fair
!’ my friend exclaims.

‘I agree,’ I say, ‘but for women it was ever thus.’

Sophie glares at me. ‘Have you any other platitudes to offer, Madeleine?’

‘You know you are as dear to me as a sister. I hate to see you so unhappy but you have no other choice now, if only for Henry’s sake.’

‘I thought you were my friend?’ Her lips thin to a line and she looks at me as if she hates me.

My annoyance boils over. ‘I’m trying to help you, Sophie, but your ever-lasting self-pity makes it impossible.’ My voice rises in anger.

‘Then why don’t you just go away and leave me alone?’

My patience snaps. ‘Stew in your own juice then!’

In my own room I pace up and down, quite unable to settle. I haven’t argued with Sophie for years, not since we’d had a childish squabble over whose turn it was to play with a rag doll. All at once I’m overwhelmed with loneliness, a horrid, empty feeling that aches under my breastbone. My parents are dead and I’ve quarrelled with my best friend. I’m staying in the house of a man I hardly know, who is reluctantly providing us with shelter from dangerous revolutionaries, and I can’t go home, wherever that is now.

I curl up on the window seat and stare outside. There’s no sun today, only a heavy mist that hangs over everything like a damp sheet. Rooks circle above the trees, their harsh cries audible even though the window is closed. The snow is beginning to thaw, leaving the gardens in an untidy patchwork of green and white. Irritated and unhappy, I decide to take a brisk walk to burn off my agitation.

Buttoning up my coat, I let myself out of the front door. The icicles suspended from the fountain are melting and dripping on to the frozen pool below. The stone horse’s teeth are bared in a rictus of terror as it rears up from the mythical sea creatures insinuating themselves around its legs. Shivering in the damp air, I set off along the path to the knot garden.

Mist clings to everything, forming diamond droplets of moisture. There’s a bench at the furthest reach of the knot garden and I dry the seat with my handkerchief and sit down to look back at the château, wreathed in ghostly fog. The damp is making my hair curl and my shoes are soaked but at least the fresh air has shaken me out of my bad temper.

A movement at the edge of my vision makes me turn and I watch as a great black horse bolts from the back of the château. Diable. Mr d’Aubery’s black riding cape billows out behind him in the swirling mist as the horse races hell for leather towards the copse of trees on my left. A moment later they’re gone. I wonder where he’s off to in such a hurry, or is he, perhaps, simply enjoying the exhilaration of the moment? He intrigues me and I’m curious to discover more about him.

‘Mademoiselle Moreau!’

Jean-Luc Viard strides towards me through the vaporous air and waves when I smile at him.

‘Good morning,’ I say.

The bench judders as he sits down beside me and stretches one arm along the backrest. His cheeks are glowing from the cold and he exudes a sense of male strength. It’s impossible not to give him a wide smile.

‘Enjoying the view?’ There’s a distinct twinkle in his eye.

The warmth rises in my cheeks. He’s very engaging and also easy to read, quite unlike Monsieur d’Aubery who gives away little of his feelings. ‘This place looks so mysterious in the mist, doesn’t it?’ I say.

‘But very beautiful.’

I see the same fond expression in his eyes as I saw in Monsieur d’Aubery’s when we arrived. ‘Have you always lived on the estate?’

He nods. ‘It’s my home and I intend never to leave it. But tell me about yourself. Where do you and Madame Levesque come from? You don’t sound as if it’s from around here.’ He smiles. ‘Everyone in the château wants to know who the mystery guests are. And why it is that Madame Levesque travels without the protection of her husband?’

I hesitate, unsure what story Monsieur d’Aubery might have fabricated to explain our presence.

‘She’s but recently widowed,’ I improvise, with some sense of satisfaction at having done away with Charles Levesque and explained Sophie’s unhappy demeanour at one stroke.

Then we hear a shout and a small figure runs towards us. It takes me a moment to recognise the boy from the stable.

He comes shuddering to a halt before us, heaving for breath. ‘Monsieur Viard, sir…’ he pants.

‘What is it, Jacques?’

‘It’s Diable. He’s gone! I was polishing the saddles when I heard a horse trotting out of the yard, but by the time I ran outside I saw Diable’s box was open and he’d gone.’

‘I saw Monsieur d’Aubery ride him away a few moments ago,’ I say. ‘He went into the woods over there.’

‘But he can’t have,’ says the boy.

‘I know it was Diable. It was misty but I would swear it was Monsieur d’Aubery riding him at breakneck speed.’

‘But Monsieur Alphonse arrived only half an hour ago to visit the master and his horse is still in the stable.’

‘Are you sure?’ asks Monsieur Viard.

Jacques nods vigorously.

The boy scurries off back towards the stables and Monsieur Viard and I return inside.

We cross the hall and Monsieur Viard knocks on the door to the estate office before opening it.

Monsieur d’Aubery is sitting at his desk beside another gentleman, bent over some architectural drawings. He looks up at us with raised eyebrows.

‘I apologise for the interruption, Etienne,’ says Monsieur Viard, ‘but someone has ridden Diable out of the stables.’

Monsieur d’Aubery rises to his feet, scraping back his chair in alarm.

‘I thought it was you I saw galloping off a few moments ago,’ I say, perplexed. ‘The rider was wearing a black riding cape like yours.’

‘I’ve been closeted here with Monsieur Alphonse studying the plans for the new cottages.’ Monsieur d’Aubery’s jaw clenches. ‘Whoever stole Diable may rue the day.

‘I apologise,’ he says to his visitor, ‘but we will have to reconvene.’ He strides from the office, closely followed by Monsieur Viard.

Monsieur Alphonse sighs and begins to fold up his plans.

 

 

At the stables Jacques comes to greet us, his eyes wide and frightened.

‘Where is Colbert?’ demands Monsieur d’Aubery.

‘My father went to see the blacksmith,’ stutters Jacques. ‘I was polishing the saddles when I heard a horse in the yard. I knew they were all in their stalls so I went to see what was happening and there was Diable galloping off. I’m sorry, master…’

‘It wasn’t your fault,’ says Monsieur d’Aubery. ‘But you didn’t see who was riding him?’

Jacques shakes his head. ‘I knew it wasn’t you, though.’

‘How was that?’ asks Monsieur Viard.

‘Too small.’ Jacques sucks his teeth. ‘And not a good rider.’

‘One of the village children, do you think?’

‘None of them would dare,’ says Monsieur Viard.

I stroke Minette’s velvety muzzle. Suddenly she blows through her nose and lifts her head, shaking her mane. I glance behind me and see Diable emerging from the woods. ‘Look!’ I say.

‘Thank God,’ says Monsieur d’Aubery. ‘You all stay here and I’ll catch him.’

He approaches slowly, calling out to the horse and slowing as Diable snorts and tosses his head. At last Monsieur d’Aubery manages to sidle closer, catch hold of the trailing reins and lead the horse back to us.

‘Whoever tried to steal him will be sorry for it,’ says Monsieur d’Aubery, running a hand down Diable’s fetlocks, ‘if he isn’t already dead.’ He stops and pulls free a shred of material tangled up in one of the stirrups. ‘Oh!’

‘What is it?’ asks Monsieur Viard.

‘It seems our thief was wearing clothing embroidered with pink rosebuds.’ He smoothes out the scrap of fabric on the palm of his hand.

Monsieur Viard snorts with laughter, his expression incredulous.

I gasp. ‘But that’s from Sophie’s nightgown.’

Monsieur d’Aubery gives me a sharp glance. ‘Where is she?

‘I left her in bed this morning. We argued…’

‘Go and see if she’s still there. Hurry now! And, Colbert, go with Monsieur Viard and start searching the woods.’

I run as fast as I can, race up the stairs two at a time and burst into Sophie’s room. The bedclothes are flung back and the room is deserted.

Guilt floods over me for arguing with her when she was distressed. If anything terrible has happened…

My stomach is knotted with anxiety as I run downstairs and rap on the housekeeper’s door. Without waiting for an answer I turn the handle.

Madame Viard is sitting at a table and looks up at me, mouth pursed in annoyance. ‘Is there something you require, Mademoiselle Moreau?’

‘Have you seen Madame Levesque?’

‘But no. Not since she sent the maid away with her luncheon uneaten. Again.’

‘She’s missing. And I’m very afraid she may have met with an accident. Please will you ask the rest of the servants if they’ve seen her in the last hour or so?’

‘As you wish, Mademoiselle.’

The stables are deserted when I return. The mist is thickening as twilight approaches. There’s no time to waste. I run towards the woods.

The ground is uneven beneath the trees and I stumble several times as I call Sophie’s name. There’s no sign of the others although I hear the echoes of their cries in the distance. It grows darker as I venture deeper into the woods and panic flutters in my chest. What if we don’t find her? Or what if Diable has thrown her and trampled her underfoot? Brambles tear at my clothing as I fight my way through the undergrowth and a sob bubbles up in my chest.

A piercing whistle makes me stop in my tracks.

‘Here! She’s here!’ shouts a voice.

A volley of calls respond and I run towards them, ducking under tree branches and scrambling over snow-covered logs. I don’t see the tangle of ivy until I trip and fall headlong. The ground comes up to meet me, slamming into my chest with the force of a sledge hammer. It feels as if a giant hand is squeezing my lungs and I remain face down on the snow, heaving for breath.

Strong hands pull me into a sitting position. ‘Breathe slowly,’ says Monsieur d’Aubery in the same tone of voice that he used to calm Diable. His dark eye look into mine, willing me to obey.

I focus on his irises, umber with flecks of gold, until I begin to breathe evenly again.

‘Can you stand?’

I scramble to my feet. My chest aches and my coat is crusted with ice and pieces of twig but there isn’t time to brush myself down.

He keeps a firm grip on my elbow and I’m thankful for it since I have begun to shake, whether from the shock of my fall or from fear of what we might find, I don’t know.

Monsieur Viard is kneeling on the ground, while Colbert, Jacques and three other men are gathered in a circle around him. I run to them, my heart in my mouth.

Sophie lies unmoving on her back, eyes closed, looking innocent and childlike in her rose-embroidered nightgown with the black wings of the riding cape spread out beside her. Blood seeps from her head, staining the icy ground with scarlet.

I fall to my knees beside Monsieur Viard. ‘Is she…’

‘Unconscious,’ he says.

I pick up one of her hands and chafe it in mine. ‘She’s frozen!’ I wrap the black cloak over her torn nightgown.

‘We must take her back without delay,’ says Monsieur d’Aubery. He unbuttons his coat and lays it over Sophie.

Monsieur Viard pushes him aside then, gathers Sophie into his arms as if she weighs no more than a feather, and sets off.

I stifle a sob as I see blood dripping from her dark hair, leaving a trail of crimson drops in the snow.