The Chateau on the Lake (12 page)

Later, the door to my friend’s room opens and the doctor emerges.

‘How is she?’ I ask.

‘Awake,’ he replies, rocking his portly figure slightly on his heels.

‘Will she be all right?’

‘Once the wound to her temple has healed there should be no lasting physical damage.’

Sophie lies propped up in bed, her head bandaged, and the sight of her makes me forget my annoyance. ‘Why did you do it? You must have known that Diable might have killed you?’

She heaves a deep, sobbing sigh. ‘I hoped a fall would make me miscarry.’

‘Oh, Sophie!’ I hug her tight, full of miserable guilt. ‘But the fall hasn’t damaged the baby?’

She shakes her head. ‘The doctor says not.’ She yawns. ‘Oh, Maddy, I’m so very tired!’

I sit beside her until her eyelids droop and at last she sleeps. Quietly, I leave the room.

Monsieur d’Aubery is in the estate office, resting an elbow on the mantelpiece while he pushes the logs further into the hearth with the toe of one shoe. I watch him unobserved for a moment from the doorway. Something about the elegance of his wiry figure reminds me of Papa and I try to ignore the swift shaft of pain in my heart.

‘Monsieur d’Aubery?’

He glances at me, his brow furrowed with anxiety. ‘How is Madame Levesque?’

‘Better.’

‘I’m relieved to hear it. The thought of another tragedy at Château Mirabelle was almost too much to contemplate. Did she say why she did it?’

‘In her misery I’m not sure she even knew what she was doing today. You know how wretched she was after her…’ I hesitate ‘… after her friendship with Mr Fielding came to an end. She wanted to escape from London but now that she has, she misses her son terribly.’

‘And, of course, since England and France are at war, she cannot return home.’ He pulls out a chair for me beside the desk.

‘Monsieur d’Aubery, as soon as Sophie has recovered from her fall, we’ll thank you for your hospitality and move on. My purpose in coming to France is to seek out my father’s family. If it’s not convenient for us to stay with them we shall rent a country cottage where we can live quietly until the war is over.’

He’s silent for a moment, gaze fixed on the flickering flames in the hearth. ‘It may be too unsafe for you and Madame Levesque to travel alone. Should it be suspected that you have come from England your situation would be perilous indeed.’

‘And you’re concerned you’d be accused of being a traitor to France because you brought us into the country?’

Monsieur d’Aubery sighs and picks up a pen. ‘I don’t think you understand how vulnerable we all are. I should like to escort you to visit your father’s family in Fontainebleau. If they invite you to stay then I shall be happy for you, but if there is any… awkwardness, then I can bring you back here.’

‘Awkwardness?’

Monsieur d’Aubery lays down his quill pen and moves the bottle of ink a fraction, lining up both items precisely with the blotter. ‘You should ask yourself why your father left his family all those years ago and never returned.’

‘But that’s just it,’ I say. ‘All my life I have yearned to know. And now it’s even more important that I meet Papa’s relatives. I miss my parents more than I can say. Nothing can take away that pain, but to know that I have a link, a blood connection, to someone else is essential for me. Family is everything. Surely you can understand that?’

‘Yes, I do.’ He sighs. ‘I know a little about the Moreau family. Louis-François, your grandfather, died some years ago. His wife survives him, I believe, and there is another son, Auguste.’

‘Uncle Auguste,’ I say. ‘And I have a grandmother too.’ I smile as I try to picture her. Will we bear any resemblance to one another? Perhaps she’ll tell me stories of Papa’s childhood?

‘And nothing will change your mind about going to visit them?’

‘Nothing.’

Mr d’Aubery turns up his palms and shrugs. ‘Then so be it.’

Two days later, at first light, Sophie, Monsieur d’Aubery and I make an early start for Fontainebleau. I’m so full of excited anticipation that it’s hard for me to sit still. I try to concentrate on watching the sky bloom pink and gold as the sun rises, while I plan what I’m going to say to my father’s family.

‘Nervous?’ asks Sophie, placing her hand over mine.

I realise I’ve been twisting the fabric of my skirt into creases. ‘I’ve waited all my life for this day,’ I say.

‘What if they don’t believe who you are?’

‘They must.’ I reach into the neckline of my dress and pull out a ribbon with the Moreau ring threaded on to it.

I watch the countryside rattle past while I consider different ways to introduce myself to my grandmother and Uncle Auguste. I wonder if he will look like Papa. Will they tell me what caused the family rift? Surely at least my grandmother will welcome me?

 

 

It’s late-afternoon when we arrive at Villeneuve-St-Meurice, the village near Fontainebleau where Château de Lys is situated. Driving slowly along the rutted road it’s hard not to be dismayed by the rotting thatched roofs and general air of neglect. Pigs root in front of a tumbledown cottage and the acrid stench of dung makes my eyes water.

A young woman holding a ragged child by the hand stands beside the road and Colbert stops the carriage to ask for directions to the château.

She looks up with dull eyes and points along the road. ‘You can’t miss it,’ she says. ‘It has great stone gateposts with eagles on top.’

Monsieur d’Aubery leans out of the window and drops a coin into her outstretched hand. As the carriage rolls away, I see her spit on the ground.

Monsieur d’Aubery is watching me, a tense expression on his face. When I return his gaze, he opens his mouth as if about to speak then turns away to look out of the window. Too anxious to question him, I continue to imagine what my relatives will look like and how they will receive me.

Five minutes later, we find the stone eagles. They stand sentinel, wings spread, on either side of a pair of impressive wrought-iron gates, staring fiercely at approaching visitors from hooded eyes.

We wait for the lodge keeper to unlock the gates and then we turn in at a long carriage drive through rolling parkland studded with mature oaks. My heart begins to thud in anticipation. What will I say to my uncle and grandmother? Will there be a sense of connection between us?

I jump as Sophie rests her hand on mine, and realise I’ve been drumming my fingers on the seat.

‘So much time has passed since the quarrel that I’m sure it will be forgotten now,’ she whispers.

I look out of the carriage window again and there, in the distance, is a vast edifice on top of a hill, its numerous towers silhouetted against the sky.

‘Surely that’s not Château de Lys?’ asks Sophie, eyebrows raised.

Monsieur d’Aubery nods.

I’m speechless with shock. My father’s family must be immensely rich.

As we draw closer the château appears to grow in size. Massive grey-stone walls loom above us, all reflected in the wide moat. It’s impossible to count the number of windows but they’re on five floors, from a slit in the tallest turret to a small barred opening a few feet above the mossy waterline of the moat. The forbidding appearance of this place makes me shiver. It looks like a prison or a fortress and I cannot imagine a stronger contrast to the welcoming aspect of Château Mirabelle.

Our carriage rattles over the wooden drawbridge and crunches to a halt on the gravel. Twin stone staircases curve up to a wide balustraded terrace.

Sophie and I glance at each other. All at once I wish I hadn’t come. I’m totally unprepared for such grandeur.

Colbert opens the carriage door.

‘Will you wait here while I announce you?’ says Monsieur d’Aubery as he alights.

A footman in a powdered wig and a splendid blue and gold coat is hurrying down the steps and Monsieur d’Aubery goes to meet him. We watch as the footman hurries back up the steps and then Monsieur d’Aubery returns and says we will be summoned.

We wait in the coach for a considerable time and my apprehension increases. I reach out for Sophie’s hand and cling to it.

Monsieur d’Aubery remains silent but I notice that his fists are clenched in his lap.

‘What if they refuse to receive us?’ asks Sophie, voicing my own thoughts.

‘It probably takes a while to find anyone in such an enormous place,’ I say.

‘At least your uncle can’t say they haven’t room for us,’ giggles Sophie.

Happy to see her in recovered spirits, I laugh, the tension broken.

At last the footman reappears and asks us to follow him.

I glance at Sophie and we descend from the carriage.

Monsieur d’Aubery looks at me, his expression unreadable. ‘If you wish, it’s not too late to leave, Mademoiselle Moreau?’

I bite my lip, sorely tempted, then shake my head. ‘I haven’t come all this way to lose my courage at the last moment.’

The footman leads the way up the stone steps to the terrace with its far-reaching views. Solid oak doors, twice as high as a man, lead into an echoing cavern of a hall. I gain a fleeting impression of inlaid-marble floors, ormolu-framed mirrors and lavishly gilded furniture. Silently, we mount the ornate staircase that curves up to the floor above, while my pulse begins to race. In only a moment I shall meet Papa’s family.

The footman opens double doors into a vast drawing room and announces us.

A middle-aged man and an elderly woman sitting on a sofa by the fire at the other end of the room are dwarfed by their surroundings. My mouth is dry with anxiety as I see these members of my family for the very first time.

Monsieur d’Aubery escorts Sophie and me, offering us each the support of his arm, and we make sedate progress across the sea of sumptuously thick carpet, finally coming to rest six feet in front of the sofa. Monsieur d’Aubery bows and Sophie and I drop curtseys. I feel as if I am being presented to royalty and wonder if my rapid heartbeat is audible. I force a wavering smile, trying to catch my grandmother’s eye.

Slowly, the man I assume to be my Uncle Auguste rises to his feet. He is younger than I expected, perhaps eight or ten years younger than Papa. His richly embroidered waistcoat is stretched across an ample stomach and he wears a heavily powdered wig. There is something about his aquiline nose that reminds me of Papa.

He ignores Sophie and myself and speaks directly to Monsieur d’Aubery. ‘I remember you,’ he says. ‘What is the purpose of your visit, d’Aubery?’ I’m dismayed to find that his voice is as cold and distant as the meagre fire burning in the hearth. ‘I’ve heard of your exploits in escorting lily-livered nobles out of France. I do hope you haven’t come to persuade
me
to leave the country?’ He presses one plump white hand to his breast and smirks.

‘You may be certain that I have not,’ says Monsieur d’Aubery.

I take an instant dislike to Uncle Auguste and a chasm of bitter disappointment opens up inside my heart.

‘It’s nonsense to run away,’ says Uncle Auguste. ‘The peasants simply need a firm hand to confine them to the gutter. Keep their wages low and they will work hard.’ His lip curls. ‘Equality, indeed!’

‘In the current climate I can only warn you that there are very real dangers for you in inflaming the passions of the bourgeoisie and the peasants,’ says Monsieur d’Aubery. ‘But that is not why I am here today. As your manservant will have explained, I have accompanied your niece, Mademoiselle Moreau…’

‘I have no niece.’

‘You may not have been aware of her existence before now but, I assure you, she exists. Allow me to present her to you.’

‘You have been taken in by an imposter, d’Aubery.’

I step forward, my cheeks burning with sudden fury at the insult. ‘I assure you, I am no imposter. I am Madeleine Moreau, daughter of Philippe Moreau. And I believe you to be my father’s brother, Auguste.’

He looks down the length of his nose at me as if I am something unpleasant deposited at his feet. ‘Indeed?’

‘Yes,’ I say firmly. ‘Delighted to make your acquaintance.’ Next I face the elderly lady dressed in black. ‘And am I correct in believing you to be my father’s mother? My grandmother?’ I smile hopefully.

She glances at my uncle. ‘I have only one son and he stands beside me.’

I gasp as if she has slapped me. ‘Surely you do not deny the existence of your son Philippe?’

‘Philippe has been dead to me for many years.’ Her voice is as cold and as sharp as crystals of ice.

‘How can a mother…’

Auguste Moreau surges towards me then. ‘Imposter!’

I take a step back, crushed to find that this meeting I have anticipated nearly all my life is going so badly.

Monsieur d’Aubery steps between us.

‘You will leave immediately!’ My uncle’s voice echoes shrilly through the glacial chamber. ‘How
dare
you come here, claiming to belong to this family?’

‘I do belong to this family,’ I say, reaching desperately into the neckline of my dress and pulling out Papa’s ring, threaded on a silk ribbon. ‘Here’s my proof. The Moreau ring.’ I must make him believe me.

Moreau’s eyes bulge and he pushes Monsieur d’Aubery out of the way and snatches the ring.

I gasp in shock as my head jerks forward and the ribbon chafes my neck. I feel his breath on my cheek and quake before the animosity in his eyes. Whatever I expected, it wasn’t violence.

‘Who did you steal this from?’ he whispers, staring at the engraved crest.

‘Apologise at once to the lady,’ thunders Monsieur d’Aubery.

‘This ring is mine,’ I say, pulling it free from Uncle Auguste’s grasping fingers.

His face is scarlet with rage and, despite the chill in the room, sweat beads his forehead. ‘You’re lying! You’ve come here with the intention of making a claim on my estate.’

‘I did not! I didn’t even know of your existence until a few weeks ago. Since both my parents are recently dead…’

Grandmother Moreau gasps and presses one hand to her mouth.

Uncle Auguste becomes very still, his gaze penetrating. ‘Philippe is dead? Are you sure?’

‘Of course I’m sure.’

‘Have you any brothers?’

I shake my head. The smile on my uncle’s face makes me feel sick.

‘Thank God,’ he says, wiping one palm over his sweating face. ‘So you have no rights.’

Grandmother Moreau stirs in her seat and looks at me directly for the first time. ‘Why have you come here to stir up old sorrows?’

I catch my breath. My grandmother’s eyes are violet, the same colour as the eyes that look back at me from the mirror every day.

‘Well?’ barks Uncle Auguste.

‘I had hoped you might welcome me as a member of your family,’ I reply. The mere idea of this now seems ridiculous. All I want is to leave Château de Lys and never again see these two unpleasant specimens of humanity. And I want to leave before I break down and cry.

‘There is nothing for you here,’ says my father’s mother. Her voice is full of pain.

‘I can see that,’ I say, voice icy. ‘We’ll not take up any more of your time.’

‘Not so fast,’ says Uncle Auguste. ‘I want the Moreau ring. It’s mine by right.’

I tuck it safely away again. ‘On the contrary. It’s mine and you shall never have it.’

The fury and hatred on Uncle Auguste’s face are truly terrifying. I flinch as he launches himself at me, tearing at my fichu and scrabbling for the ring between my breasts. I panic, fighting off his hands, suddenly reliving Dick’s assault in Vauxhall Gardens.

Sophie screams and Monsieur d’Aubery roars with anger as he drags my uncle away.

The doors open and the footman bursts in.

Monsieur d’Aubery has Uncle Auguste by the throat. ‘Stop there,’ he shouts to the footman, ‘if you don’t want to see the your master throttled!’

The footman skids to a halt.

Monsieur d’Aubery thrusts his face close to his prisoner’s. ‘Apologise to Mademoiselle Moreau!’

I’m astonished to see that Monsieur d’Aubery’s aloof manner has entirely deserted him as he comes passionately to my defence.

Uncle Auguste whimpers.

‘Careful! You’re squeezing his throat too hard!’ warns Sophie.

Monsieur d’Aubery makes a visible effort and loosens his grip. ‘Apologise! Now!’

Uncle Auguste’s face is pale green and he glances at me briefly before muttering, ‘I apologise,’ towards his feet.

I notice the footman’s hastily suppressed grin.

Monsieur d’Aubery pushes Uncle Auguste away and wipes his hands disdainfully on his breeches. ‘Shall we go?’ he says to Sophie and me.

‘Get them out of here!’ shouts Uncle Auguste to the footman.

I’m trembling with distress and outrage as I glance at Grandmother Moreau, hoping to appeal to her better nature.

She’s staring at her folded hands in her lap but, as if she feels the intensity of my gaze, she glances up. I see a flicker of something in her violet eyes, regret or fear perhaps; I’m not sure.

‘I said, get them out!’ bellows Uncle Auguste.