The Chateau on the Lake (14 page)

‘An excellent idea,’ says Monsieur d’Aubery, ‘and, Heaven knows, another wage coming into the Gerard household will help a great deal.’ He smiles so warmly at me that I blush.

Our guests drink several cups of tea before leaving, promising to return in a day or two. As Sophie and I stand on the doorstep to say goodbye, Monsieur d’Aubery invites me to go riding with him later in the week.

‘I should like that very much,’ I say.

‘Once the weather is warmer I’ll row you across the lake to the island,’ says Monsieur Viard, apparently not to be outdone. ‘And we’ll take a jaunt into Morville one day soon, if you’d like?’

‘You must all come to
dine
, too,’ says Monsieur d’Aubery, ‘and a hand of cards afterwards.’

‘They’re most attentive,’ says Sophie, looking at me from under her eyelashes after the men have left. ‘I do believe they’re vying for your attention, Maddy.’

‘They’re very kind,’ I say, blushing.

‘And uncommonly attractive,’ says Sophie. ‘Ah, well! Time will tell.’

It’s growing dark and I light the candles and close the shutters, wondering how it would be to have either Monsieur d’Aubery or Monsieur Viard as a suitor. I like them both. Monsieur Viard is light-hearted and makes me laugh but there is something about Monsieur d’Aubery’s serious manner that makes me want to discover more about him. Perhaps a person needs to earn his trust, but then I suspect he would be a faithful friend for ever.

Sophie and I sit companionably by the fire chatting about our new friends until the coals glow orange and the ashes fall into the hearth.

We settle into our new life and now that Sophie has been forced to face the inevitable, I see how hard she’s trying to make the best of it. Her baby has quickened and frequently I see her resting her hand on her abdomen, a faraway expression on her face. She occupies herself with her drawing, while I have decided to write a treatise on education for girls. I’m sure Papa would have approved.

Young Victor Gerard walks his sister to our house each morning on his way to work. Often I invite him to join Babette for breakfast, hoping that this will lessen the financial burden for poor Madame Gerard. It brings a lump to my throat when the boy talks so earnestly of his intention to work hard at his apprenticeship and assume responsibility for his family. Babette, too, is eager to please and I’m finding her quick to learn her duties.

Monsieur d’Aubery regularly calls on us in the afternoons, sometimes bringing Monsieur Viard with him. I look forward a great deal to these tea parties as a cheerful interlude in our quiet life and am flattered by the banter between the two men as they compete for my attention.

On most mornings I join Monsieur d’Aubery for his morning ride. Sophie says the fresh air and male company puts colour in my cheeks.

I cannot deny it. My waking thoughts have begun to be filled by Monsieur d’Aubery, or Etienne as I call him to myself. As we come to know each other better, his formality towards me diminishes. I like the way he listens to me so intently and his occasional flashes of humour. I anticipate our times together with great pleasure.

 

 

On a fresh spring morning, Babette and I set off from the house with our shopping baskets in hand to visit the market. Sophie stays behind, fearful that the potholed country lanes will make the trip too uncomfortable for her now that her waistline is expanding.

We present ourselves in the stable yard, where Jacques is ready with the
charrette,
hitched up to the piebald cob. The tabby cat winds itself around my legs, purring loudly, as we wait for Madame Thibault. I notice that the cat’s belly is swollen. Her kittens must be due.

‘Did I remember to add butter to the shopping list, Babette?’ I ask, as I bend down to rub the cat’s ears.

She holds out the list to me.

The cat’s purring grows louder. ‘You look,’ I say, ‘since Madame here is demanding my attention.’

A moment later I glance up and see that our maid’s eyes are welling with tears. ‘What is it, Babette? Have I upset you?’

‘I can’t,’ she says.

‘Can’t what?’

‘I can’t read.’

I curse myself for my insensitivity. Living in a country village, there is no reason at all why the daughter of a carpenter should be able to read. ‘Don’t worry, Babette. Shall I take the list? And we might as well sit in the cart to wait.’

A moment later I sit up straight with a smile on my face as Etienne trots into the stable yard on Diable.

‘Off to market?’ he asks. He sits well on the great black horse, his posture relaxed and confident.

‘We look forward to our little shopping expeditions to Morville,’ I say.

Etienne smiles. ‘Enjoy yourselves.’ He wheels Diable away and then the small black-clad figure of Madame Thibault hurries into the yard. Out of breath, she climbs up to sit on the bench seat beside me. ‘Oh, dear,’ she says, ‘I do hope I haven’t made us too late. We don’t want to find that all the best goods have been sold.’

Jogging along the road to Morville with the breeze in my face and the early-spring sunshine warm on my knees, I’m filled with a sense of well-being. The trees are just beginning to unfurl their new leaves and there are primroses in the hedgerows. I haven’t felt as settled as this since my parents died.

Madame Thibault breaks into my reverie. ‘Have you heard about the happenings in the Vendée? I had a letter from my cousin.’ The cook clasps her plump little hands over her bosom. ‘She says her son was called to join the army. He’s only just seventeen and now they want to send him off to war.’ She clicks her tongue in disgust.

‘Surely boys that young aren’t needed?’

‘Three hundred thousand men are to be raised from all parts of the country to fight with the English, Austrians, Spanish and Prussians. The men have to find their own provisions as they march, plundering and stealing, so in some areas there isn’t any food left for families to buy.’

‘I knew it was bad in Paris but didn’t realise the difficulties had reached the country, too.’

Madame Thibault shakes her head. ‘The people won’t stand for it and they’re going to take up arms against the government.’

‘Civil war?’ I ask, shocked.

Madame Thibault nods, her eyes full of tears. ‘I shouldn’t have said anything but I’m worried for my cousin’s family. Please forget I mentioned it. Of course I’m loyal to the Republic and wouldn’t want anyone to think otherwise.’

‘There have been so many changes since the storming of the Bastille that it’s hard to keep abreast of them all,’ I say. ‘Revolution will always upset the order of things but, at the end of it, we should expect many lives to be improved.’ I hope I’m right. Certainly events in France are not following the course I expected in my earlier, more idealistic life.

‘Except those who die in the course of the changes,’ says Madame Thibault, sniffing. ‘Still, please forget what I said. I’m upset for my cousin, that’s all.’

When we arrive at the market square in Morville, Madame Thibault trots off with her basket leaving Babette and myself to wander amongst the stalls. Although the square is crowded, very little merchandise is available.

On previous visits the stalls had been piled high with firm green cabbages, baskets of eggs and walnuts, pyramids of apples polished to a russet shine, preserved confit of duck glistening in bowls of goose fat, and pats of creamy goat’s cheese wrapped in vine leaves. Today, instead of dozens of plump chickens for sale there are only a couple of scrawny hens in moult, who regard us listlessly through the wooden bars of their cage.

We manage to find a cabbage, carrots, onions and some flour, but the butter has all been sold and there is little choice at the butcher’s stall.

‘Shall I run to the baker’s and see what he has left while you buy the oil?’ asks Babette.

‘That’s a good idea.’ I hand her a few coins.

Once I’ve bought olive oil and salt, I visit a stall selling household goods and buy a small and rather grey-looking piece of soap at exorbitant cost. I have no idea if soap will be available again in the near future but I remember Etienne saying that without soap man is quickly reduced to the level of the beasts.

Babette returns to my side with a baguette tucked under her arm.

‘I need to look at the haberdasher’s, Babette, and then we’ve finished.’

Sophie has already let out her skirts as far as they will go and I’ve promised to buy some material for a new dress. I find some sprigged muslin in a flattering shade of blue and reflect how much less expensive it is to make a dress in the new fashion since we no longer wear extravagantly large skirts.

‘Isn’t it pretty?’ says Babette, fingering the soft material.

‘A little cool for this time of year but Madame Levesque can wear her quilted petticoat underneath it for now and it will be summer before we know it.’

While the stallholder is measuring and cutting the muslin I see some rose pink Indian cotton and hold it up to myself. ‘What do you think, Babette?’

‘It’s beautiful,’ she says. ‘And it makes your cheeks look pink.’

All at once I feel reckless. Who knows if it will be available again next time we come to the market? ‘I’ll take a dress length,’ I say. ‘And, Babette, would you like me to make you a dress, too?’

Her hazel eyes widen. ‘For me? I’ve only ever had Maman’s clothes cut down before.’

‘Then you shall definitely have a new dress all of your own.’

As we leave the stall an elderly man, shabbily dressed in rusty black and leaning heavily upon a cane, approaches us. ‘Good morning, Babette.’

‘Père Chenot.’ Babette drops a curtsey.

‘And your poor mother and all the little ones, are they well?’

‘Yes, thank you, Père. And this is my new mistress, Mademoiselle Moreau.’

The old man bows. ‘Enchanted to make your acquaintance, Mademoiselle Moreau. So Babette is now your maid?’

‘And proving to be most diligent.’

Père Chenot smiles and a latticework of wrinkles spreads across his tired face. ‘I would have expected nothing else of her.’ He lays a hand on Babette’s head for a second and murmurs under his breath. ‘Go in peace, my child.’ He bows again to me and then limps away.

‘Let’s sit down for a moment while we take stock,’ I say.

There is a
lavoir
at the corner of the square, adjacent to the river that runs through the centre of the town, where the women gather to gossip and do the washing. Today, since it is market day, the wash house is deserted.

Babette and I perch on one of the low granite walls that surround the building, which is open to the elements at the sides, under a tiled roof supported with heavy oak beams. We examine our purchases and, suddenly anxious that it may not be readily available again, I send Babette back to buy another piece of soap.

I sit quietly listening to the rushing sound of the river, diverted to make a constant flow of water through the vast stone wash trough, and reflect that a year ago I could never have imagined I would soon be living in the land of Papa’s birth.

We return to the cart to find Jacques fast asleep with his cap over his face. The piebald horse has finished his nosebag and is dozing, too, with one hoof tipped up.

‘Will you stay here, Babette, while I go and find Madame Thibault?’

She is at the dry goods stall paying for her last item, a sack of flour, when I find her.

‘Let me help,’ I say, taking one of her laden baskets.

She nods in thanks. ‘Supplies are short,’ she whispers, ‘but I’ve some useful contacts and have made a good deal here.’

The grocer’s boy heaves the flour on to his back and follows us to the cart, where Babette is hugging her parcel of primrose cotton to her chest.

Once the flour sack and the baskets are safely stowed between our feet, Jacques clicks his tongue at the horse and the cart rolls away.

‘I wonder if you can advise me, Madame Thibault?’ I say. ‘In July Madame Levesque will require the services of a midwife.’

‘Then you must speak to Widow Berger in the village.’ Madame Thibault nods. ‘She delivers all the babies hereabouts and only ever loses the sickly ones.’

‘Thank you. I’ll visit her.’

‘You do that,’ says Madame Thibault, ‘but I must tell you the latest news. I met the housekeeper from Château Boulay in the market just now. She says the marquis and his family have run away to London.’ She shakes her head. ‘The state confiscated the château and a lawyer has bought it for a song but he won’t keep such a large household as the marquis. Half the staff are out of work.’

‘What will they do?’

‘Starve, probably. The young men will join the army, of course, but there isn’t enough work for everyone. So many of the former nobility have gone to Paris or London and their châteaux sold to the gentry.’

‘At least Mr d’Aubery still remains at Château Mirabelle.’

‘He’s generally liked in these parts, despite the talk about his wife.’ She clicks her tongue. ‘And that was a sad thing and no mistake, when the old comte and his wife died.’

‘What happened?’

‘It was a carriage accident. Something frightened the horses and they bolted. The carriage tipped over when they reached the ford. The horses were mad with fear and the master was killed outright when they trampled him but the poor mistress was trapped under the carriage wheels. No one was there to hear her cries and eventually she couldn’t hold her face above the river any longer.’ Madame Tibault crosses herself. ‘She drowned, God rest her sweet soul.’

There’s a lump in my throat as the cart jogs along through the countryside and I imagine Etienne’s distress at the shocking manner of his parents’ deaths.