The Chateau on the Lake (29 page)

I gasp.

‘I expect it’s still burning. It’s an old property and it’s been a hot, dry summer. Edouard Rochefort is unlikely to show his face round here again.’ Jean-Luc mops up the last of the gravy with a morsel of bread and pops it in his mouth. ‘Etienne, I came to find you because the mayor’s men are searching the kitchens here now, looking for stockpiled food supplies.’

‘There aren’t any,’ he says. ‘You of all people, Jean-Luc, know that we eat moderately here.’

‘Then you have nothing to worry about, have you?’ Casually, Jean-Luc drapes an arm around my shoulders. ‘It’s best to let the mayor carry out his search without interference.’

Etienne stands up abruptly and drops his napkin on the table. ‘Despite that, I don’t care for Prudhomme and his men rummaging through my property without my express permission.’

‘My mother is with him and saw no reason to refuse him entry.’

Etienne says not another word but turns on his heel and marches from the
chai
.

Jean-Luc looks amused. ‘Oh, dear, the master’s feathers are ruffled.’

I stare at his gloating expression then push his hand off my shoulder. ‘Shall we go and see what’s happening?’

Few words are exchanged between us as we make our way back. My dress is clinging damply to me, partly due to the heat of the afternoon and partly from apprehension.

There is a confusion of horses in the courtyard and the stench of dung and hot horseflesh fills the air. A couple of soldiers in blue coats watch curiously as Jean-Luc leads me up the steps. The front door stands wide open. As we enter the coolness of the marble-floored hall, I hear booted footsteps overhead and raised voices coming from the kitchens.

‘Are they searching all of the château, Jean-Luc?’ I ask. ‘Not just the store rooms?’

‘It would appear so.’ We walk along the corridor, past the servants’ staircase and into the kitchen.

Madame Viard, her hands folded neatly against her trim waist, is standing beside Etienne and Mayor Prudhomme. Every cupboard door is open and all the contents have been swept to the ground.

Etienne glances at us, his face white and his jaw set.

‘What news, Mayor Prudhomme?’ asks Jean-Luc in a jovial tone of voice that jars in the silence.

‘Nothing.’ The mayor’s self-satisfied smile makes me itch to slap his face. ‘But we haven’t finished yet.’

The sound of splintering wood and then the crash of breaking crockery comes from the corridor to the storerooms.

Etienne mutters an oath and takes a step forward.

I snatch hold of his shirtsleeve and feel the tension in his arm. ‘Best to stay here,’ I say, as calmly as I can.

Madame Viard glances at him, her dark eyes unfathomable.

Etienne subsides and I let go of his arm.

A soldier clumps his way into the kitchen, bearing a plate with a hambone upon it in one hand and half a loaf in the other. ‘There are only a few dried beans and this, Mayor Prudhomme,’ he says.

The mayor sighs. ‘Put them back.’

‘So you are satisfied that there is nothing untoward here?’ says Etienne abruptly.

Regret passes over the mayor’s face. ‘It appears that our information was incorrect.’ He narrows his eyes. ‘But you will understand, Monsieur d’Aubery, that any dwelling place, be it a château or a peasant’s hovel, is subject to being searched at any time if we are led to believe stockpiling of provisions is taking place. The consequence of such a misdemeanour is death by hanging. Do you understand?’

‘Perfectly,’ says Etienne crisply. ‘My housekeeper will show you out.’

‘No need,’ says the mayor, ‘since I know the way.’

‘Nevertheless,’ says Etienne, ‘Madame Viard, accompany Mayor Prudhomme off the premises, if you please.’

The tramp of boots on the staircase prevents any further conversation and Jean-Luc and the mayor leave the kitchen with Madame Viard close on their heels.

Etienne sinks on to the edge of the kitchen table and lets out his pent-up breath. ‘I don’t know how I managed to contain myself,’ he says. ‘All I wanted to do was to batter the smirk off Prudhomme’s fat face.’

‘I’m glad you didn’t,’ I say. ‘He’s dying to find an excuse to cause trouble for you.’

‘Even though we knew Madame Thibault had used up the sack of flour for the bread today, I prayed that Prudhomme’s men wouldn’t find anything else. I was suddenly fearful that false evidence might have been planted here to discredit me.’

‘I don’t trust Prudhomme either,’ I say.

‘Confiscated châteaux
are being purchased for a pittance all over the country by men such as Prudhomme and his cronies, who have risen to power quickly since the Revolution. I wondered if he was looking for an excuse to step into my shoes.’ Etienne rubs his temples. ‘Thankfully, he didn’t ask where the food for our celebration meal came from. I’d have had a hard time explaining that.’

‘And, what’s more,’ I say, ‘Jean-Luc helped to eat the last of the evidence.’

Etienne gives a shout of laughter. ‘So he did. But then, Jean-Luc always has had the château’s best interests at heart.’ He catches hold of my hand and pulls me towards the door. ‘Come on, back to the party! I’ll give the workers the rest of the afternoon off and you and I will celebrate with a glass of wine.’

As the summer reaches its zenith the weather continues to be unusually hot. The languorous heat and the mindless work lull me into a torpor as I walk slowly up and down tending the vines all afternoon. The sun beats down but the wide brim of the finely woven straw bonnet Jean-Luc gave to me protects my face from sunburn. In every other way the bonnet is entirely unsuitable since it has feathers and pink roses around the brim and wide silk ribbons to secure it under my chin.

The vine leaves stir on the opposite side of the row and then I hear voices.

‘… giving us a good dinner once in a while doesn’t make things equal.’

The women are out of sight but I recognise Madame Porcher’s complaining tone.

‘It’s all right for him, isn’t it?’ she continues. ‘Living in that great house with servants to wait on him, eating off fine porcelain with his crest on every plate, he’s no idea what it’s like to worry where the next crust of bread’s coming from.’

I stand on tiptoe to peer over the vines and catch sight of Madame Dufour’s coarse straw hat and Madame Porcher’s battered green bonnet.

Then there is silence apart from the rustling of the leaves until Bertille Dufour speaks. ‘I wonder what
did
happen to the master’s wife?’

I duck down behind the vines again and keep still, listening.

‘He must’ve murdered her,’ says Claudette Porcher. ‘No one’s seen her since he said she’d gone missing. Men don’t know their own strength when they lose their temper.’

‘That Moreau girl doesn’t seem to care if he’s a murderer. She’s always making sheep’s eyes at him.’

‘I can’t understand why she’s working in the fields with the rest of us. Perhaps she can’t bear to be apart from him. And I’ll tell you what, if she’s d’Aubery’s whore, I don’t want her teaching my children and poisoning their minds.’

‘I thought she was doing it with Jean-Luc Viard?’

‘Very likely, I’d say. He’s always hanging around her like a fly on a dunghill. I’m told he sent to Paris for that fancy hat she’s taken to wearing. As always, it’s one rule for the rich and another for the rest of us.’

Scarlet-cheeked, I remember Mama telling me that eavesdroppers never hear any good of themselves.

‘My husband told me the Revolution would bring us equality,’ says Bertille Dufour. ‘Don’t see any sign of that, do you?’

‘And one big dinner isn’t enough to see us through the winter.’ Claudette laughs. ‘Tell you what though, Bertille, perhaps we could help another of Etienne d’Aubery’s sheep on its way? I reckon we could manage to butcher it together, don’t you?’

‘If any more of our men are taken to be soldiers and we’re left alone to provide for our children, we may not have any choice.’

Mortified, I creep away but make a mental note to warn Etienne to keep an eye on his sheep.

 

 

At the end of every working day I look forward to returning to the house and spending time with Marianne before working in the vegetable garden. At six weeks old she’s growing fast. Her little body and cheeks are filling out and once or twice I think I catch a suspicion of a smile on her face. Her blue eyes try hard to focus on mine as I sing ‘
Au clair de la lune’
to her.

It’s impossible to deny that my love for her grows with every passing day and I dread the time when we must find her a new family. Sometimes I catch Sophie rocking her baby against her breast while tears make rivers down her cheeks and I know she’s thinking the same thing.

‘Perhaps we should stay in France,’ she says one day. ‘I like it here. I don’t care if I never see Charles again, if only I could fetch Henry.’ There is yearning for her son in her voice.

‘I could settle in France,’ I say, ‘except that I don’t like the atmosphere of unease and that won’t change until the political situation improves.’

‘Surely nothing bad will happen to us here, tucked away in the countryside?’

‘It already has,’ I say unhappily. ‘Look what happened to Père Chenot, and it frightened me that Etienne and Madame Thibault could have been executed for hiding that sack of flour.’

‘You don’t think the mayor really would have carried out his threat?’

‘He’s fanatical about carrying out Robespierre’s directives.’

‘Maybe that would be the case in Paris but in the country…’

I shrug. ‘I’d hoped that the dinner at the vineyard would form a closer bond between Etienne and the villagers than it has.’

Sophie looks at me enquiringly. ‘Did it not?’

‘Madame Porcher and her cronies are huddling together and whispering about the luxurious life they imagine Etienne leads. They ignore the fact that he works longer hours than anyone.’ I refrain from mentioning what they think of me.

‘There will always be those who are happiest when they are grumbling about something or other,’ says Sophie comfortingly.

 

 

The following morning I wake up with a banging headache and return to bed. Dozing in the half-light of the shuttered room, I’m awoken by a frantic hammering on the front door. A moment later I hear a rising babble of female voices followed by Babette’s loud cry of distress.

Downstairs in the kitchen I find a tear-stained Madame Gerard with Albert on her hip, talking to Babette and Sophie.

‘What has happened?’ I ask.

‘It’s Victor,’ weeps Madame Gerard.

Sophie puts an arm around her. Albert begins to cry, burying his face in his mother’s neck.

‘He’s been taken for a soldier,’ says Babette, her voice trembling. ‘The press gang came to the workshop and took Victor and his master away.’

‘The mayor had instructions from Paris to send more men to be soldiers,’ weeps Madame Gerard. ‘Victor’s only just sixteen!’

Sophie makes strong coffee and stirs in the last of our sugar, for the shock. When they are a little calmer, we send them home.

‘I’m going to see Jean-Luc,’ I say.

A short while later one of the housemaids admits me to the estate office.

Jean-Luc is lounging back in his chair with his feet on the desk. His shirtsleeves are rolled up to expose his muscular arms as he studies the ledger laid across his knees. A smile lights his hazel eyes when he sees me. ‘Well,’ he drawls, dropping his pen on to the desk and closing the book with a snap, ‘this is an unexpected pleasure.’ He waves his hand for me to sit down and removes his feet from the desk. ‘Is something wrong?’

‘Victor Gerard has been pressganged. His mother said that Mayor Prudhomme received instructions from Paris.’

‘The
levée en masse
.’

‘But what is that?’

‘Each
department
has received instructions from the Convention to supply a proportional number of conscripts. All unmarried, able-bodied men between eighteen and twenty-five must join the army.’

‘Jean-Luc, Victor’s barely sixteen!’

He shrugs. ‘Then he will perform his patriotic duty a little sooner than some.’

‘You have influence with Mayor Prudhomme. Can’t you ask him to release Victor?’

‘It won’t do any good.’

‘Please!’

He sighs and rubs his nose. ‘Very well. I’ll try, Madeleine, for you, but I can’t promise anything. The truth is, we need soldiers so badly to quell the uprisings, both within France and to defend our borders, that sixteen year olds will be sent to war within a few weeks anyway. Etienne and I are both without wives to support and, at twenty-six, I suspect it will be our turn next.’

Cold sweat breaks out on my forehead at the thought. ‘But they can’t take you; you’re both needed here to keep the estate functioning!’

‘I’ve already had that conversation with Mayor Prudhomme but we’ll have to see what transpires.’ Sighing, Jean-Luc pushes himself to his feet.

Since there is nothing more I can do at present, I return to the house.

 

 

Sophie and I take our supper in the garden to enjoy the last drowsy warmth of the day. It’s quiet except for the cicadas, the muted chink of our spoons against the soup bowls and our murmured conversation. Minou and Mouche are curled up in the flowerbed in a patch of sunshine.

As we are finishing our vegetable soup I hear the latch on the garden gate and then see Etienne striding towards us.

‘I came to see if you are feeling any better, Madeleine?’ he says. ‘Jean-Luc mentioned that you were unwell.’

‘Nothing more than a headache,’ I say.

‘Sit down with us,’ says Sophie.

Etienne sits beside me and stretches out his long legs with a sigh.

‘You sound weary,’ I say.

‘It’s been quite a day.’ He delves inside his shirt and pulls out a letter. ‘I brought this for you, Madeleine.’

Frowning, I take it from him. ‘I don’t know anyone here who would write to me.’ I turn the letter over and see that it is addressed simply to
Mademoiselle Moreau, Château Mirabelle
in spidery black ink. ‘Who brought it?’

‘I have no idea, except that it was a man of middle years. He rode into the stables this afternoon and gave Jacques a few sous to make sure that I received it and then rode away again. Intriguing, isn’t it?’ Etienne smiles, the weathered skin crinkling at the corners of his eyes.

I unfold the letter.

‘Madeleine? What is it?’ Sophie’s brown eyes are full of concern.

Wordlessly, I hand her the letter. After she has read it, I pass it to Etienne.

He asks me, ‘What do you wish to do?’

‘Auguste can rot in his dungeons for all I care,’ I say, ‘but it makes me uncomfortable to refuse an old lady’s plea for help.’

Sophie’s face is full of indignation. ‘She allowed your grandfather to treat your papa abominably.’

‘But what if she dies there? I’d be tormented by guilt for the rest of my days if I made no effort to help her. I couldn’t save Père Chenot but perhaps there’s some way to rescue Grandmother Moreau? Surely, as my grandmother, I owe her that?’