The Chateau on the Lake (3 page)

I’m slightly mollified by his apology. ‘I concede that I have never visited the country of my father’s birth but I assure you I do keep abreast of the latest developments.’

D’Aubery bows. ‘I have no wish to quarrel with you. In fact, since it has started to rain, perhaps you would allow me to convey you home in my carriage?’

I hesitate, unwilling to feel beholden to him. ‘I came with my friend Mrs Levesque.’

‘Then, of course, she must accompany us too.’

I glance at the window and see that rain is indeed running down the glass. It would be a shame to allow my new, if uncomfortable, satin slippers to be spoilt in the mud.

Sophie is nowhere to be found in Georgiana’s drawing room. In the hall I see the door to the dining room is ajar and hear her infectious laughter, a sound I haven’t heard in a long while, coming from inside.

I push open the door and discover Sophie and Jack Fielding with their arms entwined as they share a glass of wine.

She starts and pulls away from him, colour rising in her cheeks. ‘Madeleine! I didn’t see you there.’

‘It’s raining and Mr d’Aubery has offered to take us home in his carriage.’

Jack Fielding doesn’t acknowledge me and my hackles rise as he drains his glass.

‘Run along, Mrs Levesque,’ he says.

Sophie pouts prettily. ‘But I shall see you tomorrow at two o’clock for my sitting, Mr Fielding?’

He kisses his fingers to her. ‘Indeed you will.’

Mr d’Aubery is taking his leave of Georgiana in the hall and a moment later we’re hurrying through the rain to his carriage.

Sophie says little as we travel but stares out of the window with a half smile on her face, so that I must make polite conversation with Mr d’Aubery unaided by her.

A short while later we stop outside the Levesque house and Mr d’Aubery holds an umbrella over Sophie as she ascends the front steps.

He slams the carriage door behind him when he returns and brushes the rain off his broad shoulders. I cannot help but approve of his natural elegance.

When we arrive at Soho Square he insists on accompanying me to the front step, shielding me from the rain with his umbrella.

Papa opens the door. ‘Ah, Madeleine! I was in the library and guessed it might be you.’ He looks at Mr d’Aubery, his head on one side. ‘And you have brought a guest? A fellow Frenchman, I believe?’

‘
Exactement
.’ Mr d’Aubery bows to Papa.

‘Come in, come in!’ Papa beams and shakes hands with him vigorously. ‘I’ve just opened a bottle of good French wine and would welcome your opinion.’

My heart sinks. Clearly Papa is under the illusion that I have brought home a suitor to meet him.

We follow him into the library where we find Mama working on her embroidery.

‘Were you caught in the rain, Madeleine?’ she asks, without looking up.

‘Mr d’Aubery brought me home in his carriage,’ I say.

Mama glances up at my companion and hurries to put aside her needlework.

Papa and Mr d’Aubery become very animated as they swirl the wine in their glasses, holding them up to the light from the window to examine the ruby colour.

‘I like the look of Mr d’Aubery,’ whispers Mama. ‘Is he eligible?’

‘He’s a widower,’ I murmur, ‘but I have no intention…’

Mama smiles to herself and pats my hand.

Before very long the two men are arguing good-naturedly about recent events in Paris.

‘I see now how you influence Mademoiselle Moreau’s ideas on French politics,’ says Mr d’Aubery to Papa with a smile.

‘Never underestimate my daughter’s intellect and strength of will,’ he laughs. ‘I assure you, her ideas are her own.’ He shrugs and purses his lips. ‘But perhaps, having no son, I have encouraged her to assert her intellectual opinions in a way that is more French than English for a young lady.’

‘I like a woman to be interested in current affairs and to have more conversation than the choice of ribbons for her bonnet,’ says Mr d’Aubery, ‘even if we disagree.’

Papa claps him on the shoulder. ‘A man after my own heart!’

When Mr d’Aubery laughs his whole demeanour changes and, watching him so at ease with Papa, I wonder if I should revise my opinion of his character.

‘Which part of France do you come from, Mr d’Aubery?’ asks Mama.

I look at my feet, wishing she wouldn’t interrogate him.

‘I have a town house in Paris but my estate is near Orléans,’ he says. ‘It was granted to my ancestor, Edouard d’Aubery, by King Louis XII in 1499.’

‘And your family?’ asks Mama.

‘My sister lives in America. My parents unfortunately died in a carriage accident three years ago and my elder brother drowned when he was eighteen.’

‘How very sad!’

‘We are a family beset by tragedy.’

I notice that he doesn’t mention his dead wife.

Papa uncorks another bottle of wine. ‘I’d be interested,’ he says, ‘to hear your opinion on this vintage.’

‘I wonder…’ says Mr d’Aubery to Papa. ‘I couldn’t help noticing your ring. Are you by any chance connected to the Moreau family of Fontainebleau?’

I hold my breath. Am I finally to discover more about Papa’s relations?

He pauses in the act of pouring another glass of wine for our visitor. ‘I have no family,’ he says. ‘Now tell me what you think of this.’

I let out my breath in disappointment.

‘Well!’ says Mama a little later, after Mr d’Aubery has left. ‘Not only is your friend well connected, Madeleine, but he’s extremely handsome and has excellent manners.’ She smiles at Papa. ‘Much like you, Philippe, at that age.’

He kisses Mama’s hand lingeringly and I leave them to discuss their day whilst I retire to plan tomorrow’s lessons.

Papa holds aloft a cane with a red ribbon tied to the tip; a prearranged method of ensuring that the Jephcotts will recognise us amongst the crowd of nuns, Roman gods and pirates milling around in the sunshine outside the gates of Vauxhall Gardens.

I’m effervescent with excitement as Chinese acrobats tumble amongst us, while a dwarf dressed as Pierrot collects coins from the delighted onlookers.

‘How can they bear to be so energetic when it’s as hot as this?’ asks Mama, fanning herself.

We look very fine. Papa is a cavalier of the last century, complete with extravagantly feathered hat, lace cuffs and a sword, while Mama makes a graceful Eleanor of Aquitaine. My own costume of Queen Marie Antoinette dressed as a shepherdess is far from original, I had seen three other shepherdesses and a milkmaid even before we entered the gates, but the costume suits me. We all wear black domino masks.

A rotund Turk, brown-skinned and fearsomely moustachioed, pushes his way through the throng and claps my father on the shoulder.

‘Here we are, Moreau! I thought we might never find you in such a press.’ Mr Jephcott takes hold of the hands of the Queen of Sheba, a plump little woman with a ready smile under her mask, and a young woman dressed as a milkmaid. ‘Mrs Jephcott and my daughter Lydia.’

Papa sweeps off his feathered hat and bows low.

As we greet each other I see that my own delight in the occasion is reflected in Lydia’s shining eyes. She has her mother’s petite figure and a tumble of fair curls on her shoulders.

There is some good-natured arguing between Papa and Mr Jephcott about who will pay the shilling each entrance fee and then we are admitted through the gates and into the Grove, the central area of the gardens.

‘How about that for a sight, ladies?’ says Mr Jephcott, opening his arms wide.

The Grove is lightly wooded and surrounded on three sides by arcades forming fifty or so open-fronted dining alcoves. The magnificent pavilion designed for the Prince of Wales, so Mr Jephcott tells us, is situated on the fourth side. An octagonal building, Chinese in style, is set before us, several storeys high, with openings all around and illuminated from within. Lively music from an orchestra situated on the top floor of the building makes a merry background to the hum of excited conversation.

Several
allées
open off the Grove, enticing us to explore.

Lydia claps her hands. ‘May we walk around the gardens before supper?’

We set off, full of anticipation, along the South Walk, one of the wide avenues through the wooded gardens, lined with elms and spanned by Italianate triumphal arches.

More than a thousand other visitors are promenading in the early-evening sunshine and it’s impossible not to be entranced by the costumes and the general air of gaiety. Who can tell, under their dominoes, if these elegant ladies and their masked companions are lords and ladies or light-skirts and their patrons? Even Mama is charmed by the snatches of music and singing coming from a number of Greek temples secreted in the copses that edge the walks.

‘Oh, look!’ says Lydia, clasping my hand.

Hurrying forward through the groups of revellers we exclaim in delight at the sight of picturesque ruins, arches and columns, with nearby a cascade tumbling over rocks into a pool edged with ferns.

‘We must take our seats for supper before sunset,’ says Mr Jephcott.

The shadows are lengthening as the sun lowers itself in the sky and we make our way back to the Grove, now thronged with masked guests sitting in the dining alcoves. The aroma of roasting chicken is drifting on the air and waiters are hurrying hither and thither with trays of cold meat and pies held aloft.

‘The food is plain but good,’ says Mr Jephcott, as we place our order. ‘And we shall have a bottle of the best French wine.’

I’m amused to see that the glue adhering his enormous black moustache to his top lip has melted in the warmth and it hangs awry.

‘Harold?’ murmurs Mrs Jephcott, touching her top lip and giving him a meaningful nod.

‘Jephcott, perhaps this is a good time for you to explain some of your new ideas for the Academy to my wife?’ says Papa.

‘But, of course,’ says Mr Jephcott, patting his moustache back into place. ‘I’ve long been interested in the education of women, who, I believe, are vastly underrated in what they can achieve.’

‘It’s so important to catch the girls while they are young and before their heads are full of foolish notions, don’t you think?’ says Mrs Jephcott.

Mama nods in agreement.

‘I’m most impressed by the reputation of your school,’ continues Mr Jephcott. ‘But I believe it could be enhanced if you were to offer a boarding facility. This would allow you to foster more entirely an atmosphere conducive to learning. My dear wife would act as Matron and take responsibility for the girls’ pastoral care.’

‘Under Mrs Moreau’s direction, of course,’ says Mrs Jephcott. ‘And I would also be happy to give singing lessons,’ she adds.

Her husband gazes fondly at her. ‘My dear Eliza has the singing voice of a nightingale.’

She blushes rosily and smiles at Mama. ‘Mr Jephcott has a particular fondness for Italian opera.’

‘And our Lydia studies Latin and has an uncommon interest in natural science,’ he continues.

On the other side of the Grove sits a boisterous group of young men in naval uniform, singing ‘The Lass Who Loved a Sailor’.

Our waiter returns with a tray piled high with wafer-thin ham, cold chicken, salads and pies. My stomach begins to growl in anticipation.

‘They shave the ham so thinly here that you can read a newspaper through it,’ says Mr Jephcott, holding up a scrap of meat on his fork.

The sun has almost disappeared behind the trees but it’s still very warm. I pluck at my mask, which is hot and sticky against my face since there is no breeze to dispel the humidity.

‘There’s a surprise in store for you, Lydia and Madeleine,’ says Papa, his eyes twinkling.

It’s growing dark and there is a general air of expectation amongst the guests. The party of young men begins to bang their knives on the table and to chant, ‘The lamps! The lamps!’ Several of the other diners join in until it’s impossible to speak above the din. The orchestra ceases playing Handel’s
Water Music
.

‘What’s happening, Papa?’ I shout.

Before he can answer a whistle blows and a great roar of approval reverberates around us as lights begin to glimmer almost simultaneously in the thousands upon thousands of lamps hanging from the trees and suspended around the buildings in the Grove.

I catch my breath at the magic of it. ‘It’s like the Arabian Nights,’ I gasp. ‘How do they do that?’

Mr Jephcott laughs. ‘A clever trick, don’t you think? A series of fuses lead from lamp to lamp and, upon a signal, men stationed all around the gardens set them alight.’

‘It’s as bright as day!’ says Mama.

‘So are you pleased you came, after all?’ asks Papa.

‘How could I not be? Although,’ she gestures to the young men, now becoming boisterous as they call for more wine, ‘I suspect it may not be a good idea to stay too late.’

‘But we must remain long enough to join in the dancing after supper,’ protests Mr Jephcott.

The orchestra strikes up again, this time playing a jolly rendition of ‘The Lass of Richmond Hill’, and many of the diners sing along, all very merry. The festive atmosphere is infectious and I breathe out a sigh of contentment. Mama and Papa are in earnest conversation with Mr and Mrs Jephcott. I’m beginning to like the couple and am not at all opposed to their breathing new life into the Academy.

‘It’s very close, isn’t it?’ Lydia pushes away her empty plate and fans her face.

‘I shouldn’t wonder if there’s a thunderstorm later,’ says her mother.

‘May Madeleine and I take a little walk?’

‘Not now, Lydia. I wish to continue my conversation with Mr and Mrs Moreau so I can’t accompany you.’

‘But we won’t go far!’ she wheedles.

‘Perhaps if the girls stay in the Grove, in the light where we can keep an eye on them, it wouldn’t do any harm,’ says Mr Jephcott. ‘What do you think, Moreau?’

Papa glances at Mama. ‘I believe the young ladies are too sensible to stray far away.’

‘Thank you, Papa.’ All at once the supper box is too stifling to endure another minute and I cannot wait to walk outside in the breeze. Besides, I want to mingle with the crowd.

Lydia links her arm through mine and we stroll around the Grove, lost in the excitement of it all. There’s a full moon to add to the golden glow of the lamps. Everywhere we look there are amusing sights: a nun walking with an imp of Satan, Caesar laughing with Columbine, and two sailors and a host of nymphs shrieking with laughter at the sight of a pope juggling oranges. I cannot remember when I was last so entertained.

Two highwaymen fall into step beside us, both masked and with pistols tucked into their belts.

‘Evenin’, ladies,’ says the tallest one. ‘Mind if we walk with you a while?’

‘Can’t stop you,’ says Lydia, pertly.

Somehow the highwaymen are now one on either side of us, with arms linked through ours. Two Greek goddesses run past, screeching in delight as Harlequin and a pirate chase after them.

I glance back at the supper box but Mama and Papa are deep in conversation with Lydia’s parents. I wonder whether I should give our new companions a sharp set down but really they aren’t doing any harm. The conversation is light-hearted and flirtatious. I find myself enjoying it.

‘If we’re going to walk with you, we must know your names,’ says Lydia.

‘Our names?’ says the taller of the men, gripping my arm. ‘Well now, that’s against the rules of a masquerade, isn’t it? Our identities must remain a secret. Let’s just say I’m Dick and this gentleman here is Tom.’

Tom bows low and Dick kisses my hand. I feel the moistness of his lips against the back of my hand and I’m not sure that I like it. ‘And who might you be?’ he asks.

‘Antoinette,’ I say, ‘and my friend is Aphrodite.’

Lydia giggles.

Tom takes a bottle of wine out of his coat pocket and pulls out the cork with his teeth, never letting go of Lydia’s arm. ‘Here you are, Aphrodite,’ he says.

After Lydia has sipped from the bottle she hands it to me. I hesitate briefly then drink some too. It’s vinegary, not at all like the pleasant wine we had with our supper.

There’s a peculiar stillness to the overheated air and I see that Dick’s forehead under his highwayman’s hat is beaded with sweat.

‘Let’s take a turn down here, shall we?’ says Tom, swinging us around to walk into one of the avenues.

We have walked a little way before I realise that it’s unlit here and, except for a few couples seeking solitude in the shadows, only a few other people are nearby.

‘I’m not sure…’ says Lydia.

There is a rustling and a moaning in the bushes, and a peal of drunken laughter.

‘There are the ruins of a temple a little further on. We could sit there a while and talk,’ says Tom, persuasively.

‘It’s too dark here,’ I say, wondering what his face looks like behind the mask.

A giggling nun, hand in hand with a satyr, walks past us and disappears into the dense blackness of the copse beside the avenue.

A fat drop of water lands on my arm. I look up and see the moon veiled by cloud. Another raindrop falls on my upturned face and all at once I’m uneasy. We’re too far away from the bright lights of the Grove. ‘We must return, Lydia,’ I tell her.

‘Not yet,’ says Dick, his breath hot on my cheek. ‘You haven’t paid us for your wine.’

‘Paid?’ Lydia looks confused.

‘You need to pay us with a kiss,’ says Tom, imprisoning her into his arms.

‘Certainly not!” I say indignantly. ‘Come on, Lydia, let’s leave.’

The rain begins to fall in earnest now and in a moment Lydia’s thin muslin dress is soaked and clinging to her figure, leaving little to the imagination.

Dick grips my arm. ‘Not yet,’ he says, pulling me towards the shadows.

I struggle against him, but every time I free one of his hands from my arm or wrist, he catches hold of me again.

Lydia is thrashing around in Tom’s arms, turning her face away as he attempts to kiss her.

Dick’s fingers press painfully into my upper arm.

‘Let me go!’ I cry.

Lydia’s piercing scream is almost drowned by a monstrous clap of thunder.

I shout her name but Dick silences me by pressing his mouth over mine. He tastes of wine and raw onions. His hands are all over me, pinching my breasts and cupping my buttocks. I’m revolted and frightened now, and when the bright flash of lightning comes it only serves to illuminate his face and show me his bestial intent.

The rain begins to drum down on my head and shoulders, splashing up from the earth to soak my skirt. I hear Lydia shrieking as I scratch at Dick’s face, fighting him every inch of the way as he drags me towards the deeper darkness of the shrubbery. My feet slip and slide in the thin mud forming on the sun-baked earth and I’m full of disbelief that the magical evening could suddenly have become so terrifying.

Dick pushes me against a holly bush and I scream as he lifts my skirt and then his hands are between my thighs. Twigs prick my back and spiny leaves catch at my hair as Dick grinds his hips against mine, fumbling at the buttons of his breeches as I squirm in his grasp.

Just as I think all is lost there’s a great bellow of rage and Dick releases me so suddenly that I stumble and fall to the ground.

Papa, his chest heaving for breath, holds Dick’s arms pinioned behind his back. Mama stands beside him, her eyes wide with apprehension and her hair sodden.

Mr Jephcott runs up to Lydia and, with a yell, kicks her assailant’s knees.

Surprised, Tom lets Lydia go and she runs sobbing into her mother’s arms.

Mr Jephcott snatches up a stick from the ground. ‘I’ll beat you within an inch of your life,’ he roars.

Thunder cracks again and Tom yells each time the stick slashes down across his shoulders and head.