The Chateau on the Lake (4 page)

Dick erupts from Papa’s arms and punches Mr Jephcott on the chin. ‘Leave ’im alone!’

Without a word, Mr Jephcott sinks senseless to the ground.

Papa, raging in French, pulls his sword free and runs at Dick.

There’s a flash of silver and Dick yells, ‘Damn your eyes, you’ve run me through, you bastard!’

Papa jerks the sword out of Dick’s thigh and readies himself to strike again. ‘You have dared to attempt to dishonour our daughters and you will pay the price.’

Dick’s knees buckle and he falls down, arms over his head, begging for mercy, while the blood spurts from his thigh into a dark pool on the earth.

Tom rears up from the ground with rain and blood running down his cheeks in rivulets, his highwayman’s pistol levelled at Mama. ‘Get away from him, you damned Frenchie,’ he shouts, ‘or I’ll shoot her!’

Ice cold with terror, I see how his hand shakes. ‘Don’t!’ I shout, but my voice fails me and comes out as a whisper.

Stopped in his tracks, Papa looks at Mama and lets his sword arm fall to his side. ‘You are the scum of the earth, preying on women weaker than yourselves…’

‘Philippe, I implore you…’ Mama gasps as Papa kicks viciously at Dick’s supine form.

Dick screams and Tom lifts his wavering pistol arm, pointing it at Mama.

It all happens so fast. Papa, sword raised, leaps at Tom.

Mama runs forward and clings to his back to restrain him.

There’s a sharp crack and a blinding flash.

‘Philippe!’ screams Mama.

Then there is silence, save for the rain falling from the black sky and hissing on to the ground.

I draw the curtains to close out the shaft of sunlight that falls across Mama’s face where it rests on the pillow. ‘Is that better?’ I whisper.

She nods and I stroke her hair off her brow. Fever blazes in her cheeks.

‘Madeleine?’ she murmurs.

‘Can I fetch you something?’ If there is anything she wants I will go to the ends of the earth to find it, but nothing I can do will ever assuage my guilt. If I had not so foolishly allowed myself to be beguiled by the enchantment of that evening, I’d never have gone walking with strange men.

‘Madeleine, bury me next to my dearest Philippe.’ She loses control for a moment. ‘Oh, my Philippe!’

‘You’re
not
going to die!’ I grip her hand fiercely and pull it to my lips.

‘It’s too late for me, sweetheart.’

In my inmost heart I know she speaks the truth but I cannot accept it. ‘You
will
get well, Mama!’

‘Papa’s ring… after I’m gone, you must wear it.’

She twists his signet ring around her finger and I close my eyes to shut out the painful memory of removing it from his finger even before his body grew cold. The bullet had penetrated his heart and killed him instantly. Mama had been pressed so closely against his back as she tried to restrain him from attacking Tom that when the bullet had exited Papa’s body it had lodged in her chest. The surgeon had removed it but within a few days infection had set in.

‘Mama, should I write to Papa’s family?’

Wearily, she shakes her head. ‘There is no one he would wish to contact.’

‘But surely…’

‘He always said that the past is past and we must look only to the future.’ A tear rolls down her cheek. ‘I know nothing of Papa’s family except that they came from near Fontainebleau,’ she says. ‘He always refused to talk about them to me.’

Mama’s hand reaches out for me and as I curl my fingers around her wrist I feel the pulse there beating as fast as the wings of a trapped bird. Suddenly her face crumples in distress. ‘I always meant to make peace with my own parents before they died but I left it too late. My father was a good man but too proud to seek me out to forgive me.’

‘What happened between you?’ I hardly dare to ask but I must know.

She sighs. ‘On the day I was to have married the man he chose for me, I eloped with your father, leaving my intended at the altar.’

I gasp. The very idea of my gentle mother behaving so outrageously is inconceivable to me.

‘After Philippe arrived in England he came to work at Maitland Hall, my parents’ home, as my French tutor. We fell in love but Father refused to consider the match.’ Mama’s mouth twists into a small smile. ‘A penniless French tutor had no place in his plans. Don’t cry, sweetheart,’ she says. ‘I never regretted marrying your father.’ Weakly, she reaches up to touch my hair. ‘It is imperative now that I write to my lawyer.’

To humour her, I bring her paper and ink and prop her up against the pillows. When she’s finished, I fold the letter and set it on the dressing table, amongst the medicine bottles, bandages and basins.

There is a knock on the door and our maid Sarah beckons to me from the doorway. ‘Mrs Jephcott and Miss Jephcott have come to call upon you.’

Mama’s eyes are closed.

‘I’ll be back in a few minutes,’ I say.

She nods her head and I stand up carefully, so as not to disturb her.

‘Madeleine?’ Her voice is no louder than the rustle of dry leaves stirring in a breeze. ‘It breaks my heart to think of you alone, but I love you, sweetheart. Never forget that.’

I kiss her hot forehead and wipe away my own tears.

Hurrying downstairs, my footsteps echo as I cross the hall. The Academy has been closed since that dreadful night when Papa was murdered and the house is eerily quiet.

Mrs Jephcott and Lydia are waiting in the drawing room.

‘We came hoping for better news of dear Mrs Moreau,’ says Mrs Jephcott.

‘The doctor called again this morning to dress the wound,’ I say, ‘but…’ My face crumples as the tears flow. ‘He says that the infection has spread and that she cannot overcome it,’ I sob.

Mrs Jephcott murmurs condolences while Lydia hovers nearby.

‘We’ll come again tomorrow but send for us at once if…’

‘Thank you.’

Mrs Jephcott hesitates a moment and then says, ‘Mr Jephcott went to witness your father’s murderers hang this morning. Both of them snivelled and wailed like the cowards they were but now they’ll never have the opportunity to prey on innocent young women again.’

‘I can’t find it in my heart to forgive them yet,’ I say.

I return to the sickroom to find Mama moaning softly in her sleep. Her breath comes in shallow gasps and I whisper endearments to her until she quietens.

She dozes through the night, waking only to mutter confused questions about Papa’s whereabouts. Her cheeks and chest are flushed with fever and the whites of her eyes are yellow.

At last exhaustion overwhelms me and I rest my forehead upon our clasped hands and sleep.

 

 

The sound of a cart rattling over the cobbles below awakens me. Dawn light filters through the curtains as they wave softly in the breeze from the open window and dances upon the bedchamber wall. My neck aches from my awkward position hunched over the bed and I let go of Mama’s hand and stretch out my back.

Her face is pale and I reach out to touch her forehead and find that the fever has gone and her skin is cool.

The room is very quiet and Mama continues to sleep peacefully. All at once my heart begins to thud.

‘Mama?’ I stand up and lean over her, my hand to her nose. Not a breath stirs. ‘Mama!’ Her eyes don’t open when I shake her. Sobbing, I gather her into my arms but I know that my worst fear has come true. Both my mother and my father are dead and I am entirely alone in the world.

 

 

A gust of wind sweeps clouds across the stormy sky above the graveyard but then the sun emerges, making me squint in the unexpected brightness. My eyes are gritty from weeping and the unyielding black wool of my new mourning clothes chafes my neck. All the Academy staff, many pupils, their parents, our neighbours and a great number of the French community in London have come to pay their respects as Mama is laid to rest beside Papa.

Silent tears blind me as I sprinkle a handful of earth upon her coffin. I shall never see either of my beloved parents again and a piercing stab of anguish makes me falter. Sophie grasps my elbow as my knees threaten to give way.

After Mama is buried I lead the mourners in a silent procession back to the house where I stand, dazed, in the hall greeting the guests. A sea of faces passes in front of me but my eyes are blurred by tears as I accept their kisses and kind words. I wish that they would all leave me in peace. There is a hovering blackness on the edge of my vision and my eyes close as I begin to sway.

A warm hand grips mine and a voice speaks to me in French. I blink as I realise that it is Mr d’Aubery’s dark eyes I see looking into my own.

‘Enough,’ he says, taking my arm in a firm grip and leading me to a chair. He raises a finger to the maid who is carrying a tray of wine glasses amongst the guests. Lifting a glass of red wine from the tray, he holds it to my lips. ‘Drink,’ he commands.

Obediently, I sip.

‘When did you last eat?’ he asks.

‘Eat?’ I shrug. ‘Yesterday, perhaps.’

He walks away and Signor Brunetti comes to offer his condolences. ‘What is to become of us?’ he asks, twisting a lace-trimmed handkerchief in his hands. ‘Will you close the Academy? I must think of my Mammina.’

‘I don’t know.’ I’ve been too shocked even to think about that.

Signor Brunetti pats my hand, tears welling in his eyes. ‘I’m so sorry,
carina
. We will talk of it another time.’ He draws a shuddering breath and tiptoes away.

‘Miss Moreau?’

Amelia Wainwright’s parents stand before me.

‘We were sorry to hear the sad news of your parents’ passing,’ says Mrs Wainwright.

‘But we must ask you what arrangements have been made for the school?’ adds her husband. His coat is stretched tightly across his paunch and his purple cheeks bear testament to his enjoyment of fine wines. ‘Now that your father is no longer Director…’

‘I don’t know.’ I press a hand to my chest. The room suddenly feels airless. ‘I haven’t thought.’

‘I don’t wish to press you unduly but Amelia’s best interests must be protected.’ Mr Wainwright’s cold blue eyes bore into me.

Mr d’Aubery arrives at my side with a slice of veal pie on a plate. ‘Excuse me,’ he says, shouldering his way between Mr Wainwright and myself. ‘Miss Moreau is faint with grief. I must insist you allow her to rest.’

Mr Wainwright’s mouth tightens in irritation. ‘But it’s important…’

‘Most certainly,’ says Mr d’Aubery curtly.

Wainwright starts to speak, sees Mr d’Aubery’s forbidding stare, and stops. ‘We shall discuss this further very soon, Miss Moreau.’ Mr Wainwright takes his wife’s arm and they walk away.

‘Eat this,’ says Mr d’Aubery, handing me the plate of pie.

It’s easier to nibble at the pastry than to resist him. Surprisingly, a few moments after I have forced myself to swallow, I realise I’m hungry.

‘Very good!’ says Mr d’Aubery approvingly as he takes the empty plate from me a few moments later.

‘Mr Wainwright is quite right, however,’ I say. ‘I must decide what is going to happen to the school.’ The future, frightening and lonely, opens up like a chasm before me.

‘There is time for that tomorrow,’ says Mr d’Aubery. He looks around the crowded room. ‘Do you have no family here?’

I shake my head. ‘I have never known any family other than my parents.’

Sophie hurries up to us with a glass of negus. ‘There you are.’

My friend has been very kind to me. She came to take me to stay at her home, arranged the funeral and held me all night when I couldn’t stop shaking.

‘I shall leave now,’ says Mr d’Aubery, ‘and perhaps some of the other guests will follow.’ He takes my hand and lifts it to his lips. ‘I am so very sorry that such a tragic event has occurred and feel privileged to have had the opportunity to meet both your parents. The world will be a sadder place without them.’

Tears that are never far away start to my eyes again at his unexpectedly kind words.

Sophie hooks her elbow through mine and stays by my side for the rest of the afternoon until, one by one, the guests leave.

Mr Jephcott approaches me with his wife and Lydia, to say goodbye. ‘My dear Miss Moreau, I cannot adequately express the distress I feel at what has happened. I wish more than you can know that I had never suggested visiting Vauxhall Gardens.’

‘I keep imagining what it would be like if it was Lydia who had lost both her parents,’ says Mrs Jephcott, dabbing her eyes.

Lydia’s gaze remains downcast, as if she cannot bear to look at me.

‘I have no wish to add to your burdens,’ says Mr Jephcott, ‘but we should discuss plans for the Academy.’

I nod my head. I don’t want to think about that now. ‘Tomorrow at two o’clock? I need to…’

‘Of course.’

Later, Sophie and I close the door behind the last of the guests.

‘You’re as frail as a leaf,’ she says with a worried frown. ‘Won’t you come home with me again tonight?’

‘Thank you but I must become used to being on my own.’

Sophie sighs. ‘I must go home to Henry now but if you change your mind, no matter what time of the night, send for me and I’ll come at once.’

I hug her, grateful for her kindness but too close to tears to speak.

My feet are heavy as I go upstairs. Hesitating a moment, I open the door to my parents’ room and go inside.

It’s quiet and the dressing table is still crowded with the paraphernalia of the sick room. Papa’s slippers are tucked under a bedside table and Mama’s nightgown is thrown across the end of the bed, as if they have just left.

There’s a knot of pain in my chest so tight that it’s hard for me to breathe. I hold Mama’s nightgown to my face. It still smells of her skin and the perfume she used to wear. In my head I hear the last words that she uttered to me.