Chateau of Secrets: A Novel

by Melanie Dobson

  With my wet hair wrapped in a towel, I retrieved the tray of food, placed it on the coffee table, and breathed in the aromas of dark espresso and apple butter. Piled onto the tray was a basket of warm croissants, prosciutto sliced so thin it looked like pink tissue paper, slices of honeydew melon, and little white tubs with butter and jam and soft cheese.

  As I cut open a croissant, its breath warmed my face, and I slathered it with the butter and then the strawberry jam. While in France, I would not count a single calorie. It was Austin himself who had told me to enjoy the food. Immerse myself in the past. He and Olivia could sweat the future.

  When I finished my breakfast, I took the tray down to the kitchen. “I’m so sorry,” I said. “I fell asleep last night.”

  Marguerite waved her hand. “Please don’t worry. I had an urgent call and brought it up late.”

  “I didn’t even hear you knock.”

  “Riley Holtz is scheduled to arrive in Carentan this afternoon,” she said as she piled the dishes in the sink. “Do you want to ride to the train station with me?”

  I declined. Instead I would search for Mémé’s lake.

  I found a path on each side of the house—a wide path that appeared to go down to the river and a sliver of a path that slipped back into the forest to the west of the house. I took the path west.

  I’d only walked a few yards when I discovered an iron gate, its base anchored in mud. I lifted and pushed until there was finally enough space for me to squeeze through. The trail zigzagged down the hill, and I saw a glint of water at the bottom.

  Several trees dipped low over the banks of the lake, while others had tumbled into the water. Sunlight streaked through the leaves above and glistened on the coats of moss below. Magnificent greens and yellows ornamented the browns.

  I sat on a flat stone and curled my knees up against my chest. A turtle peeked its head out of the water and then glided along the surface.

  I could almost imagine Mémé as a child, skipping along the stones, balancing herself on the slippery trunks that rested in the lake, splashing water at her brother, or sneaking down here to enjoy the solace. Cell phone reception had been sketchy in my room, but down here, there was none at all. I relished the sunlight that snuck through the trees, the simplicity of the warm breeze tickling my neck.

  I wished I could paddle around this lake in a kayak or even a canoe, but for the moment, I would simply savor the quiet.

  Closing my eyes, I remembered Mémé’s laughter when she used to take me to the stables in Virginia where she boarded her two horses. We would ride through the forest outside Fairfax, and she would tell me the stories of Normandy and the hours she would ride her horse along the river Vire.

  Grandpa had been the vice president at a local bank and Mémé taught French literature at George Mason University. Every June, when school ended, I would spend two weeks at their house, riding horses, cooking comfort food like coq au vin and bouillabaisse alongside Mémé, paddling on the river nearby. Every Sunday, she took Grandpa and me to Mass, and before I went to bed, she quoted Scripture along with wisdom from her writing heroes.

  You’ve never lived until you’ve almost died.

  —GUY DE MAUPASSANT

  I have learnt that all men live not by care for themselves but by love.

  —LEO TOLSTOY

  For there are many great deeds done in the small struggles of life.

  —VICTOR HUGO

  And her other favorite quote from Victor Hugo: France is great because she is France.

  I wished I could call her now and tell her that I was at the château. That I’d broken my engagement and didn’t know what my future held. I could almost hear her say, “Ma chérie, your life is not over. It has only begun.”

  And then she would say something brilliant, influenced by all the writers she loved. Something like, “But don’t live to bring happiness to yourself, Chloe. Live to bring joy to all those around you.”

  In the distance I heard the chiming of church bells. And I opened my eyes.

  Had Mémé lost herself here when she was a girl?

  Or perhaps she hadn’t lost herself at all. Perhaps she’d found herself by the water.

  Perhaps here she’d learned to give her life for others.

  I slowly rose to my feet, my sweet memories fading. Riley Holtz would be here in two hours, but we weren’t scheduled to meet until tomorrow morning at nine. This afternoon I would explore the property and read Olivia’s notes about the war.

  A second path meandered up the cliff and I followed it to the south of the house. It ended at a brick wall with another iron gate, but this gate was padlocked shut. I trailed the wall until I reached a portion that had collapsed. Heaving myself up, I climbed over it and began to wade through the tall grass.

  On the other side of the field was another brick wall, and behind that the stone chapel with a small cemetery to its side. A girl skipped past the church, her ponytail bouncing behind her. Then I saw an elderly man with denim overalls perched against the brick wall, about thirty yards away.

  When I was about halfway across the field, the older man called out to me in French. “You’d best take care where you step.”

  I froze, lifting my eyes again to meet his gaze. “Why should I be careful?”

  When he grinned, I saw a chipped tooth under his dried lips. “You’re walking across an old minefield.”

  What was wrong with this man, smiling at me like that? And why wasn’t the minefield surrounded by an electrical fence? Or marked by a giant, flashing Danger sign?

  Perhaps there was a sign along the road. Probably no one else ever came up the back way from the lake.

  Should I follow my footsteps back to the wall or continue forward?

  Before I decided, the girl called out to me. “Don’t mind Monsieur Lavigne. He likes to scare people.”

  I eyed the man again and then the girl, farther down the wall. She couldn’t have been more than ten or eleven, but between the two of them, I decided to trust the child.

  I quizzed her. “It’s not a minefield?”

  “It was, a long time ago, but the mines were taken out after the war. There is no need for worry—you won’t lose a leg or anything now.”

  I wasn’t sure if that was supposed to comfort me. I didn’t want to lose a toe or a foot or any other body part either.

  “Come this way,” the girl instructed in French, waving me forward.

  I took a small step as if to test the ground. “Are you certain the mines are gone?”

  She nodded. “Unless you have tremendously bad luck.”

  I grimaced. “I’m afraid bad luck is chasing me.”

  She laughed. “You’re funny.”

  I proceeded cautiously until I came to a muddy rut in the field, not ten feet from where she stood. I glanced back up at her before I walked through it.

  “A bomb made that hole a long time ago,” she said in English. “Nothing will grow on it.”

  I thought back to the crumbling wall by the gate and recalled Marguerite’s words about the bombing of the west hall. “Are there a lot of these holes left?”

  The girl shrugged. “My great-grandmother says that one is too many.”

  “Your great-grandmother is a smart woman.”

  When I reached the other side of the field, I took a deep breath and settled with my back against the wall. The elderly man had wandered away, but the girl remained, sitting on a log to tie her black shoes. The light brown hair in her ponytail curled down her back, and she wore a short plaid skirt with tights and a red blouse.

  “Are you from Saint-Lô?” I asked.

  “My great-grandmother lives down near the river.” She pointed east. “I stay with her in the summers.”

  “I used to spend part of the summer with my grandmother.” I brushed off my jeans. “Your English is perfect.”

  She smiled. “What is your name?”

  “Chloe—Chloe Sauver. My grandmother lived here as a child.”

/>   She popped up from the log. “In Agneaux?”

  “In the château. Her name was Gisèle Duchant before she married.”

  “Grand-mère said she used to be friends with the woman who lived here.”

  My heart quickened. Perhaps her great-grandmother could tell me more about Mémé’s story. Perhaps she even knew Adeline.

  “My name is Isabelle,” the girl volunteered.

  “That’s a beautiful name.” I stuck my hands into my pockets. “How old are you?”

  “Almost eleven.”

  “It’s good that you’re learning English.”

  She twisted the hem of her skirt. “Grand-mère says I don’t have a choice.”

  It was a bit strange to think this girl’s great-grandmother and my grandmother were the same age, but since my father was older than most dads, I was used to the gap.

  “What is your great-grandmother’s name?” I asked.

  “Madame Calvez.”

  “I would like to meet your great-grandmother.”

  Isabelle checked the watch on her wrist. “She’ll sleep for another hour.”

  “Where were you going now?”

  She nodded up the lane, toward the village at the top. “Up to Agneaux to buy bread.” She paused. “When I get back, I could take you to meet her.”

  I wondered what Madame Calvez remembered about my grandmother.

  Chapter 23

  Gisèle turned onto the empty rue de la Vire and then pedaled toward the river as fast as she could, the words of the baker and then Sister Beatrice ominous in her mind. Leaning her bicycle against the Batiers’ garage door, she glanced over at the lacy white curtains that concealed the living room. Nadine usually waved at her through the window, but this time she didn’t see her friend.

  “Gisèle!” a voice called, and she turned to see Lisette pedaling quickly down the lane. She waited until Lisette stepped off the bicycle.

  Her breath came in short heaves. “You pedal too fast.”

  “I didn’t know you were following me,” Gisèle said.

  “For at least half a kilometer.” Lisette patted her curls and then straightened the navy blue scarf around her neck before kissing Gisèle on both of her cheeks.

  “Aren’t you supposed to be at work?”

  “The commander sent me on an errand.” The woman’s blue eyes implored her for information. “Have you heard from Michel?”

  Gisèle shook her head.

  “How about Philippe?” Lisette asked.

  The Nazis had overtaken northern France, but in the south, they’d left France unoccupied in an area known as Vichy. De Gaulle called it a “puppet government,” Hitler’s cronies pulling the strings, but Lyon, where Philippe and his mother lived, was in Vichy.

  “He tries to call about once a week,” she said. Though lately it seemed to be more like once a month, and with the Germans listening, they never talked about anything of consequence. She’d stopped waiting for him to return to Saint-Lô a long time ago.

  “I keep hoping . . . ,” Lisette began. “I just want to know if Michel’s still alive.”

  “You must keep praying that he’s alive.” Gisèle swallowed. “Thank you for helping me at the town square.”

  Lisette shook her head. “I don’t want to know who that child is—”

  “I won’t tell you,” she said even though she didn’t know anything about him.

  Lisette glanced up the lane behind her before she looked back at Gisèle. “Is the boy safe?”

  Gisèle nodded as she stepped toward the house.

  Lisette eyed the front door. “We shouldn’t be here.”

  “André and Nadine are my friends.”

  Lisette lowered her voice. “Nadine may not wear her star, but the officials know about her parents.”

  “Her family is Catholic. And French.”

  “Before she became French—”

  Gisèle stopped her. “It shouldn’t matter about before.”

  Lisette waited by her bicycle as Gisèle walked through the picket gate and up the stone pavers that wove a path through the trellises of roses in the Batiers’ front yard. She knocked on the front door, her fingers drumming against the frame as she waited impatiently for Nadine to swing it open and kiss her on both cheeks. When no one responded, she knocked again.

  Stepping to the side, Gisèle tried to peer through the window, but the curtain covered the inside. Perhaps André had been able to secure bus passes to Grenoble, where Nadine’s parents lived. Or perhaps they had simply taken a walk down to the Vire.

  She glanced over her shoulder at Lisette. “They must be out back.”

  Lisette looked skeptical, but she trailed her through Nadine’s garden, to the edge of the property. Red berries ornamented the hawthorn trees, and the air smelled of wood smoke and rain.

  “Nadine?” Gisèle called into the trees.

  A bee buzzed past them, and Lisette shrieked. Then she pulled her scarf up over her head as she eyed a row of old wooden hives tucked back in the forest. “This place is creepy.”

  “As long as you don’t harm the bees, they won’t hurt you,” Gisèle said.

  “You don’t know that.”

  Gisèle called André’s name this time, but still there was no response.

  Lisette stepped into the garden. “Perhaps they left before the roundup.”

  Gisèle had to cling to that hope—she couldn’t let herself consider the alternative.

  A goldfinch fluttered between the trees, and then she heard a noise. A cry. She swiveled toward Lisette. “Was that a bird?”

  Lisette’s eyes were wide. “It sounded like a baby.”

  There was a second cry, dull but persistent.

  If it was Louise, why weren’t André and Nadine answering her cries?

  Turning, Gisèle raced back toward the cottage. On the second floor, one of the bedroom windows was cracked open. She reached for the knob on the back door, expecting to shove it, but the door was already open. She stumbled inside.

  The living room looked as if a German tank had plowed through its center. André’s prized books had been flung across the floor, torn pages crumpled, as if someone planned to build a bonfire. Legs had been hacked off the wooden furniture, the upholstered pieces slashed, dishes shattered on the floor.

  Lisette cursed.

  Gisèle steadied herself on the windowsill, trying to force her thoughts to stay present, but they refused to cooperate. Her mind flashed back again in rapid sequence to that terrible day two years ago when she found her father’s bloodied body in the forest. The loss that had seared a hole in her core.

  The room swayed.

  Would she find André and Nadine as she had Papa? She didn’t think she could bear the loss of someone else she loved, seeing them bloody and bruised. She knew it didn’t really matter how much she could bear, but still, the thought of losing her friends was heart-wrenching. Overwhelming. Whatever she found, she would try to bear it, for Louise’s sake and for the sake of her friends, but still—it seemed too much.

  Lisette rushed toward the kitchen, and Gisèle yelled for Nadine as she hurried upstairs to the bedrooms. Louise’s small bed, carved by her father, was empty, the pink spread unwrinkled on top. Her toys were in a wicker basket in the corner, under the lacy pink curtains that fluttered in the breeze.

  In the next room, the bedcovers on André and Nadine’s bed were balled up on the floor, clothes piled on top of it. Gisèle looked under the bed, as if a child was stowed underneath, but it was empty.

  “Louise!” she shouted.

  The child had just begun to walk. Had she toddled downstairs alone? But if the Germans had come, surely they would have taken her with her parents . . .

  She found Lisette on the bottom step, a cigarette trembling in her hand. “You wanna smoke?” Lisette asked, holding it out.

  Gisèle took a long drag, but the tobacco did nothing to calm her. They had to find Louise.

  “I despise them all,” Lisette said, he
r voice shaking along with the cigarette.

  “Me too.”

  Lisette took another drag. “We heard a baby’s cry, didn’t we?”

  “I pray so,” Gisèle said as she moved toward the back door.

  “And the Germans wonder why the resistance wants them dead.” Lisette lowered the cigarette to her side. “If Michel were here, he would know what we should do.”

  The two women searched the garage, the garden, and back among the hawthorns again. They called for Louise all the way to the river, just in case she’d wandered away, but they didn’t hear another cry.

  Discouraged, the two women trudged back to the house. Gisèle collapsed against the side of the garage, wiping the sweat off her brow with her sleeve. She would never forgive herself if she left Louise here alone.

  Lisette climbed on her bicycle. “I must return to work.”

  Gisèle kissed her friend’s cheeks, but before Lisette began to pedal down the lane, the cry echoed again. Lisette threw down her bicycle.

  Gisèle pointed left toward the river. “It sounded like it came from that direction.”

  Another scream erupted in the forest. “Maman!”

  Lisette followed Gisèle into the forest, scouring the overgrown tangle of trees until they discovered what looked like an old root cellar among the beehives and brush, camouflaged with river stones and branches. On the moss-covered door was a rope handle.

  Gisèle leaned down and yanked it open.

  — CHAPTER 24 —

  Isabelle led me down to the river, to a paved path alongside a grove of white-tipped trees. Graying wooden hives stood among the trees, their resident bees congregating in the neighborhood outside. Last year one of my students had brought The Life and Times of the Honeybee to read to the class, and I had been just as fascinated as my students with the world of beekeeping.

  I stopped for a moment, sniffing the blossoms. The scent reminded me of the sweet almond smell in marzipan. I reached for a branch, pulling it closer. Until it stung me.

  “Ouch!” I said, shaking my fingers.

  “The trees have thorns.”

  I rubbed my hands together. “I figured that out.”