The Secret of the Chateau

by Kathleen McGurl

  Well, whatever the others thought, Catherine adored the lambs. She’d like to pick one up, she thought, but no one else had done so, and unless the Queen set the example, they could not do it or even suggest it.

  Late that evening, as they returned to the small apartment in the Palace of Versailles that Catherine shared with her husband Pierre, the Comte de Verais, she recounted her day to her husband.

  ‘Truly, was there ever such a queen?’ she asked. ‘So elegant, so refined, so kind to her people. And they love her, do they not? She will reign alongside her beloved Louis for a thousand years!’

  Pierre smiled and stroked a finger down Catherine’s face. She turned into his hand and kissed his palm.

  ‘Oh, my dear wife. You are so young and have much to learn. The Queen is indeed elegant and refined. But I fear not all the people love her or the King as you do. Come sit with me.’ He gestured to a richly upholstered sofa set by the fireplace in their apartment. Catherine motioned to her maid that she should leave them for now, and joined her husband, relaxing gratefully into the cushions and his arms, pleased to be off her feet at last.

  ‘How can they not love our monarchs? Are they not chosen by God to lead us?’

  Pierre laughed indulgently. ‘Yes, my dear. That is what Louis believes.’

  ‘Then it is so,’ said Catherine firmly. ‘The King is always right. And we love our monarchs truly, don’t we?’

  ‘Of course, my love. Perhaps they spend a little too much …’ He broke off and bit his lip.

  ‘What do you mean, they spend too much?’

  ‘Oh, nothing. I did not mean to say anything.’

  ‘But you did.’ She frowned. ‘Please tell me what you meant. Your words worry me.’

  Pierre smoothed her frown with his thumb and smiled. ‘My love, you need not worry. Louis has good advisers who will steer him in the right direction, I am sure. It is not your concern. Now tell me more about your day. How was Her Majesty?’

  Catherine snuggled up to him. ‘The Queen today was wearing the most adorable shepherdess gown. I should so like to have one that’s similar, though of course I should not look nearly as beautiful as her. Pierre, won’t you pay for my new gown, so I can keep up with the current fashions?’

  Pierre twisted so that he could kiss her cheek. ‘Of course, my darling. You shall have a new gown. You may visit your dressmaker at your earliest convenience and charge it to my account.’

  Catherine clapped her hands with joy. ‘Thank you! You really are the dearest of husbands. I am very lucky. Now, what colour bows and sash shall I have? The Queen had pink, but perhaps I should not copy her exactly. I like pale blue, but the Queen no longer seems to wear pale blue ribbons.’

  ‘Yellow, maybe? The colour of sunshine?’

  She pondered this. ‘I have not seen any other ladies with yellow. It would look lovely, but I would fear being the only one in yellow. It wouldn’t do to be unfashionable.’

  ‘No, my dearest, it wouldn’t do at all. Come now. Let’s retire to bed. Call your maid and I will see you in your chamber in a short while.’

  Catherine did as he had asked, and the maid Claudette came to help her undress, prepare herself for bed and for the attentions of her husband. Maybe tonight would be the start of a baby. She hoped so.

  Chapter 3

  Lu

  There was a ‘gang gathering’ as Steve called it, about a month after the crazy idea had first taken shape. We met at Steve and Manda’s again, on a rainy Wednesday afternoon in January. Manda had baked an enormous carrot cake, and Steve had printed off details of a short list of six properties in Provence – mostly in the Alpes-Maritimes département which is the southwestern end of the Alps where they meet the sea, not far from the French–Italian border. A couple of properties were on the edge of the Mercantour national park, two more were further west near the Verdon Gorge, and the other two were in between, one off the Var Valley and the other near Entrevaux which I remembered well as a beautiful walled medieval town with a magnificent citadel up on a hill.

  We passed around the details, exclaiming over each, comparing numbers of bedrooms, acreage, proximity to towns, villages and mountains. Steve opened up his laptop on Google Street View and showed us the access to each property. They weren’t all châteaux – two or three looked more like modern, large houses. I peered at each of them with some trepidation, resolving to join in properly and make sure I had my say. I was still sure the whole idea would eventually fade away but in the meantime I at least wanted to be sure we picked a property I could really love. I had in mind a proper château, with turrets and towers and perhaps even a moat. One or two of those Steve had picked out were pretty disappointing in that respect.

  ‘So what I suggest,’ Steve said, after we’d all seen all the options, ‘is that we all pick our favourite and see whether there’s any consensus.’ There was a glint in his eye that made me look sideways at him, but he looked away and began organising us with pens and slips of voting paper.

  I picked the one near Entrevaux. A bit further from the high Alps than I’d like, but it was the most castle-like of the options. It had mullioned windows and was ivy-clad. I tried not to look over Phil’s shoulder to see if he was picking the same one, but it looked to me like he’d gone for the one nearest the Alpine ski resorts. I might have guessed that.

  Steve gathered up the responses. ‘Well, we had six properties and there are five of us, so at the minimum we’ll have ruled one out.’ He opened up the slips of paper and piled them up, then guffawed. ‘Well done everyone. We’ve all picked a different one, and Gray here has chosen two. So none are ruled out.’

  We all laughed. I felt a surge of relief – if we couldn’t agree on a property then surely that would be the beginning of the end of this crazy idea.

  But Steve had something up his sleeve. He gathered up all the property details and stacked them to one side. ‘Alternatively,’ he said, with that twinkle in his eye again, ‘we could consider this place. Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you the Château d’Aubert.’ With a flourish he passed us each a copy of another property’s details. As I read it, I found myself grinning more and more broadly at every paragraph, despite my misgivings. This one was perfect. It had, not just everything I would want, but everything I was sure the rest of the gang wanted too. It was about an hour and a half’s drive inland from Nice, in the Alpine foothills, and was situated a short distance outside a village. It had a couple of acres of land, including some outbuildings. It dated back to the 1600s. It had a tower. There was a small ski resort a little further up the valley, or some of the major resorts could be reached in an hour or two’s driving. The opportunities for cycling (Gray), fell-running (Steve), riding (Manda) and hill-walking (me) were endless. It had been in use as a small hotel until a year or two ago but was a little run-down and in need of renovation. There were eight bedrooms plus another small room in the tower, so it was just the right size for us and all our kids. And it was pretty as a picture, built of creamy stone with terracotta roof tiles. If we were serious about moving, this one would be perfect. But were we serious? Was I going to have to admit I didn’t want to do this after all?

  I hardly dared look at everyone else to see their reaction. They’d all gone very quiet. Steve had Google Street View open for the new property, so I leaned over to take a look. There was a small gatehouse off the main road – and I say ‘main’ but it looked like a quiet lane leading along the valley floor from the village. A track led past the gatehouse up to the château. Street View, of course, did not go up the track but you could see tantalising glimpses of the tower from the road. There was woodland either side of the track and a steep hillside rose behind. A small river ran through the valley along the edge of the château’s land.

  ‘Bloody hell, Steve,’ said Gray quietly. ‘It’s … amazing …’

  ‘I love it,’ Manda whispered. I glanced up at her, and saw her eyes shining. I realised it was the first time she’d seen this possibility too
. Sneaky Steve, staging a dramatic moment when we all saw the details for the first time.

  ‘How much?’ Phil asked, bringing us back to earth with a bump. I frowned. Surely Steve wouldn’t have offered up this one if it was out of our budget? But then, if it was too much, maybe that’d put paid to the idea and we’d all just stay in England after all.

  ‘It’s bang on the million euro that we’ve already worked out we can afford,’ Steve answered, and there was a collective sigh of relief from everyone else, though I felt a rising surge of panic. This was all happening too fast. ‘So shall we all go over and view it? We’re off on our ski holiday next week but maybe we could go after that? We could use the week away to really think hard about this to be sure it’s definitely what we all want to do. At the end of the week we can have a proper, frank, chat about it all, and decide whether to go ahead.’

  ‘Course we’re going ahead!’ Gray said. ‘You’re talking as though someone’s not happy with the idea. I thought we were all on board? I’m about to exchange contracts on my house sale!’

  ‘Yeah, we’re all happy as far as I know,’ Steve said. ‘But no harm in having a final discussion, make sure all our ideas and dreams are on the same page, just before we commit to actually buying something. So hold off exchanging contracts till after the ski trip, Gray. Just in case.’

  I kept quiet. Maybe I shouldn’t have. Maybe that was the moment I should have spoken up and said, actually, guys, I’m not happy with this plan. But I didn’t. There would be another chance – at the end of the ski trip, when we would all speak openly and honestly about what we wanted for the years ahead. I’d use that opportunity. I’d talk to Phil beforehand. If we pulled out, the other three could still move to a smaller place if they wanted, and we’d simply visit them once or twice a year. They’d understand. We all had to be happy and comfortable with this plan.

  ‘Right, well, where’s the bubbly? If we’ve found the perfect château, we need to toast it!’ Gray said, and Manda got up to find the glasses. Prosecco was poured out; we toasted each other and our collective future. But I noticed Phil turn a little pale, and then he quietly got up and left the room, his hand clutched against his chest. No one else seemed to have noticed – perhaps they all thought he’d gone to the loo – but I followed and found him sitting in Steve’s study, breathing heavily.

  ‘Phil? Are you all right?’ I knelt beside him.

  He nodded. ‘Just a little twinge. A stitch, I think. Been laughing too much and too hard, I guess.’ He grinned at me as if to prove his point, then went back to join the others who were still sitting around the dining table, surrounded by property details. There was nothing I could do other than follow him and keep a worried eye on him for the rest of the evening.

  Our annual ski trip was the following week. We’d been skiing together almost every year for about twenty years – ever since the kids were old enough to be put into ski school. The kids, now they were grown-up (and now that their parents would no longer pay for them), no longer came, but the five of us still kept up the tradition. It was Phil’s favourite sport. Unfortunately, he wasn’t actually at all fit. His cholesterol levels were sky-high owing partly to his habit of eating stacks of cheese after every meal, and drinking too much red wine. And skiing was generally his only exercise. When we got together with the gang, others would go for walks or bike rides, but Phil so often found an excuse – the rugby was on, he had a hangover, he wanted to read the Sunday paper – and stayed home. He’d do a fortnight of squats and wall sits to ‘get fit for skiing’ and that was it.

  It was midway through the ski holiday, high in the French Alps, when it happened. The day had started out with glorious sunshine and eye-wateringly blue skies, but by mid-afternoon clouds had begun to gather and the light was becoming flat. Manda, Steve and I decided to call it a day and head back to the hotel for a vin chaud and a shower. Phil talked Gray into going up one more time. ‘One last run down from the top,’ he said, and Gray, after a longing look at the rest of us heading off for our drinks, nodded and followed him onto the chairlift.

  Phil started feeling unwell on the way up. Gray later recalled him tugging at the collar of his ski jacket, pushing his goggles up and wiping sweat from his face, grunting a little. ‘You all right, mate?’ Gray asked him, but Phil brushed him off, saying he was fine.

  They had planned to take the most direct route from the top of the lift back to the hotel – a steepish red run that linked onto the blue return route near the bottom. But once off the chairlift, Phil said he’d rather take the meandering, easier blue run all the way from the top. ‘I’m feeling a little iffy,’ he said, and Gray agreed. If you’re not feeling great when skiing, it’s always best to pick a more gentle descent.

  They set off, but after just a couple of turns Phil fell behind. Gray stopped and waited for him. ‘Take it slowly, Gray,’ Phil said, when he reached him. ‘I’m really not feeling right.’ They ended up snow-ploughing and side-slipping down the next section with multiple stops; at one point Phil even sat down on the edge of the slope, gasping and clutching his chest.

  ‘Mate, we need to get you to the medical centre,’ Gray said. ‘See the top of that chairlift over there? Let’s cut across to it and go down by chair.’ He led Phil to it, but just short of the chairlift Phil collapsed and was unable to get up. Gray waved his arms and shouted, and the chairlift operator ran over to them. ‘He needs help,’ Gray shouted. ‘Au secours, il sont mal.’ Dreadful French, he said later, but all he could dredge up at the time. The lift operator got on to his radio and shortly after, a ski-stretcher – or ‘meat-wagon’ as they are affectionately termed – arrived. Phil was loaded on and taken down, with Gray following. ‘Amazing how fast those chaps can go when they’re towing,’ Gray reported later.

  I was sitting in the hotel bar sipping a vin chaud with Manda and Steve, still in our ski gear but having left our skis and boots in the boot room, when Gray phoned. ‘Phil’s not feeling so good. He’s going to the medical centre to get checked out,’ he said. ‘Can you meet us there?’

  I could tell he was trying to downplay the seriousness of the situation, and I remembered Phil’s breathlessness and the way he’d complained of ‘a stitch’ at Steve and Manda’s a week before. And with mounting horror I guessed what had happened.

  I told Manda and Steve, and we all abandoned our vin chauds and headed over to the resort’s medical centre which thankfully wasn’t too far from our hotel. We arrived at about the same time as the meat-wagon with Gray not far behind.

  Phil’s face was grey and clammy, and I clapped a hand over my mouth with shock. Manda put her arm around me. ‘He’ll be all right. Stay strong for him.’ But her voice was shaky. Steve collected Phil’s and Gray’s skis and boots while Gray followed us into the medical centre and filled us in on what had happened.

  The next hours were all a bit of a blur to me. The medical centre suspected a heart attack and arranged for Phil to be taken by helicopter to the nearest hospital. I followed in an excruciatingly expensive taxi. Manda came with me as interpreter as her French is so much better than mine. The taxi journey was horrendous – it took well over an hour to negotiate the hairpin bends leading down from the resort to the valley then along the main road in rush-hour traffic to the hospital. And all the while I kept up silent prayers that Phil would survive. We’d been married thirty years and the thought of life without him was unbearable.

  It was indeed a heart attack, and Phil was operated on quickly, to insert a couple of stents.

  I was distraught throughout. ‘I can’t lose him, I can’t,’ is all I kept saying. Thank God Manda was there to comfort me, to talk to the doctors when I couldn’t, to make sure I ate and drank, to chat to me about random topics while we waited in a futile attempt to take my mind off it all. She kept Gray and Steve updated by text.

  It was nearly midnight before we were finally allowed in to see Phil. There were tubes everywhere, and bleeping machines flashing numbers that detailed his life
forces surrounded his bedside. He was barely awake, but managed a half-smile at me, and to squeeze my hand as I leaned over to kiss his cheek. I was trying not to show how distressed I was but failing miserably, as tears streamed down my face.

  ‘You’ve got one job,’ Manda told him, putting on a strict, parental tone, ‘and that’s to get yourself better. Now get on with it, Phil, or you’ll have me to answer to.’

  He smiled wanly and managed a nod, and then we were ushered out by the nurse. There was a cheap hotel nearby that we checked in to for the night, and then the following day was taken up with arrangements to get Phil home. There were many discussions with doctors between brief visits to see Phil who thankfully looked less grey and was more responsive each time. Manda headed back to the ski resort but Gray came by bus to the hospital with Phil’s and my luggage, and then finally we took a flight home a couple of days later with Phil in a wheelchair. He was admitted straight to hospital back home, where they declared the French operation to have been a success, and a day later he was discharged, armed with several leaflets on how to lower his cholesterol and get his heart fit again.

  Tom and Alfie visited soon after we got home, shocked by what had happened, but determined not to let their father see how worried they were. ‘Come on, Dad, stop lazing around in bed all day,’ Alfie joked. ‘Get up, lose some weight and get fit. By next Christmas or there’ll be no visit from Santa for you. That’s loads of time. Surely even you can manage to sort yourself out by then.’

  Of course, with all this going on, I gave no thought whatsoever to our potential move to France. I couldn’t talk to Phil about it as I’d planned. I assumed, I suppose, that Phil’s heart attack would be the end of that idea, and we’d be buying a sensible suburban bungalow instead.