The Secret of the Chateau

by Kathleen McGurl

  She caught glimpses of carriages leaving the grounds, no doubt carrying other members of court into Paris. Thank goodness her employers were not among that number – who knew what their future would hold? Claudette wondered if she’d have stayed with the Auberts if they had gone with the royal family, or if she’d have quietly disappeared into the crowd and left them to their fate, whatever that might be. But the chance to return to her home village, and her mother, had persuaded her to stay with them, throwing in her lot with them for a while longer. Besides, she liked Monsieur, and Madame was nothing but a product of her spoiled upbringing and privileged position in life, not a bad person.

  The crowds finally began to thin out as they wove their way through, moving in a different direction to most. Around a corner of the lane they came upon a farm, where a man stood holding the reins of a pony that was harnessed to a farm cart. Monsieur Aubert approached him, handed over a small coin purse, and ushered the women up onto the cart. A couple of coarse blankets were folded at their feet.

  ‘You are sisters, and we are travelling south to attend your mother, who is sick,’ Monsieur Aubert told them. ‘If we are questioned by anyone, say nothing, leave me to do the talking.’

  Madame looked terrified but nodded her agreement, as did Claudette. Monsieur climbed up, flicked the reins, and the pony set off at a slow walk.

  ‘When we are far enough from Paris we will find an inn for the night. Catherine, it will not provide the level of comfort you are used to, but we will be sheltered and fed, and will have a place to sleep.’

  ‘How long will it take to reach your château? I assume that is where we are going?’ Madame asked, her voice sounding small and scared.

  ‘Yes, it is. It will take a week, perhaps a little more. We will pick up a stage coach at Orléans which will be faster. But for today and tomorrow, make yourselves as comfortable as you can.’ He nodded at the blankets by their feet, and Claudette reached down to tuck them around herself and Madame.

  It was a long and uncomfortable journey. The inns they stayed at were basic – even Claudette found the straw-filled pallets they slept on uncomfortable and the stews of stringy meat unpalatable. But it was more than many people had, she reminded herself, and she should count herself lucky. Thankfully no one had questioned them, or guessed that they had come from the court at Versailles. There was talk everywhere of the removal of the royal family to Paris where, it was said, they were effectively under house arrest. There was much speculation in the inns about what would ultimately become of the King and Queen. Along with the Auberts, Claudette listened carefully to everything but commented on nothing.

  As soon as they had eaten at each inn they retired to their rooms. Sometimes all three were in one room, in others the two women shared a chamber while Monsieur Aubert slept elsewhere, Claudette suspected sometimes he’d slept in the stables.

  ‘I’m afraid,’ Madame said to Claudette one evening, ‘that all this jolting in the coaches is harming my baby.’ She put a protective hand on her midriff.

  ‘No, Madame. Babies are hardy little things. It won’t mind the travelling at all. Don’t worry, I am sure it will be fine. And it will be a lucky child – growing up in the fresh air of the mountains around Saint-Michel-sur-Verais. It is where its father grew up.’ She smiled reassuringly at her employer.

  ‘I hope you are right. Oh, these horrible clothes!’ Madame scratched at her neck and shoulders. ‘How I long for a hot bath, and a silk gown to put on afterwards!’

  ‘It will not be long before we reach the château. And then you shall have your bath. There will be some clothes left by the previous Madame Aubert, and I am sure your husband will soon buy you more. Stay strong, Madame.’

  Madame caught hold of Claudette’s hand and held it to her cheek. ‘Thank goodness I have you, Claudette. I don’t think I could have stood this without you. You will stay with us, won’t you, when we reach the château?’

  ‘Yes, Madame, I will.’ Claudette looked away. She hadn’t quite decided. It depended what the mood of the people was like, in the south. She didn’t wish her employers any harm, but she wanted what was best for the country. And she wanted to be safe.

  At long last they reached the mountains, and transferred from stage coach to a rough farmer’s cart once again, for the final part of the journey up the winding road that led to the high valley along which the river Verais flowed. Claudette felt a thrill to be nearing home, to be passing through scenery she’d grown up with. They passed farms that looked familiar, twists in the road she thought she recognised. And then through the village of Saint-Michel-sur-Verais itself – looking exactly as she remembered it. There was the church, the village square, the row of cottages leading up the hillside towards the cemetery. At the end of that row was her mother’s house. She wanted to stop the cart, climb down, run up that hill. But Madame Aubert would need help when they arrived at the château. There was time enough for her to visit her mother. Monsieur Aubert had written to the château’s housekeeper, he said, to inform her that they would be arriving. Word might have reached Claudette’s mother, and she might possibly have guessed that Claudette would travel with them. As the cart passed through the village Claudette tried to calm her growing excitement. Surely she would be able to visit her mother the next day? A horrible thought occurred to her – was her mother even still alive? Claudette and her mother could not read or write, so had sent each other no letters over the eight years since Claudette had left the south. She sent up a little prayer that she would find her mother alive and well.

  A little way out of the village Monsieur Aubert turned the cart up a familiar driveway, around a corner, and there it was, Château d’Aubert, looking much as it had when Claudette had last seen it. A little less well cared for, perhaps. She knew that Monsieur Aubert’s father and mother had both died a few years earlier, and apart from a housekeeper and a retainer, no one had lived at the château since then. There was ivy growing up one wall, weeds in the gardens that encircled the building, and peeling paintwork on the window frames.

  ‘Oh! Is this it?’ cried Madame Aubert. ‘It is … perhaps a little smaller than I had thought …’ Claudette glanced at her. Madame was looking at the original, older wing of the château, with its little tower.

  ‘There is a second wing, behind,’ Monsieur Aubert said, sounding a little defensive. ‘More modern. My grandfather added it. It is where all the principal rooms are.’

  Madame turned to smile at him, looking relieved. ‘That is good to hear. I shall need a full tour, as soon as I have had a hot bath and changed into some other clothes.’

  A bath and change of clothes – that was exactly what Claudette wanted too, but she knew she would not get the chance for anything more than a quick wash. At least she knew what her first duties would be, and she smiled reassuringly at Madame.

  They alighted from the cart, groaning and stretching after the long journey. No one came out to meet them, and Monsieur Aubert tugged impatiently on the bell pull that hung beside the front door. A woman, dressed in a drab brown gown, her untidy hair pinned at the back, answered the door.

  ‘Tradesman’s entrance is round the back,’ she said in the Provençal dialect, as she attempted to push the heavy oak door closed.

  ‘Madame, it is I, Pierre Aubert, Comte de Verais, and this is my wife Catherine,’ Monsieur replied in French. ‘We require a meal, baths and clean clothes, at once.’

  The woman squinted at them, suspicion clouding her eyes, then she turned and called out. ‘Henri! Fellow here says he’s Aubert. Come and deal with him, will you?’

  A stooped old man, dressed in worn but good quality clothing, shuffled into the hallway. ‘Henri! At last. We are exhausted,’ Pierre said, stepping past the housekeeper into the line of sight of the old man. Claudette smiled too, recognising the man who’d served as butler when she had last worked here.

  ‘Monsieur Aubert! It is good to see you, sir. Welcome, Madame. And Claudette! We were not expecting you. Nevert
heless, we can quickly make everything ready for you. Might take a day or so to get up to speed. It’s been empty so long, you see. Madame Bernard, this is the master.’

  The housekeeper dropped into a curtsy, but her face was still stony and disapproving. Madame Aubert looked furious, but her husband tried to smooth things over, ushering his wife into the hallway. Claudette followed, kissing Henri on both cheeks as she passed and smiling and curtsying at Madame Bernard. The woman would be her superior, so it was as well to get on the right side of her if possible.

  It was two days after they arrived that Claudette was finally able to ask Madame Bernard for an afternoon off, so that she could visit her mother. The time was grudgingly given, but only after the housekeeper had consulted with Monsieur Aubert. ‘If my wife can spare her, then of course she may go,’ he’d said. ‘Claudette has been a good and loyal servant to us for many years.’

  Claudette had managed to procure a cheese and some ham from the kitchen, to take as a gift for her mother. She’d found clean clothes in one of the old maid’s rooms and had had a good wash. With a basket over her arm she set off for the walk to the village, choosing to take a high level path that contoured along the hillside, from the back of the grounds. It was the way she’d always taken when she lived here before. It was overgrown, but still usable. Monsieur Aubert had asked Madame Bernard and Henri to employ more staff, to get the château running as it should. When that happened, perhaps someone would be sent to clear the path.

  It was a fine autumn day, and although it was chilly Claudette enjoyed the walk, remembering some of the twists and turns of the path, picking her way over the stream that it crossed, and eventually dropping down into the village via a steep lane. She reached her mother’s cottage and knocked on the door, feeling apprehensive at what she might find.

  But she needn’t have worried – the door was opened by her mother, who looked fit and well and excited to see her.

  ‘Claudette, ma petite! I had heard you might be coming, along with the Auberts. You are here!’ She kissed Claudette on both cheeks and then pulled her in for a hug, in which all the longing and loss of the previous eight years seemed to be released.

  ‘Maman. It is so good to see you,’ Claudette replied, relishing the chance to speak her native Provençal dialect once more.

  ‘So come on in, drink wine with me, and tell me all about your life in Paris. There is a new Madame Aubert now, I think? Not the one you were first employed by? What is she like?’

  Claudette allowed herself to be led inside and seated at the rough table by the kitchen hearth, the same table that had always been there, the same hearth. She handed over her gifts and began to tell her mother all that had happened over the previous eight years. Although Monsieur Aubert had told her not to tell people that the Auberts had been at Court and living in Versailles, for their own safety, Claudette judged that her mother was trustworthy. She described court life, told her all the details of that last horrific couple of days, and detailed their escape and their journey south.

  ‘But, Maman, if anyone asks say the Auberts lived near Paris. Do not say we were at Versailles. Monsieur Aubert is fearful of what might happen, if this revolution progresses, and maybe it would not be safe for us if the people turned fully against the royal family and anyone associated with them.’

  ‘We know little of the Revolution here,’ her mother replied. ‘We are so far from Paris. But I will keep your secrets, if you think it is best.’

  Chapter 11

  Lu

  That mysterious extra window … Tom and I were intrigued by it. He’d clearly inherited my overactive imagination.

  ‘Probably just a loft space,’ Steve said, shrugging. He and Manda had come across us outside, with a ladder propped up against the tower. Tom was up it, right at the top, but still far short of being able to see into that topmost window.

  ‘But how do you access it?’ I asked, watching Tom carefully. He was too high up the ladder for my comfort.

  ‘Don’t know.’ Steve wandered off, looking for something to do. A few minutes later he was off on a run, his second of the day.

  The thing about Steve is he likes to be busy. I mean, really busy – the kind of busy that makes normal mortals feel stressed and overwhelmed. He loves to have several projects on the go at once, flitting from one to the other and somehow keeping them all moving forward – plate-spinning, he calls it. He’d been a superb project manager at his work, and was always able to have something else on the go at the same time – DIY projects at home, restoration of old cars, clearing out his parents’ old house and eBaying furniture.

  When Steve had first heard about his redundancy – a result of his company deciding to outsource some departments including his – he’d thought he would get another job. He approached job-seeking with all his usual project management skills and sent out dozens of CVs, but no one was hiring. At least not at the kind of salary he was used to.

  ‘I mean,’ he’d said, ‘I could get a job for half the money I was on before. But I don’t want to work as many hours for half the salary.’

  ‘And he doesn’t need to work,’ Manda had told us. ‘We have enough savings and pensions. We’re lucky – we are well set up. I keep telling him he should rebrand the redundancy and call it early retirement instead.’

  Steve had taken her advice, but it had hit him hard. He’d spent the first couple of months out of work repainting his entire house, which didn’t need doing. Then he’d pruned the garden to within an inch of its life, and applied (unsuccessfully) for an allotment, even though we all knew gardening was not his thing. He’d set himself to read a classic novel a week and had achieved it. He’d offered his services at a charity shop and had reorganised their staff rota and stock storage systems within a fortnight.

  No wonder he’d leapt at the chance to find and buy the perfect French château for us! That had ‘kept him entertained’ as Manda put it, for a good few weeks. But once we’d moved in, what next? He was OK for the first couple of weeks, diverting his energies into organising the unpacking of our three-households’ worth of belongings, and exploring the local area. He went out running every day, somewhere different every time, trying new routes that he could recommend to me as walking routes or to Gray for mountain-biking. But when he had to start repeating runs, and when there were no more boxes to unpack or cupboards to organise, he began getting fidgety and irritable.

  ‘He’s driving me mad,’ Manda confided in me, as we stared up at the top tower window. ‘He’s always suggesting we go out for the day to some new town or village. I mean, I love sightseeing, but we live here now and there’s plenty of time. One day out a week, maybe two, is enough. I want to just enjoy being here in the château for now, not always charging off somewhere. What are we going to do with him?’

  ‘He needs a new project,’ I said. But he also needed to learn to relax and slow down a little. Enjoy life, rather than just keep charging on through it.

  ‘Will you talk to him, Lu? Tell him to take things more slowly.’ Manda sighed. ‘He won’t listen to me. But if it comes from you, perhaps it’ll sink in.’

  I smiled and patted her arm. ‘Sure I will.’ Why did everyone think I’d be able to make a difference? But maybe if I could think up a project for Steve, it’d help ease him into our new, more relaxed life in France. He hadn’t shown any interest in our newly discovered window, but maybe there was something I could come up with to help Steve, and also solve our mystery?

  Manda went inside to do some chores. I stayed outside, watching Tom carefully as he climbed down the ladder.

  ‘Well. That’s a mystery, isn’t it?’ he said, as I helped him put the ladder back into the old stables.

  Gray was there, pumping up his bike tyres. ‘Hey, Tom. Fancy a cycle ride?’

  ‘Sure! Let me run in and change.’ Tom charged into the château with youthful energy.

  Finding myself at a loose end, I went in search of my husband.

  Phil was out in the
garden, again. Digging up a patch of ground he’d ear-marked for growing vegetables. It was a great idea – I’d agreed with the others that it would be wonderful to grow some of our own food. But I hadn’t expected that it would be Phil doing all the hard work. Why couldn’t Steve and Gray do some of the digging? Or Tom, while he was visiting? I took him a glass of iced water with a slice of lemon in to entice him away from the work for a moment.

  ‘Here. You look like you need this,’ I said, handing it to him.

  He shoved his spade into the earth, mopped his brow with a cloth from his pocket, and took it. ‘Thanks. Mmm, cold and wet. Excellent.’

  ‘Love, you are working too hard. And in this heat!’ Temperatures had been climbing all week and were now in the high twenties. The vegetable patch was, of course, in full sun.

  ‘Ah, it’s not too bad.’ Phil followed me over to a couple of garden chairs we’d left under the shade of a large tree. ‘Good to have a little rest though.’

  ‘It’s too much for you,’ I said, firmly. It was time he listened to me. I had visions of him keeling over with another heart attack if he kept this up. ‘Get the others to do the digging. I know you’re enjoying the gardening but you can do the more gentle jobs.’

  Phil laughed. ‘Like what? I think all gardening is quite strenuous.’

  ‘I don’t know.’ We’d never done much gardening in any previous homes. Just a bit of mowing the lawn and pruning shrubs. Certainly no vegetable growing. I pictured my granddad who’d had a veg patch when I was a child, and always seemed to have gentle little jobs to do in it. ‘Tying up beans or something.’

  ‘Need to plant them first,’ Phil said. ‘And before that, I need to prepare the ground. That’s what I’m doing.’ He drained the rest of his drink and went back to his spade.