The Secret of the Chateau

by Kathleen McGurl

  ‘Can’t Steve or Gray do this?’ I called after him.

  He stopped and turned around to face me. ‘They both offered, Lu, but I said no. The garden’s kind of become my thing. I wanted to do this work. Raising a bit of a sweat, getting some exercise – it’s—’

  I interrupted. ‘It’s not good for you. You’ve had a heart condition. You need gentle exercise only.’

  Phil sounded irritated with me. ‘Stop fussing, Lu. Honestly, this is all right for me to do.’

  ‘I bet your doctor back in England would have said no.’

  ‘But my doctor here in France says yes.’

  I raised my eyebrows. We’d all registered with a local doctor but I hadn’t realised Phil had been to see him. ‘When was that?’

  ‘Last week. I went for a check-up, to talk about my medical history. And—’ Phil fixed me with a stern stare ‘—to ask if he thought gardening, especially digging, would be all right for me to do. And he said yes, gardening was perfect exercise.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me about this?’

  Phil sighed. ‘Because, Lu, you’d have fussed and worried and fretted. Mind you, you’re doing it anyway. Please, love, I know you’re just concerned for me, but honestly, I’m all right, this is good for me, and I am becoming fitter and healthier day by day since we moved here.’

  I had to admit that last bit was true. Phil was slimmer, had a bit of a tan on his face and arms, no longer huffed and puffed when walking up stairs, and was even prepared to walk with me into the village or go on a short, flat bike ride with Gray. He’d never done any of that in England.

  I wasn’t ready to let the discussion go just yet, though. ‘The doctor, did he understand you well enough? How was his English? I mean, did he understand about your heart attack and the stents?’

  ‘He trained in London. His English was near perfect.’ Phil stuck his spade back into the soil and stepped towards me, wrapping his rather sweaty arms around me. ‘I’m not your mum, Lu. I’m not an invalid you have to take care of – not now. Maybe I was just after the heart attack, but not now. It’s all right to let me make my own decisions about what I’m capable of. But thank you for caring. I love you.’

  ‘Love you too. Even when you’re hot and sweaty.’

  He kissed the end of my nose and let me go. A moment later he was back at it – thrusting the spade deep into the ground, levering up a clod of earth, turning it and breaking it up. I watched for a while, still trying to convince myself he wasn’t doing himself any harm. I sighed. It was going to take a bit of getting used to. But perhaps he was right. His heart attack had come so soon after Mum’s death, I suppose I’d transferred my worrying and nursing directly onto him. I’d had four years of caring for Mum. It had become a habit.

  ‘He’s doing so well, isn’t he?’ Manda had come out to the garden and was also watching Phil. ‘To think what he was like just over a year ago, and now look at him!’

  Funnily, as she said it, I looked back at Phil as though with new eyes and saw him as she did. Yes, he was doing well. He could have taken the heart attack to mean he needed to stop skiing and spend his life resting and watching daytime television. But he’d treated it as a wake-up call, changed his diet and lifestyle and was now getting himself properly fit. Wasn’t that what I had hoped would happen with this move to France?

  I nodded. ‘He’s doing amazingly well. I’m so pleased he’s taken up gardening.’ As I said it, I realised I meant it. Really meant it. Worrying had become a habit but one I’d need to break.

  ‘I’m pleased too. Looking forward to eating all the produce!’ Manda smacked her lips in anticipation and I laughed. I was looking forward to it all too.

  Late that afternoon, Steve arrived back from his run with a grin on his face and a wriggling rucksack on his back.

  ‘What’ve you got in there?’ Manda asked, as he went through to the sitting room, calling to everyone.

  ‘Our new housemates,’ he replied, opening the rucksack and extracting two kittens. They were about ten weeks old, tabbies, in that beautiful pale-brown colour you often get in Mediterranean countries but which is more rarely seen in Britain.

  ‘So cute!’ I said, taking one from him to cuddle. The kitten mewed at me, a tiny, squeaky sound. ‘Where did you get them?’

  ‘Gray told me about an advert on the noticeboard in the mairie,’ Steve said. ‘I’ve named them Flip and Flop. He nodded at the one I was holding, that had a little white bib. ‘That one’s Flop. Both females.’

  ‘They’re gorgeous. You’ve been wanting cats for ages. Welcome to the château, little ones,’ I said. Flop was struggling to get free, so I put her down on the sofa beside me and she crawled over towards her sister, on Steve’s knee. I’m not sure why but I felt a pang of jealousy as he moved to allow both kittens to cuddle up on his lap together. He was needed. He had these little creatures to look after. I needed something to look after, too. But I didn’t know what.

  ‘There was something else of interest on the mairie noticeboard,’ announced Gray, as we sat around admiring the kittens. ‘The annual mayor’s fete is coming up. It’s on 8th May – a French national holiday.’

  ‘Another national holiday? They had one last week for May Day,’ Steve said.

  ‘This one’s Liberation Day. We should go along. Tom’ll still be here. We’re all invited.’

  ‘Oh! Who invited us?’ I asked, as I flicked the switch on the kettle to make us all a brew.

  ‘Aimée … I mean, Madame la Maire, of course. Well, everyone in the village and surrounding countryside is invited, but she, um, came out of her office while I was reading the notice board and invited us personally.’

  ‘That’s lovely of her.’ I narrowed my eyes slightly at Gray – was he showing signs of being interested in the mayor? Surely not – he’d only met her once before, when she’d called round to introduce herself. As far as I knew, anyway. ‘Where is the fete held?’

  ‘In the village salle des fetes, plus there’ll be stalls in the village square. After a little ceremony at the war memorial there’ll be a band, some kind of dancing display by the local school, bit of a car boot sale going on – that kind of thing. And the mayor pays for a glass of local wine for everyone.’

  ‘Great opportunity for you all to get more involved locally,’ Tom said. ‘Better make a good impression on the mayor.’

  ‘I think Gray already has,’ I said quietly. He just smiled and looked away.

  ‘Well, that’s our weekend sorted then,’ Steve said happily.

  We walked down to the village all together on the day of the fete, rather than trying to find parking. No doubt all the parking spots would be busy, especially if the main central square was closed off to traffic. The day was warm and bright, and we’d all dragged out our summer clothes. The men were in shorts, Manda was in a loose cotton skirt and T-shirt, and I was wearing three-quarter-length cotton trousers with a loose shirt and a pair of sandals, sunglasses on my head. I felt cool and comfortable, though knew I’d probably feel dowdy and dull compared with the mayor, who no doubt would be in crisp white linen.

  ‘You look gorgeous,’ Phil said, kissing me as I took his arm. I smiled at him. It was as though he’d read my mind.

  I enjoyed the walk alongside the river. The trees were showing off their bright spring foliage – stunning green against the azure sky. It really was a spectacularly beautiful part of the world.

  We arrived in the village just before eleven o’clock, in time to attend the short service beside the war memorial. I had to listen hard to try to understand the gist of the speeches. From what I could gather they were the usual sentiments about remembering the sacrifices of past generations and working together to ensure the horrors of the past wars could never happen again. The words liberté, egalité were definitely in there somewhere. The mayor laid a wreath of red, white and blue flowers at the foot of the memorial, flags were lowered for a minute’s silence, and then a bugler played the ‘Last Post’. I’d attended
dozens of remembrance day services when the boys were in the cubs and scouts, and this one seemed much the same – just as moving and thought-provoking, even if I didn’t quite understand all that was said.

  And then as everyone filed away from the war memorial back to the central village square, a band began playing – a mix of cool jazz and funk. People were talking and laughing. There was bunting up across every street, and the village square was crammed with stalls selling homemade cakes and conserves, bric-a-brac, local crafts. One stall was festooned with the French, EU and Provence flags, and behind it a couple of women were pouring out glasses of wine and handing them to everyone who passed. The non-drinkers were offered Perrier water or orange juice. This was the mairie’s stall, and Gray made a beeline for it. But I couldn’t see Madame la Maire anywhere near.

  We split up then – Steve, Manda and Gray headed off in one direction while Phil, Tom and I went the other, browsing the stalls, picking up a few bits and pieces for the château – a gorgeous woven throw in shades of red and orange, a couple of pots containing violets and lavender (all locally grown, the stall holder told me proudly), a pair of old copper pans I thought would look good hung up in the kitchen even if we never used them.

  ‘You realise we will have to carry all this home,’ Tom grumbled as I handed him the latest purchases – a whole saucisson and a large tub of olives – to hold.

  I smiled and nodded. ‘It’ll be fine, don’t worry.’ Actually I’d forgotten we hadn’t brought a car. I supposed someone could stay in the village with the items while someone else walked back to fetch a car.

  ‘Ah, ’ello, my Eenglish friends! When will you be back in my bistro?’ It was Monsieur Christophe. He greeted us like old friends.

  ‘Very soon, Monsieur, very soon.’ Phil had shaken his hand and clapped his back, and within a moment or two was discussing the relative merits of different types of tomato with him. I listened for a bit then sat on a nearby bench, feeling the need for a little rest. Tom was waving at Steve and Manda who were also laden with purchases. They came over to join us.

  ‘Hey, how are you getting on?’ Manda asked, and I showed her what we’d bought.

  ‘Fabulous! Love that throw. Where’s Gray?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ I looked about for him and spotted him over by the mairie’s wine stall. ‘Ah, over there.’

  ‘Blagging more booze, is he?’ Steve laughed.

  ‘No, think he’s chatting up the mayor.’

  ‘What?’ The others all turned and stared. They obviously hadn’t picked up on Gray’s interest in the mayor as I had.

  ‘Don’t all stare at once! She’s facing this way.’

  ‘Bloody hell, Lu, you’re right. Look how he’s leaning over the table towards her.’ Steve shook his head. ‘That man has no subtlety. Should we go over and rescue our poor mayor?’ He didn’t wait for an answer but began striding over. Phil raised an eyebrow and Manda shrugged, as we gathered up our purchases and followed him across the square.

  ‘Hello, everyone!’ The mayor greeted us warmly, and this time I was pleased I remembered to kiss her on both cheeks rather than go for a handshake. It’d take a while before it came naturally to me, however. ‘Are you enjoying the day?’

  ‘It’s lovely. So much going on. We’ve bought lots of stuff,’ I replied, and Manda and Tom held up our shopping.

  ‘And who is this?’ the mayor asked, looking at Tom.

  ‘Ah, yes. Our son. Tom, meet Madame la Maire.’

  ‘Enchanté,’ she said, kissing him, while he blushed and fumbled a little. ‘And please call me Aimée. Gray has been telling me you are interested in history, yes?’

  ‘I am. I used to be a history teacher. I’d love to know more about the history of this area.’

  ‘You must visit the library, then. And the museum.’

  ‘There’s a museum?’ How had I not spotted it?

  ‘Not in Saint Michel-sur-Verais. But down the valley, in the town. There are displays about the Revolution there. I think you may be interested.’ She smiled. ‘Anything I can do to help, please ask.’

  ‘Thank you, I will.’ I noticed Gray hovering at her elbow, clearly waiting until he could have the mayor’s attention once more. I smiled in his direction to draw her attention to him, and she turned slightly to include him in the conversation. And, I noted, she touched his arm with a perfectly manicured hand, and almost imperceptibly moved a little closer to him. Was our Gray making an impact on the mayor, the way she had on him?

  Chapter 12

  Catherine, 1790

  The winter had been long and cold. Pierre had never mentioned the climate in Saint-Michel-sur-Verais – Catherine had assumed it would be like Paris, perhaps warmer in the summer. But in the mountains, in winter, it was much colder. ‘Because we are higher up,’ Pierre told her. The first snow fell at the start of December and stayed on the ground almost continuously from then until March. In some weeks the village was cut off from all neighbouring towns when the roads were blocked by snow. Once food had run short, even at the château, where usually supplies for a winter were stored in the barns, but they’d managed to make what they had last, until the snow melted enough on the roads to allow wagons through.

  ‘We’ll stock up over the summer,’ Pierre had said. ‘In my absence it seems the farms have not been properly managed.’ He’d had consultations with his estate manager, and Catherine had heard raised voices from the château’s study.

  As the winter wore on, Catherine’s baby bump grew, and now it was almost due. Pierre had engaged a midwife from the nearby village, and a wet-nurse had already moved into an attic room in the château ready for the birth. A physician had visited a few times and pronounced the pregnancy to be progressing well. But still Catherine was frightened, and more than ever she wished she could have been giving birth at or near Versailles with the Queen’s own physician in attendance.

  ‘Madame, all will be well,’ Claudette told her. ‘Many babies have been born in this valley over the years, including me! The midwife here is good – I remember her. And you will have a physician. Many women are not so lucky.’

  Catherine scowled a little at the maid’s words. Since the Revolution she had noticed that even Claudette spoke her mind more than before, as though she had taken the idea of equality for all to heart.

  At last the day came, a fine, sunny but cold day in late March, when her pains began. Catherine called Claudette and hauled herself up the stairs to her chamber. Claudette helped her into bed, and then ran down to send someone to fetch the midwife. Those few minutes alone, lying on her bed trying to ride the waves of pain that washed over her, were the most terrifying Catherine had ever experienced – even more so than that terrible night when she had fled with the Queen from the Versailles intruders. At least then she had not been alone, and she had had the Queen’s example to follow. The Queen had never had to give birth alone. On the contrary, many ladies and gentlemen of the court had been present in her chamber for every birth, as was the custom for royal births. Catherine herself had been present at the birth of the Queen’s last child – poor little Sophie Hélène who’d lived less than a year – standing at the back of the room, craning her neck to see what was going on. At the time she’d thought it intrusive having so many people present, but it was better than being alone as she now was. Now, as another contraction hit and she clutched at a bed post, groaning with the pain, she felt small and frightened. Childbirth was dangerous. She’d known of a couple of women who’d died during or shortly after, and they’d had the best doctors money could buy! What chance did she have?

  There was a tap at the door and without waiting for an answer, the midwife bustled in, followed by Claudette who was carrying cloths and a basin of water. Catherine sighed with relief. If only the physician could be here too, but he’d told her that she would be in good hands with just the midwife, and he would call to check on her a day or so after the baby was born. And Pierre, although he was somewhere on the estate, had not
wanted to be present at the birth.

  The labour lasted hours. The midwife had pronounced her barely started, and Catherine had detected a slight sneer as she said this, as though Catherine shouldn’t have summoned her yet. ‘But as I’m here, I’ll stay for the duration,’ she’d said, her accent so thick that Catherine could barely understand her. The midwife had sent Claudette to fetch her a glass of wine and some bread and cheese. ‘Nothing for you, Madame,’ she’d said, as Catherine widened her eyes. ‘You’re liable to sick it back up, so you must keep your stomach empty until the baby’s here.’

  Catherine realised that for now, the midwife was in charge and she had better just do as she was told. In any case the contractions were too painful and she was too scared to assert her authority. Another contraction hit her, harder and tighter than any so far, and when it subsided Catherine determined never to have any more children, if she could help it. To have to suffer so much – it was unfair! Claudette mopped her brow, and adjusted a pillow beneath her head, while the midwife checked on progress yet again. ‘You’re getting closer, Madame. I’d say another hour or two, then you’ll be wanting to push.’

  Another hour or two of pain! How could she handle it? But somehow she did, with Claudette at her side, comforting her throughout, and in the late afternoon when the sun had moved around so that the room had become cool and dark, the contractions eased for a short while. When they restarted they had a different quality to them – an urgency, a purpose, and the urge to push. And they were more painful than ever. Catherine wanted to die rather than face the next one. She screamed as each one hit, and lashed out at Claudette who was mopping her face, looking worried. The midwife rolled her eyes at her and muttered something about first babies, but got on with the job, and after a particularly painful contraction that made Catherine feel as though she was splitting in two, announced that the head was out and the baby would be born in the next contraction. She was right, and shortly Catherine was handed a squirming, red-faced, swaddled baby boy.