The Secret of the Chateau

by Kathleen McGurl

  Across the valley was another path, signposted with a brown footpath sign, with various intriguing sounding places listed including a couple of villages in the next valley, and what I assumed was a mountain summit. I’d had my eye on this route for a while, and now that Felix had settled in with us, now was the time. After returning from the market I donned my boots – to Felix’s excitement; he’d already learned what this meant – and packed a rucksack with a few snacks for us both, a flask of coffee and a couple of bottles of water. And a rain mac, for although the forecast was for wall-to-wall sunshine, I am far too used to hiking in Britain to be brave enough to set out into the mountains without preparing for all weather conditions.

  ‘Right, we’re off out for a long walk,’ I told Phil, who was sitting in the garden with Clarabel tethered nearby.

  ‘Oh, all right. You want company?’ He looked at me quizzically. I knew that look. It meant, please don’t say yes, I’m comfortable here.

  ‘No, it’s all right. I’ve got Felix. See you later, then.’ Phil probably still wasn’t fit enough for what I was planning anyway.

  ‘You’ve got your phone?’

  ‘Yep.’ I tapped my pocket. And off we went. Down the château’s long driveway, across the road and along it for a few hundred metres, then when we reached the signpost we turned off up a track. Felix pulled on his lead a bit, and I had the impression he knew this walk well. Perhaps Monsieur Baudin had brought him up here when he was fit. There were a couple of farms and cottages with their entrances off this track, but gradually we left them behind and below us, and the track grew rougher until it was only suitable for walkers or perhaps mountain-bikers. I let Felix off his lead here. He pranced around in delight for a moment, before setting off upwards, sniffing at everything, marking his route, and looking back every few yards to make sure I was following. I smiled. I was no longer fearful he’d run off.

  The walk was an absolute delight, as we left the farmed land behind and came out onto the open hillside. At this time of year the Alpine flowers were magnificent, bordering the path on both sides; yellow gentian, saxifrage and rosebay willowherb all jostling for attention, with the occasional small oak tree dotted around. There was a delicious scent – it took a while before I realised that the low growing, purple-flowered plant that covered the ground was thyme, and every step I took released its fragrance into the atmosphere.

  One of the traditional herbes du Provence, I told myself. I wondered if we had any in the garden yet. Perhaps Phil could grow some and we could become self-sufficient in herbs, as long as we wanted everything thyme-flavoured.

  As we climbed higher the land became rockier and the plants smaller. The view was constantly changing – the village rooftops were visible one moment then disappeared behind a rocky outcrop the next. Once they were out of sight it felt as though I had the entire Alps to myself. The hills I knew well – those behind the château – were joined by a more distant, higher range of hills and then, peeking out over those I could see the snow-capped peaks of the high Alps. The path zig-zagged its way up a steep section and finally reached the summit plateau, the high point marked by a stone cairn. Felix immediately slumped down in the small amount of shade it offered, and I poured some water into a plastic bowl for him to refresh himself. When I straightened up and looked around, I was delighted to realise there was a 360-degree view. To the south, the Mediterranean, shining a deep blue. The coast line – I could pick out Antibes, the airport at Nice, the mouth of the river Var, the outskirts of Nice itself. Further west more hills, some on a promontory under which I knew the town of St Tropez nestled. Looking east, the hills beyond Nice would be part of Monaco and further on, Italy. Nice itself had been part of Piedmont at one time, I vaguely recalled, and pulled out my phone to check facts. Yes, until 1860 Nice had not been French. After the Revolution. But Saint-Michel-sur-Verais had always been part of France – the old border ran to the east of here.

  As I sat down on a flat rock and poured myself a coffee, I wondered why Pierre Aubert and his family had not escaped into Italy during the Revolution. So many French aristocrats had gone into exile then, most of them returning to France later on, in Napoleon’s reign. Given how near to the border they were, it would have been relatively easy to get across, I would have thought. As Monsieur Christophe had suggested, perhaps Pierre’s wife had managed to escape, perhaps on foot through the mountains. I hoped so. Maybe she was the mother of the baby Louis whose name and dates were on the family tomb. I found myself feeling sorry for Pierre Aubert, hunted down by the revolutionary mob and somehow dying as a result. His only crime, quite likely, was the accident of his birth into the nobility.

  ‘Lovely up here, isn’t it?’ I said to Felix, who’d come sniffing around me as though wondering if I was carrying any dog biscuits for him. Or human biscuits. Or any kind of tasty treat – we had discovered he was really not at all fussy. ‘Hungry? Well here you are then.’ I pulled out a packet of digestive biscuits I’d stuffed into my rucksack and gave him one, which disappeared in a single gulp. I made my own last a little longer, despite having to eat it while Felix sat panting hopefully in front of me, his head cocked slightly to one side in the cutest possible way. It worked. I gave him another biscuit from the pack before putting them away. ‘I’m too soft on you, aren’t I?’ I scratched his head and felt a surge of love for this animal who I’d only known for a couple of weeks, but who felt like part of the family already. When Monsieur Baudin was discharged from hospital and in his retirement home I vowed I’d take Felix to visit him. It’d be good for both of them.

  ‘Shall we descend?’ I asked my canine companion, and received a soft woof in reply, as he jumped to his feet. But first I walked across the summit plateau a little until I could see down into the next valley. There was a pretty looking village perched on a rocky outcrop part way down – all jumbled medieval buildings, terracotta roof tiles and tiny twisty streets. Another day I’d go on, explore that village, and then walk back over. Maybe one to do with one of the others – Steve, perhaps, though he’d probably want to run the route rather than walk it. Gray would rather use a mountain bike, Manda would want to be on horseback. And Phil would rather stay in the garden, unless it was all snow covered with a chairlift going up so he could ski down it. I chuckled. ‘Good job I’ve got you, isn’t it, Felix?’ Having the dog was certainly helping me settle in.

  We were sitting at the breakfast table the next morning, drinking coffee while I told the others what Monsieur Christophe had said about Pierre Aubert’s wife, when Manda’s phone buzzed with an incoming message, at the same time as Steve’s. They looked at each other and both reached for their phones.

  ‘It’s Zoe, on our family group chat,’ Steve said, to answer the questioning look we had all given him.

  ‘She wants us to ring her. Now, before she goes to bed.’ It was evening in Australia. Manda looked worried, as she stood up and gestured for Steve to follow her to another room where they could talk to their daughter in private.

  Steve returned on his own about ten minutes later. His expression was mixed – there was joy in there but also worry. ‘What is it, Steve? Is Zoe OK?’ I asked.

  ‘She’s fine. Absolutely. She had some news for us though, which Manda isn’t quite sure how to react to.’ Steve poured himself another coffee and sat down.

  I frowned. ‘Oh? What is it, can you tell us?’

  ‘Zoe has met a chap in Australia. She’d spoken about him a few times but it seems it was more serious than we realised. They’ve got engaged.’

  ‘But that’s lovely news!’ I’d blurted the words out before I remembered what Manda had told me about her greatest fear being that Zoe would meet someone and decide to settle in Australia for good.

  ‘It is, yes. He sounds like a good, solid chap. Ryan, his name is.’

  ‘Fantastic news, mate!’ Phil clapped Steve on the back.

  Gray gave a little cheer. ‘First of our offspring to get engaged!’

  ‘Is Manda p
leased?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes … and no. She’s happy for Zoe, of course. Zoe sounds over the moon about the whole thing. But Manda’s really scared Zoe will never come back.’

  ‘Should I go and talk to her? Or does she want to be left alone?’ I stacked up plates as I spoke, ready to take them through to the kitchen and load them in the dishwasher.

  ‘Yes, you go. A bit of magical Lu-wisdom might help her come to terms with it. I mean, I miss Zoe too, and would prefer her not to stay in Australia, but if it’s what she wants then it’s what I want for her, too,’ Steve said. But I could tell he was saying what he thought he ought to be saying, rather than how he really felt. I suspected he was just as keen as Manda that Zoe should come home at the end of her contract. I tried to imagine how I’d feel if Tom or Alfie emigrated to the other side of the world. But I would be happy to jump on a plane and go to see them every year. So would Steve, but he’d be alone. Manda had never been able to contemplate long-haul air flights.

  I found Manda lying stretched out on a sofa, a balled-up tissue in her hand. ‘You OK? Steve told us the news.’

  She sat up, to make space beside her and I sat down and put an arm around her. ‘Oh, Manda. I know it was what you feared would happen. But it’s good that Zoe’s happy, isn’t it? As parents that’s the thing we want most – our kids to be happy.’

  She sniffed loudly. ‘Of course. I’m happy for her. Really. But, Lu – this is it. I’ll never see her again.’

  ‘Yes, you will. She’ll come to visit.’

  ‘Every two or three years at most. She won’t be able to afford to.’

  ‘You can send her the money.’

  ‘She wouldn’t take it. Oh, why couldn’t she have met a British bloke?’

  ‘Ryan is Australian then, is he?’

  ‘Yes, I assume so. He works for the same company as her in Sydney. They’ve got lots of interests in common – surfing and hiking. They’re having a whale of a time out there, spending every weekend at the beach or in the Blue Mountains.’

  ‘It’s good she’s making the most of her time. Another nine months or so on her contract, isn’t it?’

  Manda stared at me. ‘Yes … but then she’ll probably extend it.’

  ‘Has she said so?’

  ‘No. But she will, now she has Ryan. She’s bound to. Then they’ll marry. I won’t be able to be at my own daughter’s wedding!’ Manda broke down and wailed at this, so loudly that Steve came through to see what was going on. I shrugged at him. So much for Lu’s wise pep-talks – Manda seemed more upset now than when I’d come in.

  ‘Ah now, ssh,’ I said, putting my arms around her and rocking her like a child in need of comfort. ‘Don’t be trying to second-guess the future. She might want to marry in England – it’s where all her friends are, after all.’

  ‘Except the friends she’s made in Australia, and all his friends and family, and all their work colleagues and mutual friends.’ Manda sniffed again. ‘No, they’ll have more people in Australia and will decide to get hitched there, I know it.’

  ‘Then we’ll find a way to get you there. Maybe by ship. Maybe lots of short hops with a day or so between each flight. There are ways, Manda. But listen, don’t be worrying about it. Zoe’s happy and healthy and living her best life.’

  ‘I know. I sounded pleased for her when she told us, honestly. Only started crying when she was off the phone. I’d hate for her to think I wasn’t happy for her.’ Manda managed a weak smile.

  ‘That’s good. So let’s see what happens, eh? Send her a congratulations card, and we can cross each bridge as it comes.’ I squeezed her shoulders, and she wiped away the last of her tears and nodded. Behind her, Steve gave me a smile and a thumbs-up and left the room.

  ‘Yeah. Thanks Lu. I feel better for talking about it.’

  ‘Any time, pet. Any time.’

  Chapter 20

  Pierre, 1792

  Pierre was worried. France was at war with Prussia and Austria, and he was becoming increasingly concerned for their safety. He wished he had insisted they go into exile at the time when so many other nobles had. At least it might have been one upheaval rather than two. But Catherine hated the idea of leaving France, and he had not the heart to force her. He was not sure his health would stand another long journey. Besides, she was heavily pregnant now. He’d made her flee once, while carrying a child, and he could not do it to her again. She still seemed not to accept that the old ways were gone, and the new regime was increasingly against all those who owned land or property or were titled, by accident of birth. Indeed, all noble titles had now been abolished. He had tried to change things here in St Michel-sur-Verais. He paid fair wages to all those who worked for him. He no longer expected them to do everything he said without question – indeed he encouraged them to discuss their problems with him and he would do what he could for them. Most seemed to appreciate this. Hadn’t he given the Barniers a cottage on his estate, after their roof had collapsed? He’d loaned the Duchamps money to pay for the physician after their child had fallen gravely ill, and then he’d paid for the child’s burial. And he’d shared the harvest last year, with every person getting a more-or-less equal share. So what if he’d kept some in reserve at the château? It was exactly that – a reserve, in case it was needed.

  But some, like that Jacques Valet, were still hostile to him and his family. Pierre had heard that Valet agreed with the view that the nobility should be stamped out completely. How this was to be achieved, no one could say. Pierre supposed they wanted people like himself to give up all their lands, all their rights, to open up their properties to whoever wanted to live there, and to live themselves like the peasants did, in one room along with their animals. Wearing rough clothes infested with lice at the seams. Unwashed. Uneducated. Well, that was a step too far. Pierre believed that no matter what, there would always need to be someone to manage the lower classes. Someone to keep them employed, to organise their work, and keep them in check. And it was the nobility who had the knowledge and skills and education to do this. So while he agreed with the aims of the Revolution to an extent, he felt strongly that it should not be allowed to go too far.

  And yet it was going too far. Pierre had news from Paris, that a new punishment was being used. A Monsieur Guillotine had invented a machine that chopped off a man’s head, cleanly and neatly. This machine was being used in Paris, to execute those who were deemed guilty of crimes against the State. And from what Pierre could gather, crimes against the State were many and varied, and new ones were invented almost every day. It did not bode well for them.

  In addition, so many of the local men had gone to fight in the wars that Pierre worried there were not enough people left to work in his fields. Food stores were low – the Army had passed through, requisitioning most of the supplies that were to last the community for the rest of the year. Wherever he looked, to Pierre it seemed there was nothing but worry.

  But there was better news, too. Catherine’s pregnancy had progressed well, and on a fine afternoon in early summer, he arrived home from an exhilarating ride in the mountains to a château in uproar, with maids running hither and thither and a feeling of excitement in the air.

  ‘What is happening?’ he asked Claudette as she ran upstairs with a pail of water.

  ‘Sir, it is the Madame, she is giving birth!’ The maid dipped a curtsy, managing to slop water from her bucket as she did so, and Pierre waved her away, grinning. Soon he would be a father again. He was very much looking forward to this and having a baby to care for would be good for Catherine.

  Birthing rooms were no place for men, although back at Versailles when the Queen gave birth there would be any number of people, men and women, in the Queen’s bedchamber to witness the birth of an heir to the throne. He shuddered. He’d never had to be present at such an occasion, and nor did he want to. He retreated to his library where he sat with a book, a pipe, and a glass of brandy, to await the hopefully happy outcome of proceedings upstairs
.

  Hours later the mood in the château was more that of worry than excitement. Pierre paced the hallway, accosting any servant who hurried through, but the news was always the same. Catherine still laboured, the baby had not yet been born, Madame seemed tired but otherwise all right. The physician was called for, but he spent only a few minutes in Catherine’s bedchamber before joining Pierre in the library for a brandy.

  ‘Baby is breech,’ he said. ‘That’s why it’s taking so long. Nothing I can do, and the midwife doesn’t want me there anyway.’

  ‘Will they be all right?’ Pierre said. He hadn’t for a moment thought that Catherine’s life might be in danger. She had done well with her first birth, and he’d assumed this one would go well too.

  The doctor shrugged. ‘Only God knows that. If the baby is born in the next couple of hours, then I would say both will be well. But the longer it goes on, the more danger there is. For both.’

  Pierre felt a band of ice around his heart at these words. ‘Is there nothing you can do to help?’

  ‘Your wife needs to push, the midwife needs to guide her, and with some effort, the baby will be born. Breech births happen all the time, Monsieur Aubert. Most are successful, but some fail. Let us hope your wife is strong.’

  Strength was not a quality Pierre normally associated with Catherine. He found himself doing what she did so often – wishing they were back at Versailles, with all the advantages of being among the court, with the country’s best physicians on hand. How the lower classes managed at all, he had no idea. Those who could not afford the services of any physician, or even a midwife. Those who had no comfortable château, with a plentiful supply of food and fuel. How any peasant child survived birth and the rigours of childhood was nothing short of a miracle. But that aside, this was his child being born, his wife in danger, and he had money and influence, and by God he was going to use it to make sure they had the best treatment available!