The Secret of the Chateau

by Kathleen McGurl

  ‘Hey all,’ he announced over dinner one evening, ‘I thought I’d tackle the little tower room next. What do you think?’

  ‘At last!’ I said. I’d been longing for him to get round to that room.

  ‘It’s got that damaged, painted panelling in it,’ he went on. ‘With a bit of paint stripper and some repair work, I think it could be restored. And if we install some wiring up there so we can have lights, I think it’d make a great little snug – a kind of reading den or something.’

  Gray frowned. ‘Nice idea but how will we get a sofa or any furniture up those narrow spiral stairs?’

  ‘We can get flat-pack bookcases up, and I thought floor cushions or beanbags would work well.’

  I smiled. ‘I love that idea. It’ll be a lovely place to escape to, if someone wants peace and quiet.’

  Steve nodded. ‘Exactly. So, I bought some paint stripper, and thought I’d get going on that tomorrow. Anyone fancy helping me?’

  I put my hand up. ‘I’ve got nothing on. I’ll give you a hand.’ I had a few spare days and definitely wanted to be there if we uncovered anything. I felt a frisson of excitement. That room held secrets, I was sure of it.

  ‘Fantastic. Right then, we convene at 9am in the tower room, wearing rubber gloves and a face mask.’

  ‘Do I need my own or do you supply them?’

  He laughed. ‘I bought two sets today. Just turn up and I’ll kit you out.’

  And so, the following morning after a good night’s sleep and a breakfast of croissants and local cheese, I put on my oldest jeans and T-shirt. Phil was going out for the morning – Clarabel was producing more cheese than we could eat now, so Phil delivered the surplus to Monsieur Christophe in the bistro in return for a discount whenever we ate there.

  I made my way up to the tower room. ‘Ready and reporting for duty, sir,’ I said to Steve, with a mock salute.

  ‘Great. Right then, Corporal, first job is to chip off that plaster. See over there, where part of the panelling has been plastered over and it’s all cracked? Put these on.’ He handed me a set of clear goggles to protect my eyes from flying chips, and a pair of gloves. ‘And use this blunt chisel and hammer to gently chip away at it. Should come off fairly easily, you can even pull some bits off with your fingers, see.’ He demonstrated, and a large piece of plaster fell away, throwing up a cloud of dust as it landed on the floor.

  I coughed, and Steve handed me a face mask to wear as well. ‘A dirty job, but worth doing. From what I can see, this panelling could be lovely when we’ve restored it.’

  Once I got started, and discovered the best techniques to use, progress was surprisingly quick. While I chipped off plaster on one half of the room, Steve got going with the paint stripper on the other half, where the panelling had only been painted over. I was glad of the face mask – that stuff stank, and mixed with the plaster dust I was creating the atmosphere in there was pretty awful. We opened the small window as wide as it would go, and thankfully there was a bit of a breeze blowing in to improve the air.

  The most difficult part of my job was when I reached the mouldings around the edge of each panel. I had to go carefully so as not to damage it at all, and frequently resorted to picking at it with my fingernails. The plaster was crumbling with age so came away fairly easily, but in chunks of about a square inch each time it was going to be a long job.

  We broke for lunch when Manda called up to say there was fresh soup ready (made with butternut squash from Phil’s veg patch). We were shouted at for entering the kitchen covered in plaster dust, and Manda pushed us out to the terrace to brush ourselves off. ‘We should make you two eat out there,’ she grumbled. ‘You’re filthy.’

  ‘Job’s going well though, isn’t it, Lu?’ Steve said, and I nodded.

  Back to work, and after another half-hour I spotted something odd. ‘Steve, take a look at this.’

  ‘What?’ He put down his paint stripper and came over to my side of the room.

  ‘Looks like a huge crack in the wood panelling. Is that repairable, do you think?’

  He ran his fingers along the line I’d discovered, that followed the edge of some moulding. ‘I guess so. We’ll need to put in some wood filler. Hopefully we can find some that matches the wood. Shame, as that’s quite a wide crack.’

  He went back to his task and I carried on chipping off the plaster. The crack went all the way down beside the moulding, right to the floor. As I moved up, I realised it went higher too, to near head height. And then I discovered a second crack running horizontally, again just beside a length of moulding.

  By the time I had stripped all the plaster from that area I’d found a second vertical crack, parallel to the first, one panel width away. ‘Steve, come and have another look. These cracks look deliberate to me.’

  He came over again and looked closely. ‘Hmm. Yes, it looks almost as though …’ He felt his way around the edges of the panel.

  ‘As though what?’

  ‘As though … it’s a kind of opening, or something.’

  ‘A hidden doorway?’

  ‘Cupboard, more like. Some kind of priest hole, perhaps? Did they hide priests in France?’

  ‘After the Revolution, some non-conformist priests went into hiding.’ I had a sudden thought. ‘Steve, you know that mysterious window in the tower, above here?’

  ‘Ye-es?’

  ‘Just wondering if …’ Oh God. I couldn’t voice it, but my excitement was growing. Was this a secret doorway, that would lead to a way up to whatever was above us?

  Steve was tapping at the panelling. ‘Certainly sounds like there’s a void behind here. See, it sounds different to when I tap the previous panel.’ He began pressing around the edges, then picked up a screwdriver and gouged out more plaster from the crack, all the way around. It became obvious it was some sort of door, but one with no handle, no way of opening it. ‘Must be some way into this,’ Steve muttered, as he kept pressing and pushing, all the way round.

  Suddenly, with no warning, the wood creaked and gave way, opening inwards, releasing a cloud of dust that sent us reeling backwards into the tower room. Behind the door, revealed as the dust settled, was a narrow spiral staircase, leading upwards.

  Chapter 28

  Catherine, 1794

  When Pierre closed the door of the little room in the tower, leaving her alone, Catherine felt rising panic. She turned the key in the lock as he’d told her, and leaned her forehead against the wood of the door. She was alone, a mob were coming, looking for her and Pierre, no doubt intent on capturing or even killing them both. Pierre had tried to hide the worst of the news from Paris, but she knew what went on. She’d heard of heads being hacked off and carried on pikes. Of people dragged through the streets tied to horses, until all their skin had been flayed off on the cobbles. Was that to be their fate? All she could do was trust that Pierre was right, that the mob would never find this room, would think the château was deserted and would look for them elsewhere. And she had to have faith that Pierre would return to her, after he’d got the children to safety.

  The children. Sweet little Jeanne, not yet one year old and dear, funny Michel. She had not had chance to say goodbye to them, or tell them she loved them. If all went well, she’d be reunited with them within a day or so, but she would have liked to be able to kiss them, cuddle them, reassure them that she’d see them again soon.

  ‘Pierre, my sweet, I hope you do that for me. Tell my babies their maman loves them, please,’ she whispered. Would it have been better to keep them with her, to bring them up here to hide, rather than split the family? The four of them could have stayed in this little room … Why hadn’t Pierre suggested that? But who knew how long they would have to hide. There was very little food and water here, and if the mob came into the château, they’d need to be quiet. No, Pierre had been right to take the children away to Claudette’s mother. They would be safer there.

  Dear Pierre. He’d only ever had her best interests at heart. She f
elt deeply ashamed of the resentment she’d felt when she’d had to nurse him after little Louis’s death. He’d been a good husband. He was still a good husband – why had she thought of him in the past tense? He would return to her, they would survive this, surely? They had to. For the sake of the children.

  She sat down on the thin straw mattress that lay on the floor. There was a pile of blankets at one end. She pulled the top one off and wrapped it around her, feeling the chill through her thin nightdress. She shivered. Perhaps she was still feverish. There was a pitcher of water and a cup – she poured herself some and drank thirstily, then stopped herself. How long would that water need to last? When Pierre returned it needed to do for two of them. She poured the rest of the water back into the jug, and set down the cup. Under a cloth was some stale bread, a plate of dried meat and some apples – last year’s, their skin wrinkly and unappetising. She was thankful she did not feel hungry.

  There was one small window lighting the room. She stood, crossed to it, and peered out. Gasping, she saw the mob approaching the château. They were just a hundred metres down the lane now. There were about a dozen men. They were carrying weapons – pitchforks, and one or two had blazing torches.

  What of Madame Bernard? Would she go out to greet them, to tell them that Pierre’s plan was for them to hide in the priest’s cottage? If so, would they simply turn around and make their way up the hill to the cottage? She watched from the window, taking care to keep herself as hidden as possible, though she wasn’t sure that anyone would see her from down there, even if they did happen to look up.

  The mob approached, she could hear chants and yelling, and the leader hammered on the door of the château. From her window Catherine could not see who opened it, but someone must have, or perhaps it had been left unlocked, for the men went inside and she could see and hear them no more.

  She tried to imagine what was happening – they’d be splitting up, running from room to room, searching for Pierre and herself. Was Madame Bernard even in the château any more? Catherine risked another glance out of the window, and saw a figure appear from around the back of the château, running back down the lane. It was Madame Bernard. She had hoisted up her skirts and was running as though her life depended on it, looking back over her shoulder. Not the actions of a guilty woman, of an informer in league with the mob. Catherine frowned. Was Madame Bernard not the person who betrayed them after all? Who, then?

  Catherine sat down again on the mattress, head in hands, and then on a whim twisted round onto her knees, clasping her hands together in prayer.

  ‘Please let Pierre have got my children to safety,’ she whispered. ‘And bring him back to me.’ How long would it be until the mob gave up here, and went elsewhere to look? If Madame Bernard was not the informer then who would tell them to go to the priest’s cottage? With horror she realised Pierre’s plan had depended on Madame Bernard betraying them, and telling the mob where to go. Without that, they would search the château more thoroughly, or perhaps go to the village and search there … where Pierre and Claudette had taken the children, and from where he’d be making his way back …

  ‘Don’t let them find him, oh Lord,’ she added to her prayer. She prayed too for Claudette, her loyal servant, who perhaps she had not always treated as well as she might have. Claudette had been with her for so many years. She was more than just a servant. She was a confidante, an adviser, a friend. And most of all she prayed for her children.

  There was nothing more she could do. Pray, wait, hope. She had never felt so helpless. She tried to comfort herself with thoughts of beloved Marie Antoinette, who no doubt had suffered much worse before her execution, and yet by all reports had borne it with dignity. Catherine lifted her chin. Whatever happened, she too would bear it all with her head held high and with as much dignity as she could muster. She pulled in dismay at her nightdress. If only she’d had the chance to dress and arrange her hair. If the mob did find her, she’d have preferred to look her best. It would lend her strength.

  But no. They wouldn’t find this room. The entrance was well concealed. You had to know it was there. Anyone just walking into the room below would find it empty and see no other way out other than the door they’d entered by. She would be safe.

  Even as she told herself this, she heard sounds from below – muffled voices, thumps of boots on the wooden floor, crashes as furniture was knocked over. She kept completely still and held her breath. It all depended on them not searching further, not moving the tapestry, not noticing the section of panelling that was actually a door.

  ‘Don’t find the door, please don’t find the door.’ She mouthed the words, not daring to even whisper them aloud. Sweat was pouring down her – whether from the fever or fear she did not know. Her thoughts a moment ago of wishing she was properly dressed seemed ludicrous now. She was in danger of her life – who cared what she looked like?

  And then the sounds below her faded, and all was quiet again, other than a shout or two from outside. They had not discovered the secret door. They had left the tower. She was safe – for now, anyway. She let out the breath she’d been holding and collapsed down onto the thin mattress, exhausted.

  She must have slept, for she woke feeling groggy and confused, to sounds of shouting from outside. She hauled herself to her feet, stumbling a little, and crossed over to peer out of the window. There was a crowd outside, cheering and singing. It was late – it was growing dark – but there was a strange glow she could just make out, coming from the newer wing of the château. She craned her neck, trying to see what was happening there, and realised with horror that the château was burning. The mob must have set fire to it – at least to the other wing. She collapsed back onto the mattress in horror. If the château burned, how would Pierre get back to her? Would this older wing, and the tower, burn too? Perhaps not – perhaps the fire would not spread this far. But all their good rooms, the library, the drawing room and dining room, their bedrooms, the nursery – all were housed in the newer, west wing. If the fire really took hold – and it seemed from the glow she could just make out from the tower window that it had – all those rooms would be lost.

  Her clothes – for the second time in her life she was to lose all her clothes, all her possessions. Pierre had hidden her jewels somewhere, so that they could sell them when they reached Switzerland. But where had he put them? If they were anywhere in the château, they too might be lost. All she had with her was her garnet wedding ring.

  Where was he, anyway? She imagined him hiding some way off, watching helplessly as his home burned and the villagers, once his friends, cheered. She risked another glance out of the window. The mob were all watching the flames, not looking up at the tower. She scanned the crowd for faces she knew, but she was too high up and the light was failing to make out their features. Even so she thought she saw the tall, strong figure of Jacques Valet.

  She watched as he brandished a lit torch, shouting something, and realised that he was a leader of this mob. Bile rose to her mouth as she recalled how she had once found this man, who was now calling for her blood, attractive. Thank goodness she had never given herself to him.

  Why was it only now, trapped alone in her home, in danger for her life, that she realised how much she truly loved Pierre? How much she had always loved him?

  What could she do now? Only wait, hope that the fire burned itself out before it reached the old wing and the tower, pray for her children’s safety and then wait for Pierre to return to her. He would do so, as soon as it was possible. She had faith in him. He had never yet let her down. She would not contemplate for a moment the idea that the mob might have caught him.

  Another glance out of the window showed the fire was spreading – she could see licks of flames now. It was spreading towards the older parts.

  ‘Not here,’ she whispered, ‘don’t burn here!’

  It wouldn’t, surely? The old parts were built of stone, surely there was little that could burn. The tower was stone
too, only the floors were wooden. And the panelling, and furniture, carpets and tapestries.

  With rising horror she realised that wisps of smoke were curling under the door of her room. Pierre had said to stay there, to not leave the tower room until he returned, but he hadn’t expected this, had he? She ran to the door of the room, thinking to run downstairs and out of the back of the château. The mob were at the front – she’d be able to get out across the gardens, the same way Pierre had. She could run along the high path and would probably meet him coming back. Yes, that was the answer. That was the right thing to do. No matter that she was in a nightdress and had nothing on her feet. She unlocked the door, grabbed hold of the handle and opened it, then staggered backwards, coughing, as a wall of acrid smoke billowed up the stairs.

  Choking, she slammed the door closed, locked it again as though a lock could keep out the flames, and fell back onto the mattress. There’d been no sight of flames on the stairs, but that smoke was too thick to fight her way through. The water – could she use the pitcher of water? Could she wet a cloth to hold over her mouth? She fumbled for it – it was getting dark and the increasing amount of smoke in the room made it hard to see, and then she felt it, but in her confusion knocked it over. She rolled over on the now sodden mattress and covered her face with her hands. The water would not save her. The smoke was still curling under the door, rising and filling the room. She could not stop coughing, as it stung her eyes and the back of her throat. She could only lie here, and wait for the fire to go out and the smoke to clear. This room was to have been her salvation, but it had become her prison cell.

  As she pulled a blanket over her, she thought that very likely the room would become her coffin, too. Thank the Lord that it was only her here, and Pierre and the children had got away to safety. As long as they survived, she could accept her own demise. The children were all that mattered. The children … the children … She had not had a chance to say goodbye to them, to hold them one last time, breathe in their baby scent, feel their little arms around her neck. Her children, her reason for existing …