The Chateau on the Lake

by Charlotte Betts

  ‘No! No, thank you,’ I say.

  He nods and departs.

  I look around me in dismay at the claustrophobic compartment. A narrow bed is pushed against the flimsy partition wall and there is, perhaps, two feet of space all around it. A row of hooks on one wall and a triangular washstand jammed into the corner complete the furnishings for my new bedroom. Panic begins to flutter in my chest. A small window looks out over the rooftops and I hurry to open it, but it’s stuck fast.

  Confined spaces have made me anxious ever since a mischievous school friend shut me in the coal cellar. Sophie had come looking for me, heard me sobbing and released me. I’ve never forgotten the fear I felt then and even now an icy shudder runs down my back at the memory. How can I possibly bear to live in what is little more than a cell for the foreseeable future?

  Full of hatred for the vile Jephcotts, I hang up my clothes on the hooks and then go downstairs to sit in one of the classrooms while I prepare tomorrow’s lessons.

  When I have completed my task and tidied the books away I set off for Georgiana’s salon. Sophie, following her return to her husband, has begged me to discover if there has been any gossip following the end of her affair with Jack Fielding. Since I’ll do whatever I can to delay my return to the horrid cell, I’m pleased to have an excuse to go out. Besides, I have another reason for attending.

  Georgiana comes to greet me with a kiss. ‘Is Sophie not with you tonight?’ she asks.

  ‘I believe Henry had toothache,’ I lie.

  ‘Poor little boy!’

  Since Georgiana is an inveterate gossip and she isn’t questioning me about Sophie’s affair with Jack Fielding, I am encouraged to hope that she has no inkling of my friend’s collapse.

  ‘Is Mr d’Aubery or the Marquis de Roussell here?’ I ask.

  ‘The marquis is here.’ Georgiana leans towards me and lowers her voice. ‘Though for my part I find him very dull company and rather hope he’ll take himself off before too long.’

  She drifts off to greet a new arrival and I make my way through the throng.

  The marquis is talking in his execrable English at Daniel Stowe and when the poet sees me coming he grasps the opportunity to escape.

  ‘I wonder if you would assist me in a small matter?’ I say to the marquis, in French.

  ‘If I can, Mademoiselle Moreau,’ he says. ‘And it is always a pleasure to converse in my own language rather than this barbarous English.’

  I hold out my hand. ‘I wonder if you would look at my ring?’ I’ve been thinking about something Mama said as she lay dying and then I remembered that Mr d’Aubery had questioned Papa about his signet ring.

  The marquis takes out his quizzing glass and peers at Papa’s moonstone ring.

  ‘It belonged to my father,’ I say. ‘He died recently and, since he never cared to talk about his family, I wondered if you might know anything about them? He said that this ring had been passed down from father to son for generations in his family.’

  De Roussell studies the crest of the leaping deer engraved on the stone and then glances up at me. ‘It’s a very fine moonstone and I believe I recognise the crest. Which part of France did your father come from?’

  ‘My mother said he originated from Fontainebleau. His name was Philippe Moreau.’

  ‘Ah! Then I’m right. Philippe Moreau is the name of the eldest son of Louis-François Moreau, Duc de Limours. The family seat, Château de Lys, is near Fontainebleau, I believe.’

  Stunned, I shake my head. My father, the son of a duke! During my childhood I had woven stories in which I was a long-lost princess, but this was no less fantastical.

  ‘Is the Duc de Limours still alive?’ I ask.

  De Roussell shrugs. ‘As to that I cannot say. But there is another son, I believe.’

  I hardly remember taking my leave of the marquis or saying my goodbyes to Georgiana in my hurry to tell Sophie of the news.

  When I arrive, quite out of breath, at Sophie’s house, she’s in the drawing room and looks up at me with an anxious expression. ‘Did you hear any gossip about me?’ she asks.

  ‘None at all.’ I run and clasp her hands. ‘But you can’t imagine my news,’ I say. ‘I showed Papa’s ring to the Marquis de Roussell and he tells me that Papa was the son of a duke and that I may have an uncle, too!’

  ‘No!’ Sophie shrieks in delight. ‘You must seek them out.’

  It’s an exciting but breathtakingly impossible idea, travelling to revolutionary France to find them. ‘I couldn’t. It’s so far away, and they probably don’t even know I exist.’

  ‘Maddy, you’ve wondered about them all your life. And now that your parents aren’t here to stop you…’

  I close my eyes as a shaft of pain pierces my heart again.

  She hugs me, sympathetic tears welling in her own eyes. ‘Whatever difficulties life presents us with, Maddy, at least we will always have each other.’

  We talk about my discovery until it’s too late for me to stay out any longer.

  I return to Soho Square and eventually fall asleep in my nasty cell, my mind full of images of unfamiliar places and shadowy, faceless relatives.

  Christmas Day comes and, although the Jephcotts dutifully include me in their festivities, I’m desolate. Echoes of earlier Christmases haunt me. I cannot help but remember the affection between the three of us when Mama and I sat by the fire roasting chestnuts, while Papa serenaded us with carols. Soho Square holds too many loving memories for me not to feel miserable now that Mama and Papa have gone. The school they established together is no longer my beloved home.

  The day after Christmas I walk to the Levesque house to take my gift of a set of pewter soldiers to Henry, who throws his arms around me in delight.

  Sophie has tears in her eyes as she greets me.

  ‘Henry,’ I say, ‘perhaps you would take your soldiers up to the nursery?’

  ‘What’s the matter, Sophie?’ I ask as soon as the door has closed behind him.

  ‘Maddy, I don’t know what to do,’ she whispers.

  ‘Is it Charles again?’

  She shakes her head. ‘I’m going to have another baby.’

  ‘But that’s wonderful news!’

  ‘No, it isn’t. It’s not Charles’s child.’

  ‘Not…’ Shock silences me.

  ‘Charles hasn’t been near my bed for months.’ She looks at me now, her eyes full of fear. ‘It’s Jack’s baby. If Charles finds out he’ll kill me.’

  I don’t doubt it. At the very best he’ll turn her into the streets and never let her see Henry again. ‘Sophie, what will you do?’

  ‘What can I do, apart from take Henry and run away?’

  ‘Charles wouldn’t rest until he found you.’

  ‘Maddy, come with me?’ Her eyes plead with me. ‘You want to find your papa’s relatives. We could go to France together.’

  I’m aghast. ‘Sophie, talking about it is one thing, actually travelling on our own to France is quite another.’

  ‘Mary Wollstonecraft did. And several other ladies of our acquaintance.’ She grips my wrist, a fevered light in her brown eyes. ‘Please, Maddy! I’m so frightened.’

  A tingle of excitement begins to runs through my veins. I cannot bear to remain in Soho Square for much longer and, more than ever, I want to find my French family. Could we really find a way to travel to France in its present state of upheaval? ‘I suppose we could ask Miss Wollstonecraft’s advice on how to go about it,’ I say.

  ‘We must call on her today,’ urges Sophie.

  ‘But, Sophie, if Charles hears what we’re intending, he’ll put a stop to it. You must ask his permission to travel. If you can persuade him to allow you to go, he’ll have no need to come racing after you. If we leave here before your condition becomes apparent we can live quietly in France until the baby is born. And then…’

  ‘And then what?’ asks Sophie.

  ‘You must have the baby adopted.’ She makes a mew of distress and
I grip her hand. ‘If you want to keep Henry at your side, you have no other choice.’ I watch her face crumple. It hurts me to be so brutal but she must face facts.

  ‘So the price of my adultery is that I must choose between my children?’

  I don’t answer. Nothing I can say will change that cruel truth. ‘Let’s ask Charles now,’ I say.

  ‘Will you do it?’ Sophie’s face is full of fear.

  Five minutes later I knock on the door of Charles Levesque’s study. Sophie grips my hand as I ask his permission for her to undertake the journey.

  Charles shakes his head so that all his chins wobble and glares at Sophie. ‘Go if you want to, Madam, but you’re not taking my son.’

  ‘Oh, but…’

  ‘Henry stays in his nursery. I’m not having him dragged about all over the place and at risk of contracting some foreign disease. The continent is full of vermin and dangerous fevers.’ He glances at the clock. ‘You’ve delayed me. I doubt I’ll return for dinner tonight.’

  After he has gone, Sophie weeps on my shoulder. ‘I’ve no choice but to leave Henry behind, have I?’

  ‘Not if you want to see him again,’ I say.

  A week later, Sophie and I are in my cell at Soho Square, poring over the packing list suggested by our travelling friends. We’re arguing over the necessity for a rhubarb grater and two pairs of leather sheets when the maid comes to tell us that a gentleman has called to see us. Hurrying down to the drawing room, I’m surprised and secretly rather pleased to find Mr d’Aubery.

  ‘Forgive me for calling on you unexpectedly,’ he says, ‘but I’ve heard a disturbing rumour.’

  ‘Whatever can that be?’ I ask. Mr d’Aubery is looking very handsome today in a chocolate brown velvet coat, a colour that matches his eyes.

  ‘Lady Georgiana tells me that you plan to visit France.’

  ‘I intend to seek out my father’s family,’ I say.

  ‘And I shall accompany Madeleine,’ says Sophie.

  ‘I cannot permit this extremely foolhardy course of action.’

  The smile fades from my face. ‘I beg your pardon? By what authority do you forbid us?’

  ‘Miss Moreau, France is in turmoil.’ He speaks slowly as if we are dimwits. ‘There are riots in the streets. Strangers are regarded with suspicion. And for two young Englishwomen…’

  ‘We both speak the language fluently,’ says Sophie. ‘We have French names and there is no reason for anyone to suspect we are not citizens of the Republic.’

  ‘I beg to differ, Madame Levesque,’ says Mr d’Aubery. ‘Your spoken French has a Huguenot accent. And yours, Miss Moreau, although you are fluent… there are times when you use an outmoded vocabulary. It may be enough to draw attention to you.’

  Stung by his accusation, I say, ‘I converse regularly with the French community here in London and no one has ever mentioned that before.’

  Mr d’Aubery shrugs. ‘Do you have the necessary travel papers, proving that you are French citizens?’

  I glance at Sophie. We hadn’t thought of that. I tell him, ‘It has become impossible for me to remain at the Academy any longer now that my parents are dead, and I have no remaining family in this country. I understand from the Marquis de Roussell that my father was the son of the Duc de Limours and that I have an uncle. Surely you can understand now why I must go to France?’

  ‘De Roussell told you that?’

  ‘He recognised my father’s ring. As I believe did you.’

  Mr d’Aubery looks at me impassively.

  ‘Didn’t you?’ I insist.

  ‘Your father had no wish to discuss the matter.’

  ‘Nevertheless, I intend to visit Fontainebleau and meet the only family I have left.’

  ‘This is not the time for such a visit. I implore you to reconsider.’

  I lift my chin and fold my arms.

  ‘Who travels with you?’

  ‘We have no need of a great retinue of servants,’ I say, forestalling him before he can argue the point. ‘We shall not seek out any trouble,’ I say. ‘My intention is only to carry out my lifelong desire to meet my relatives and to for us to broaden our education by travel.’

  ‘I beg you to desist.’

  ‘Our minds are quite made up,’ I said firmly.

  He rubs his hands wearily over his face. ‘If you are so determined,’ he says after a long pause, ‘and since I expect to return to France in the next fortnight, then I had better accompany you as far as Paris. I would never forgive myself if I discovered that your obstinacy had led you into difficulties.’

  A great sense of relief washes over me. Despite my brave words it had occurred to me that this was not the best time to be travelling to France, but Sophie has no choice. Now we shall not have to make the journey into the unknown by ourselves.

  Sophie lets out a cry of delight. ‘Mr d’Aubery, that is the very thing! Think how merry we shall be all together.’

  Mr d’Aubery sighs. ‘I suggest I arrange false identity papers for you both and we shall all travel from Dover on the same packet.’

  Chapter 7

  Mr d’Aubery comes for me at first light one raw January morning.

  I have slept poorly, worrying about the wisdom of venturing into a strange land in the company of a man who is reputed to have murdered his wife. Eventually, however, I decided that nothing in his demeanour leads me to believe he is likely to murder us. Besides, Sophie’s plight permits no delay.

  ‘I’ll ask you once more,’ says Mr d’Aubery, ‘are you quite sure you wish to make this journey?’

  The severity of his expression causes me another pang of doubt but I’ll not back down now. ‘I am.’

  ‘At least you have followed my instructions regarding your luggage,’ he says, lifting my single travelling bag into his carriage.

  He’d warned us to bring nothing more than we can carry ourselves and to wear sombre clothes in the new French peasant fashion so as not to draw unwelcome attention. Sophie had argued but Mr d’Aubery had been so fierce in reminding her that the revolutionaries might otherwise believe us to be aristocrats and set upon us, that she had quietened her complaints.

  ‘You must take off your father’s ring, Miss Moreau,’ says Mr d’Aubery. ‘The crest may be recognised.’

  Obediently, I slip the ring from my finger. I shall thread it on to a ribbon and wear it around my neck under my fichu.

  A moment later we are rolling out of Soho Square.

  I peer out of the rear window of the carriage at the house that has been my home for most of my life until it is lost from my view. Blinking back tears, I wonder if I have made a terrible mistake. But then I remember the look of relief in Mrs Jephcott’s eyes as she’d glanced at her husband when I’d said my goodbyes the previous night and know that I cannot go back.

  Before long we draw to a halt outside the Levesque house, where Sophie is waiting for us. There is no sign of Charles but Henry and his nursemaid come to see us off. After five minutes I have to remind Sophie that we’ll miss our boat if she doesn’t disentangle herself from her son’s little arms.

  Tearfully, she waves her handkerchief as we drive away and our last glimpse of him is when Betty lifts him up and takes him inside.

  ‘Oh, Maddy, what have I done?’ weeps Sophie, sinking back against the velvet cushions.

  We travel all day, stopping only to change horses and eat a hasty supper at an inn. Sophie is pale and silent and at one point we stop the carriage as nausea threatens to overwhelm her. At last, we arrive at Dover.

  I cannot help but be relieved that Mr d’Aubery is familiar with the harbour. It’s dark already and we descend from the carriage and wait, shivering, on the bustling quayside while he takes the carriage to the stables.

  Once on board the packet, our cramped, windowless cabin smells of salt and tar but we are so tired we can do no more than undress and fall into the bunks. We expect to set sail on the dawn tide.

  Late the following morning Sophie and I
stumble up on deck. The sea is still high but the packet edges closer to the shore as a flotilla of rowing boats comes to greet us.

  ‘The tide is too low to risk sailing into the harbour,’ explains Mr d’Aubery.

  I look over the rail at the churning sea so far below, to where a boat awaits us. I’ve always been frightened of heights and the boat looks very small. ‘But how will we…’

  ‘There is a ladder.’

  ‘I can’t!’ Sophie says, horrified.

  ‘You must,’ he says.

  ‘No!’

  I grip Sophie’s arm and give her a shake. ‘Will you return to England then?’ Her face crumples and she shakes her head. ‘Mr d’Aubery will go down first,’ I say, ‘then I’ll help you.’

  Trembling from head to toe, she allows us to set her feet upon the flimsy rope ladder.

  ‘Close your eyes and keep moving,’ I say, smiling encouragingly at her, although my own heart is knocking fit to burst.

  Sophie screws her eyes shut and lowers herself, step by step, down the ladder.

  A sailor helps me over the side and I have to resist the urge to cling, whimpering, to the deck but I follow my own advice, close my eyes and set off.

  Once our baggage has been lowered, the boatman starts to pull on the oars. Even if our clothes weren’t already miserably damp, we would soon have been soaked by the persistent drizzle and the salt spray.

  Eventually, to my great relief, the boat battles into harbour and jolts against the quayside. Chilled to the bone, I set foot for the first time in my father’s homeland.

  The stench of Paris assails our nostrils as soon as we reach the outskirts in the public coach, a thick mixture of coal smoke, excrement and rotting vegetation. The air carries something indefinably different from the smell of London… garlic and tobacco and strong cheese, perhaps. All this had once been a part of Papa’s life.

  Three days of travelling in a draughty diligence and two nights in damp sheets infested with bedbugs have left both Sophie and myself scratching and sneezing. Our noses are streaming, my hair is a bird’s nest, and I would give half the gold coins sewn into the hem of my petticoat to be able to lie in a clean bed in a darkened room.