Monsieur d’Aubery frowns. ‘I’m sorry to hear that. I shall visit his widow tomorrow.’
The two men continue to discuss estate business and I take the opportunity to study my surroundings discreetly. An elegant double staircase curves up to the first floor, past walls lined with ancestral portraits. Gilded console tables and mirrors enhance the impression of opulence. As the heat begins to thaw my fingers, I glance at Sophie to see if she is as overwhelmed as I am by the grandeur all around but she stares into the flames, looking half-dead with exhaustion.
Footsteps tap across the marble floor and a handsome woman dressed in black approaches.
Monsieur d’Aubery acknowledges her with a nod. ‘Madame Viard.’
‘Welcome home, sir.’ She glances at Sophie and me. ‘All is ready for your guests.’ She has an hourglass figure and the frilled lace cap she wears doesn’t entirely conceal thick black hair with a single white streak at the front.
‘I apologise, Mademoiselle Moreau, but I have estate matters to attend to,’ says Monsieur d’Aubery.
‘Please do not trouble yourself on our account,’ I say.
‘Madame Viard will show you to your rooms now and I shall see you at breakfast.’ Monsieur d’Aubery bows. ‘Please make use of the salon and the library, if you wish.’
We follow the housekeeper up the wide staircase while I wonder about her name. She is of mature years yet doesn’t appear to be old enough to be Jean-Luc’s mother, but surely she’s too old to be his wife? Puzzled, I study her curvaceous figure as she walks in front of us. His elder sister, perhaps?
Upstairs, she opens the doors to our rooms. ‘I believe you will find everything you require,’ she says.
After she has left, I sit on Sophie’s bed and bounce up and down to test the mattress. The richly embroidered bedcover is faded but the carpet is thick and the silk wall hangings delicately painted.
Sophie sinks down on to a velvet chair and peels off her gloves. ‘I’m going to lie down.’
‘Let me draw the curtains then.’ I move to the window and pause as I look outside. ‘Sophie, come and see this!’
Our rooms are at the back, facing out over the gardens and parkland. Rooks circle in the air, calling mournfully to each other. To one side is a wooded copse but what immediately draws my attention is a large lake. Ice-covered, it sparkles in the sunshine and I see that there is an island in the centre, on which are the ruins of what appears to be a Greek temple.
‘Very pretty,’ says Sophie listlessly.
On the far side of the lake is an elegant stone building with shuttered windows, which looks like a perfectly proportioned doll’s house.
I close the drapes, help Sophie to remove her outer clothing and settle her into bed. She curls up on her side without another word.
‘I’ll come and see you later,’ I say.
She murmurs something I cannot hear and I leave her.
In my own room I sit on the window seat, reading and occasionally looking out over the silvery lake and the backdrop of distant snowy hills. A few months ago I could never have imagined that I would be a guest of a man I hardly know in a château in France, soon to meet relatives I hadn’t realised existed. I have always wanted to find Papa’s family but I would trade the opportunity in an instant to be at home again in Soho Square with Mama and Papa beside me.
The following morning I persuade Sophie to come downstairs for breakfast and we find Monsieur d’Aubery waiting for us in the dining room. Sunshine streams through the window and I can smell the aroma of coffee and fresh bread.
‘Good morning,’ he says. ‘Did you sleep well?’
‘Indeed I did,’ I say. ‘At least, until the cock crowed at first light.’ I note that he’s dressed in tight-fitting riding breeches that show off his lithe form to perfection.
He smiles. ‘I love the peace and fresh air here after I have been in Paris or London.’
I pour coffee from a heavy silver pot and pass a cup to Sophie. She wrinkles her nose and shakes her head. ‘Are you going out riding, Monsieur d’Aubery?’ I ask.
‘I must visit my tenants and ride around the boundaries of the estate.’
‘It’s a beautiful day.’ I glance wistfully out of the window at the snowy gardens.
‘Then why don’t you both come with me?’
‘Oh, no, I couldn’t,’ says Sophie, crumbling a morsel of bread.
‘I should love to,’ I say, ‘but unfortunately I have no riding habit or boots.’
‘My sister left behind a wardrobe of clothes when she went to live in America,’ says Monsieur d’Aubery. ‘Madame Viard will find a suitable outfit for you.’
Fifteen minutes later she has laid out a green velvet riding habit on my bed and I hasten to try it on. The jacket is close-fitting and there’s a matching skirt with black braid to the hem. Since I’m taller than most women the skirt is a little short on me.
‘The colour suits you,’ says Sophie, as I button the jacket. ‘But won’t you be cold?’
‘The sun is shining and I have gloves and my wool scarf,’ I say, pulling on the black riding boots. ‘These are too small but I shan’t be walking far in them. Come down to the stables and see me off, will you, Sophie?’
She sighs. ‘I suppose so.’
I suppress a sigh of irritation and wish she would make more effort.
Monsieur d’Aubery is pacing up and down in the hall, clearly impatient to start the business of the day.
The air outside is crisp and cold. The stables are set to one side of the château, next to a walled vegetable garden and pig stys. White chickens strut through the stable yard where several horses look out from their boxes. A tabby cat is washing itself on the yard wall and looks up enquiringly as we approach.
Monsieur d’Aubery strokes the muzzle of a big black horse, murmuring endearments as he opens the stable door.
‘Isn’t he beautiful!’ I say as the powerful creature steps delicately into the snowy yard, his black coat gleaming in the sun.
‘This is Diable,’ says Monsieur d’Aubery. ‘And I must warn you to keep your distance. He has an unpredictable temper.’
‘He looks gentle enough,’ says Sophie.
‘He’s well-mannered with me,’ says Monsieur d’Aubery, ‘but it took some time to teach him his manners.’ Gently, he fondles Diable’s ears and then takes a carrot from his pocket and holds it out to him on the flat of his palm. ‘He once had a habit of bolting and throwing his rider, but he knows who is his master now.’
The groom, Colbert, opens another of the boxes and leads out a pretty chestnut mare.
‘This is Minette,’ says Monsieur d’Aubery. ‘You need not worry about her temper as she is the most biddable creature imaginable.’
Certainly from the limpid look that Minette gives me I have nothing to fear.
The stable boy helps me to mount and Sophie, shoulders drooping, returns inside. I sigh. Her unhappiness taints my enjoyment of the day.
Leaving the stables behind us, we progress along the bridleway running around the perimeter of the park. There is a bitter wind but the sun is on my face, the air is pure and clean, and I’m filled with a sudden sense of well-being. I’ll try and talk Sophie out of her low spirits later, I decide.
‘When we’re out here,’ I say, ‘where it’s so peaceful, it seems unimaginable that this is a country at war, doesn’t it?’
Monsieur d’Aubery’s expression is sad. ‘My childhood was so free and safe but I wonder now if life will ever be the same again. Even here, where everything looks the same as it always did, there are unhappy undercurrents.’
We trot through a gateway and on to a lane between fields that gradually rise to form a backdrop of low hills.
Monsieur d’Aubery points to one of the slopes and the low stone building at its base. ‘There’s my vineyard,’ he says, ‘and that’s the chai, where we store the wine. We’ve extended the vineyard in the last couple of years. You shall try some of the Chateau Mirabelle 1789 toni
ght.’
‘The year the Revolution began. A year to remember,’ I say.
A flock of sheep cluster together in one corner of another field and Monsieur d’Aubery leans down from his saddle to unhook the rope that secures the gate.
‘Fox prints,’ he says, nodding his head at tracks in the snow. ‘I must warn the shepherd or the new lambs will be lost before they’ve barely seen the light of day.’
A wide river flows along the side of the field, its reedy banks crusted with ice and snow. We close the gate behind us and walk the horses along a lane bounded by an avenue of elms. Despite the bright sunshine, my fingers are numb with cold and I’m sure the tip of my nose is glowing. Minette is warm beneath me and the smell of horseflesh and well-worn leather is peculiarly comforting. At the end of the lane we enter a copse and continue in single file. I duck several times to avoid the leafless branches knocking my hat awry. In the distance is the sound of children’s voices.
As we emerge from the copse the scent of wood smoke drifts towards us and soon we see a village nestling into a little valley. It is a collection of neat houses with thatched roofs clustered around a frozen duck pond. Children are screaming in delight as they slip and slide across the surface, pushing and pulling at each other.
‘I remember having fun on the ice with Jean-Luc and my brother Laurent when I was a boy,’ says Monsieur d’Aubery, smiling at the memory.
It’s pleasing to see him so at ease. ‘So you have known Monsieur Viard for a long time?’
‘All my life. He’s a few months older than I and he shared our tutor. We grew up together so he is almost like a brother to me.’
So that explains Jean-Luc’s familiarity towards Monsieur d’Aubery. ‘And Madame Viard?’ I ask.
‘Jean-Luc’s mother.’
I cannot conceal my surprise. ‘She doesn’t look old enough.’
‘I believe she was only sixteen when he was born. Her husband Marcel works in the vineyard.’
A slight curl of Monsieur d’Aubery’s lip as he speaks leads me to wonder if he doesn’t care much for his friend’s father.
‘Most of the estate workers live here,’ he continues. ‘I must visit the Gerard family. Poor Antoine, a carpenter, has died of a seizure and leaves a widow and children.’
‘May I come with you?’
He looks at me in surprise. ‘If you won’t find it distressing?’
‘I know what it’s like to lose loved ones.’ My heart constricts momentarily with a pang of grief. Perhaps I’ll be able to ease the meeting for the grieving widow. Her tenuous position must be making her extremely apprehensive and I imagine Monsieur d’Aubery’s severe manner will only increase her anxiety.
He loops the horse’s reins over a gatepost and knocks on the door of one of the cottages. A small boy opens it. Wide-eyed, he steps back to allow us to enter.
The plain little room has a freshly swept floor and cooking dishes and bowls neatly arranged on shelves. Washing, mostly children’s clothes as far as I can see, is drying on a clothes horse before a meagre fire. Small children are squabbling amicably over a pile of bricks on the floor, while two older girls peel potatoes at the table.
Their mother is nursing her baby. She blushes and the child is pulled from her breast and propped up against her shoulder as she hastily adjusts her clothing and bobs a curtsey.
‘Please, we have no wish to disturb you,’ I say.
‘My dear Madame Gerard,’ says Monsieur d’Aubery. ‘I returned from Paris to hear the sad news of your husband’s passing and came to offer my condolences.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ she says with quiet dignity. Her bottom lip quivers. Her eyes look frightened.
‘I wanted to reassure you straight away that you are welcome to remain in your cottage.’
‘Oh, sir!’ She bursts into noisy sobs and the baby on her shoulder begins to wail too. ‘I’ve been so worried.’
Hastily, I proffer my handkerchief and she dabs at her eyes. I’m surprised and relieved that Monsieur d’Aubery is so sensitive in his dealings with the poor widow. He has a more gentle side to his nature than I had supposed.
The door bursts open and a gangly youth of about fifteen drags in a sledge piled with firewood.
‘Mama, look…’ He stops short as he notices the visitors.
‘Good morning, young man! Victor, isn’t it?’ says Mr d’Aubery.
The boy says nothing, pulling his too-short sleeves down over his thin wrists until his sister pinches his arm. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘I’m pleased to see that you are a help to your mother.’ Mr d’Aubery puts his hand in his pocket and pulls out a small bag, which he places on the table. ‘This should see you through the rest of the winter, Madame Gerard. There will be no rent to pay at present, but once your baby is weaned call on Madame Viard. She will find work for you.’
We leave the cottage with the clamour of thanks in our ears and Monsieur d’Aubery hands a coin to the boy minding our horses.
‘That was very well done,’ I say as we ride away. I’ve warmed to Monsieur d’Aubery; it seems that despite his severe manner, he has a kind heart.
Two hours later we have made a circuit of the whole estate and trot back towards the stables. My hands and feet are frozen and I’m looking forward to warming myself by the fire.
‘I’m impressed by how well cared for everything is,’ I say as we dismount.
‘I’m determined to look after the estate and my tenants as well as my father did,’ says Monsieur d’Aubery.
‘You were young to inherit.’
‘It wasn’t until Laurent died that I realised that one day it would be my responsibility. Even then, I expected my father to grow old first,’ he says, his expression sober. ‘But, for me, tradition is everything and I hope with all my heart that one day I shall be able to hand on the estate to my son,’
We ride back in silence. When I glance at the bleak set of his face, I dare not disturb him with idle chatter. I reflect that there is a great deal more to Monsieur d’Aubery than I had imagined.
Chapter 11
I’m worried about Sophie who has remained in bed for several days, growing increasingly morose and rejecting all my attempts to improve her spirits.
She glances up at me from the pillows, her eyes puffy again from weeping. ‘You’re not a mother and cannot possibly imagine how much I miss Henry,’ she says, plucking at the embroidered rosebuds on her nightgown.
I curb my irritation. We have talked of nothing else all morning. ‘I do see how miserable it’s made you to have left him behind,’ I say in calm tones. ‘But in the long term your decision to come to France is in his best interests.’
‘I know what you think,’ continues Sophie, ‘that I’ve made my bed and now I must lie in it.’
That, of course, is exactly what I do think but it wouldn’t be helpful to say it.
‘Will Henry even remember me when I return? Meanwhile, Charles is free to set up his mistress in a fine house and to beat me when he’s out of humour. Because I made one mistake, I stand to lose everything and society condones it! It isn’t fair!’ my friend exclaims.
‘I agree,’ I say, ‘but for women it was ever thus.’
Sophie glares at me. ‘Have you any other platitudes to offer, Madeleine?’
‘You know you are as dear to me as a sister. I hate to see you so unhappy but you have no other choice now, if only for Henry’s sake.’
‘I thought you were my friend?’ Her lips thin to a line and she looks at me as if she hates me.
My annoyance boils over. ‘I’m trying to help you, Sophie, but your ever-lasting self-pity makes it impossible.’ My voice rises in anger.
‘Then why don’t you just go away and leave me alone?’
My patience snaps. ‘Stew in your own juice then!’
In my own room I pace up and down, quite unable to settle. I haven’t argued with Sophie for years, not since we’d had a childish squabble over whose turn it was to play with a rag doll.
All at once I’m overwhelmed with loneliness, a horrid, empty feeling that aches under my breastbone. My parents are dead and I’ve quarrelled with my best friend. I’m staying in the house of a man I hardly know, who is reluctantly providing us with shelter from dangerous revolutionaries, and I can’t go home, wherever that is now.
I curl up on the window seat and stare outside. There’s no sun today, only a heavy mist that hangs over everything like a damp sheet. Rooks circle above the trees, their harsh cries audible even though the window is closed. The snow is beginning to thaw, leaving the gardens in an untidy patchwork of green and white. Irritated and unhappy, I decide to take a brisk walk to burn off my agitation.
Buttoning up my coat, I let myself out of the front door. The icicles suspended from the fountain are melting and dripping on to the frozen pool below. The stone horse’s teeth are bared in a rictus of terror as it rears up from the mythical sea creatures insinuating themselves around its legs. Shivering in the damp air, I set off along the path to the knot garden.
Mist clings to everything, forming diamond droplets of moisture. There’s a bench at the furthest reach of the knot garden and I dry the seat with my handkerchief and sit down to look back at the château, wreathed in ghostly fog. The damp is making my hair curl and my shoes are soaked but at least the fresh air has shaken me out of my bad temper.
A movement at the edge of my vision makes me turn and I watch as a great black horse bolts from the back of the château. Diable. Mr d’Aubery’s black riding cape billows out behind him in the swirling mist as the horse races hell for leather towards the copse of trees on my left. A moment later they’re gone. I wonder where he’s off to in such a hurry, or is he, perhaps, simply enjoying the exhilaration of the moment? He intrigues me and I’m curious to discover more about him.
‘Mademoiselle Moreau!’
Jean-Luc Viard strides towards me through the vaporous air and waves when I smile at him.
‘Good morning,’ I say.
The bench judders as he sits down beside me and stretches one arm along the backrest. His cheeks are glowing from the cold and he exudes a sense of male strength. It’s impossible not to give him a wide smile.
The Chateau on the Lake Page 9