The Chateau on the Lake

by Charlotte Betts

  The footman opens double doors into a vast drawing room and announces us.

  A middle-aged man and an elderly woman sitting on a sofa by the fire at the other end of the room are dwarfed by their surroundings. My mouth is dry with anxiety as I see these members of my family for the very first time.

  Monsieur d’Aubery escorts Sophie and me, offering us each the support of his arm, and we make sedate progress across the sea of sumptuously thick carpet, finally coming to rest six feet in front of the sofa. Monsieur d’Aubery bows and Sophie and I drop curtseys. I feel as if I am being presented to royalty and wonder if my rapid heartbeat is audible. I force a wavering smile, trying to catch my grandmother’s eye.

  Slowly, the man I assume to be my Uncle Auguste rises to his feet. He is younger than I expected, perhaps eight or ten years younger than Papa. His richly embroidered waistcoat is stretched across an ample stomach and he wears a heavily powdered wig. There is something about his aquiline nose that reminds me of Papa.

  He ignores Sophie and myself and speaks directly to Monsieur d’Aubery. ‘I remember you,’ he says. ‘What is the purpose of your visit, d’Aubery?’ I’m dismayed to find that his voice is as cold and distant as the meagre fire burning in the hearth. ‘I’ve heard of your exploits in escorting lily-livered nobles out of France. I do hope you haven’t come to persuade me to leave the country?’ He presses one plump white hand to his breast and smirks.

  ‘You may be certain that I have not,’ says Monsieur d’Aubery.

  I take an instant dislike to Uncle Auguste and a chasm of bitter disappointment opens up inside my heart.

  ‘It’s nonsense to run away,’ says Uncle Auguste. ‘The peasants simply need a firm hand to confine them to the gutter. Keep their wages low and they will work hard.’ His lip curls. ‘Equality, indeed!’

  ‘In the current climate I can only warn you that there are very real dangers for you in inflaming the passions of the bourgeoisie and the peasants,’ says Monsieur d’Aubery. ‘But that is not why I am here today. As your manservant will have explained, I have accompanied your niece, Mademoiselle Moreau…’

  ‘I have no niece.’

  ‘You may not have been aware of her existence before now but, I assure you, she exists. Allow me to present her to you.’

  ‘You have been taken in by an imposter, d’Aubery.’

  I step forward, my cheeks burning with sudden fury at the insult. ‘I assure you, I am no imposter. I am Madeleine Moreau, daughter of Philippe Moreau. And I believe you to be my father’s brother, Auguste.’

  He looks down the length of his nose at me as if I am something unpleasant deposited at his feet. ‘Indeed?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say firmly. ‘Delighted to make your acquaintance.’ Next I face the elderly lady dressed in black. ‘And am I correct in believing you to be my father’s mother? My grandmother?’ I smile hopefully.

  She glances at my uncle. ‘I have only one son and he stands beside me.’

  I gasp as if she has slapped me. ‘Surely you do not deny the existence of your son Philippe?’

  ‘Philippe has been dead to me for many years.’ Her voice is as cold and as sharp as crystals of ice.

  ‘How can a mother…’

  Auguste Moreau surges towards me then. ‘Imposter!’

  I take a step back, crushed to find that this meeting I have anticipated nearly all my life is going so badly.

  Monsieur d’Aubery steps between us.

  ‘You will leave immediately!’ My uncle’s voice echoes shrilly through the glacial chamber. ‘How dare you come here, claiming to belong to this family?’

  ‘I do belong to this family,’ I say, reaching desperately into the neckline of my dress and pulling out Papa’s ring, threaded on a silk ribbon. ‘Here’s my proof. The Moreau ring.’ I must make him believe me.

  Moreau’s eyes bulge and he pushes Monsieur d’Aubery out of the way and snatches the ring.

  I gasp in shock as my head jerks forward and the ribbon chafes my neck. I feel his breath on my cheek and quake before the animosity in his eyes. Whatever I expected, it wasn’t violence.

  ‘Who did you steal this from?’ he whispers, staring at the engraved crest.

  ‘Apologise at once to the lady,’ thunders Monsieur d’Aubery.

  ‘This ring is mine,’ I say, pulling it free from Uncle Auguste’s grasping fingers.

  His face is scarlet with rage and, despite the chill in the room, sweat beads his forehead. ‘You’re lying! You’ve come here with the intention of making a claim on my estate.’

  ‘I did not! I didn’t even know of your existence until a few weeks ago. Since both my parents are recently dead…’

  Grandmother Moreau gasps and presses one hand to her mouth.

  Uncle Auguste becomes very still, his gaze penetrating. ‘Philippe is dead? Are you sure?’

  ‘Of course I’m sure.’

  ‘Have you any brothers?’

  I shake my head. The smile on my uncle’s face makes me feel sick.

  ‘Thank God,’ he says, wiping one palm over his sweating face. ‘So you have no rights.’

  Grandmother Moreau stirs in her seat and looks at me directly for the first time. ‘Why have you come here to stir up old sorrows?’

  I catch my breath. My grandmother’s eyes are violet, the same colour as the eyes that look back at me from the mirror every day.

  ‘Well?’ barks Uncle Auguste.

  ‘I had hoped you might welcome me as a member of your family,’ I reply. The mere idea of this now seems ridiculous. All I want is to leave Château de Lys and never again see these two unpleasant specimens of humanity. And I want to leave before I break down and cry.

  ‘There is nothing for you here,’ says my father’s mother. Her voice is full of pain.

  ‘I can see that,’ I say, voice icy. ‘We’ll not take up any more of your time.’

  ‘Not so fast,’ says Uncle Auguste. ‘I want the Moreau ring. It’s mine by right.’

  I tuck it safely away again. ‘On the contrary. It’s mine and you shall never have it.’

  The fury and hatred on Uncle Auguste’s face are truly terrifying. I flinch as he launches himself at me, tearing at my fichu and scrabbling for the ring between my breasts. I panic, fighting off his hands, suddenly reliving Dick’s assault in Vauxhall Gardens.

  Sophie screams and Monsieur d’Aubery roars with anger as he drags my uncle away.

  The doors open and the footman bursts in.

  Monsieur d’Aubery has Uncle Auguste by the throat. ‘Stop there,’ he shouts to the footman, ‘if you don’t want to see the your master throttled!’

  The footman skids to a halt.

  Monsieur d’Aubery thrusts his face close to his prisoner’s. ‘Apologise to Mademoiselle Moreau!’

  I’m astonished to see that Monsieur d’Aubery’s aloof manner has entirely deserted him as he comes passionately to my defence.

  Uncle Auguste whimpers.

  ‘Careful! You’re squeezing his throat too hard!’ warns Sophie.

  Monsieur d’Aubery makes a visible effort and loosens his grip. ‘Apologise! Now!’

  Uncle Auguste’s face is pale green and he glances at me briefly before muttering, ‘I apologise,’ towards his feet.

  I notice the footman’s hastily suppressed grin.

  Monsieur d’Aubery pushes Uncle Auguste away and wipes his hands disdainfully on his breeches. ‘Shall we go?’ he says to Sophie and me.

  ‘Get them out of here!’ shouts Uncle Auguste to the footman.

  I’m trembling with distress and outrage as I glance at Grandmother Moreau, hoping to appeal to her better nature.

  She’s staring at her folded hands in her lap but, as if she feels the intensity of my gaze, she glances up. I see a flicker of something in her violet eyes, regret or fear perhaps; I’m not sure.

  ‘I said, get them out!’ bellows Uncle Auguste.

  Monsieur d’Aubery briefly touches his finger to my cheek. ‘Are you all right?’ h
e whispers.

  I nod and cling tightly to his arm as he leads us away.

  Sophie catches her breath on a whimper as half a dozen male servants hurry into the room and closely surround us.

  ‘What makes you think I’ll allow you to leave, Etienne?’ calls Uncle Auguste from the other end of the room. He laughs. ‘Perhaps I should lock you in the dungeon again?’

  All at once I’m very afraid.

  Monsieur d’Aubery stops walking. He elbows aside one of the manservants and turns to face Uncle Auguste. ‘You were an unpleasant youth and maturity hasn’t improved you.’ His voice is full of disgust. ‘You still hide behind the power your wealth bestows on you and prey on those weaker than yourself.’

  ‘So you remember the dungeon, then?’ Uncle Auguste smirks. ‘I remember how you snivelled. And how I laughed!’

  ‘A great deal of water has passed under the bridge since then, Moreau,’ says Monsieur d’Aubery. ‘A word of warning, though. Be careful. Be very careful. If you continue in this vein, you will regret it.’

  Uncle Auguste takes an involuntary step backwards at the implied threat.

  Monsieur d’Aubery takes my arm again. We continue the long, slow walk out of the drawing room. My knees tremble and the back of my neck prickles as if Uncle Auguste’s hot gaze is burning into me. If Monsieur d’Aubery weren’t gripping my arm so tightly, I would lose my nerve and run.

  At last the door closes behind us and I breathe more easily out of my uncle’s presence. We walk through the château, surrounded by servants, and all the while my back is rigid. I wonder if my uncle is irate enough to have us apprehended. At last we reach the front door and our guard accompanies us in threatening silence down the steps to the carriage.

  It isn’t until we have departed through the eagle gateposts that the tension in my muscles begins to ease. Tears roll down my cheeks. All my dreams of meeting my family are shattered and I feel ashamed to share the same blood as Uncle Auguste. A yawning emptiness opens up in my soul. Sophie’s hand creeps into mine and I clutch at it gratefully.

  When I have composed myself, I study Monsieur d’Aubery’s profile as he stares out of the window. In the miserable time since my parents’ deaths, no one has really cared what happened to me but today Monsieur d’Aubery leapt to my defence, with no thought at all for his own safety, purely to protect me. Ever since we left London he has gone to great lengths to shelter Sophie and me from the consequences of our reckless actions. Perhaps he feels my scrutiny because he turns to look at me.

  ‘I apologise for subjecting you to such a disagreeable scene,’ I say, ‘and I am more grateful to you than you know for defending me. If you hadn’t fought off that madman, I dread to imagine what might have happened.’

  ‘I feared such a reception,’ he replies, and I’m surprised to see compassion in his eyes. ‘But it would have been wrong of me to forbid you to meet your uncle and grandmother, however unwise I believed it to be.’

  ‘What did that unpleasant creature mean by asking you if you remembered the dungeon?’ I ask.

  Slowly, he drags his gaze away from the window. ‘I was six years old when I first met Auguste Moreau,’ he says. ‘My father and I were very close and I often used to accompany him on visits to tenants and neighbours. When he visited Château de Lys on business one day, I went with him. I was left to amuse myself in the gardens, and it was there that I met Auguste. He was about thirteen years old.’ A rueful smile passes over Monsieur d’Aubery’s lips. ‘I remember being fascinated by his face, which was covered in pimples.’

  ‘What happened?’ I ask.

  ‘He offered to take me on a tour of his home. We walked for miles along the corridors, looking into the maids’ bedrooms which seemed to be of special interest to him. In the kitchens he stole cake from the pantry and then he took me through the storerooms, down to the cellars. He showed me the dungeon, a miserably dark and damp cell with only a barred window slit.’

  I shudder. ‘I saw one like that from the outside,’ I say.

  Monsieur d’Aubery nods. ‘Auguste showed me that the moat was only a few inches below the window and told me how his ancestors used to imprison their enemies there. “When they opened the sluice gates the moat rose and filled the dungeon with water,” he said. “The prisoners drowned.” Then he rushed past me and slammed the gate shut behind him.’

  I gasp in horror.

  Monsieur d’Aubery swallows. ‘He laughed at me. “I’m going to open the sluices,” he said, and left me alone. I was terrified. I fancied I could hear the screams of drowning prisoners. I beat on the walls and shouted for Papa but he didn’t come.’

  There’s an unexpected vulnerability in his voice. Tears start to my eyes and my heart aches for the small boy he had been. My own experience of being confined in the coal cellar pales into insignificance against his suffering.

  ‘You were barely older than my Henry,’ says Sophie, with a shudder.

  ‘They didn’t find me until dark. I couldn’t speak for a week afterwards.’

  ‘Didn’t you tell your father what Auguste had done?’

  ‘Not until years later. My father mentioned that the Duc de Limours, Louis-François, had died. It seemed that he was to be succeeded by Auguste. It was then that my father mentioned there had been an elder son, Philippe, who’d left the family many years before.’

  ‘Did he say why?’ I’m desperate to find out all I can about Papa.

  ‘Apparently Philippe had intervened when his father violently beat one of the estate workers, nearly killing him. Since the duc was unrepentant and refused to offer restitution to the man or his family, Philippe renounced his position as heir and threatened to leave for ever.’

  ‘Which, of course, he did.’

  ‘Your grandfather,’ says Monsieur d’Aubery, ‘wished to avoid a scandal so he had Philippe locked in the dungeon until he came to his senses. A week later he discovered his son had escaped. Philippe was never heard of in France again.’

  ‘Your papa made the right decision, Madeleine,’ says Sophie. ‘Imagine living with a family like that!’

  ‘We won’t have the opportunity, even if we wanted to,’ I say. Suddenly I’m overcome with melancholy and despair. Coming to France, to find the last part of the jigsaw puzzle about my family, has brought me nothing but misery and now uncertainty as to the future.

  ‘But you can be very proud of your father, Mademoiselle Moreau,’ says Monsieur d’Aubery. His voice is gentle and his expression so full of concern for me that my eyes well up again. ‘He was a man of great principle and forfeited a life of ease to do what he believed to be right.’

  ‘I am proud of him,’ I say. I look out of the carriage window, fighting back the tears, as we pass through the unkempt village of Villeneuve-St-Meurice, so very different from the village near Château Mirabelle.

  We travel in silence, each of us absorbed in our thoughts. If Monsieur d’Aubery had not been with us, Sophie and I would now be in considerable difficulties. I owe him an enormous debt of gratitude. A shiver passes down my back as I imagine the absolute terror of being shut up in the dungeon of Château de Lys.

  Chapter 13

  In the days following our return I’m full of restless malaise. One morning I take a walk before breakfast. The wind is bitingly cold but the skeleton trees are touched silver with frost and the beauty of the scene goes some way towards soothing my unhappiness.

  I walk along the lakeside path until I come to the little boathouse. On the jetty I rest my forearms on the handrail while I study the view and reflect that it would be pleasant to take the boat over to the temple in the summer but, sadly, Sophie and I must be long gone before then.

  As I pass the stables on my return Monsieur d’Aubery is riding Diable into the yard.

  ‘We are both early birds today,’ he says. ‘If you don’t mind me in my riding clothes perhaps we could breakfast together?’

  My spirits lift immediately and I return inside to remove my coat. The cold h
as pinched colour into my cheeks I notice as I tidy my hair before the mirror.

  I’ve already poured the coffee when Monsieur d’Aubery arrives in the dining room. We exchange pleasantries about our morning excursions and I thank him again for escorting us to Château de Lys. ‘I couldn’t sleep last night for mulling over our meeting with the Moreaux,’ I say. The bitter disappointment of it still hurts.

  ‘Best to put that loathsome uncle of yours out of your thoughts,’ he says.

  ‘I should not have liked to be there without your protection,’ I admit, remembering how fearless he had been, ‘and I understand now why you were insistent on accompanying us. I’d very much hoped for a warmer welcome.’

  ‘I’m sorry that your search has brought you nothing but unhappiness.’ His tone is sincere.

  ‘So it’s time to move on,’ I say, with a heavy heart. ‘I wonder if you would advise me how Sophie and I might find a cottage to rent?’

  ‘But is it wise for you to live alone?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  The tips of Monsieur d’Aubery’s ears grow pink. ‘If I’m not mistaken Madame Levesque is expecting a happy event?’

  I remain silent for a moment. ‘How very perspicacious of you, Monsieur d’Aubery.’ It’s too late now to pretend that Sophie isn’t expecting, but since she’s married at least there’s no need to explain that the baby is Jack Fielding’s.

  ‘I have a proposition for you,’ says Monsieur d’Aubery. ‘It is, perhaps, not fitting that you and Madame Levesque should remain at Château Mirabelle but no one would look askance if you rented my grandmother’s old house.’

  My spirits soar. There is no doubt that to be independent, but to remain within a stone’s throw of the only friend we have in France, would give me a great deal of comfort. ‘But we wouldn’t wish to be an embarrassment to you,’ I say. ‘As strangers, while the country is so unstable…’