The Chateau on the Lake

by Charlotte Betts

  ‘We shall invent a connection between our families,’ Monsieur d’Aubery assures me.

  ‘Monsieur Viard has already asked where we come from.’

  Monsieur d’Aubery puts down his coffee cup. ‘What did you tell him?’

  I shrug. ‘Only that we were travelling on our way to visit my relatives. I didn’t know what you might have told him.’

  Monsieur d’Aubery nods in approval. ‘I would trust Jean-Luc to the ends of the earth but he must never know you have come from London. One careless word could put us all at risk.’ He rubs his fingers over his chin while he thinks. ‘The difficulty is that he knows my family so it won’t be possible to pass you off as relatives.’

  ‘He asked why Sophie’s husband isn’t travelling with us. I’m afraid I told him that Charles Levesque is dead.’

  ‘How inventive of you,’ says Monsieur d’Aubery, eyes dancing with sudden amusement. ‘But perhaps we’d better agree on our story?’

  When Monsieur d’Aubery smiles his whole face lights up in the most attractive way and his demeanour is not severe at all. I find myself watching, and liking, the way his well-shaped mouth curves as he speaks.

  We discuss various ideas and finally decide that, if asked, we’ll say that Sophie is the daughter of a childhood friend of Monsieur d’Aubery’s mother, who lives in a village near Lyon.

  ‘And since she is such a recent widow, she needs a complete change of scene because Lyon holds such sad memories for her. That should serve the purpose, don’t you think?’

  Monsieur d’Aubery nods in agreement. ‘It’s as well to say as little as possible. Now, when we have finished our breakfast, shall I take you to see the house?’

  Half an hour later we approach the little house along its gravel drive.

  ‘I have asked Madame Viard to arrange for the shutters to be opened,’ says Monsieur d’Aubery.

  The house has windows to either side of the front door and pale green shutters that are folded back against the creamy stone of the walls. The roof is of slate, like the château’s, and, although not large, the house has elegant proportions. Clipped box trees are placed either side of the porch.

  ‘It’s beautiful,’ I say.

  ‘I used to love visiting my grandmother here when I was a boy. Then it always smelled of lavender polish and gâteau à la vanille.’ He smiles at the memory.

  The front door is ajar and we enter a square, stone-floored hall. The doors are open and I step into the drawing room. A pair of tall windows afford a view of the lake and reflected light floods the room, even though there is no sunshine today.

  Monsieur d’Aubery whisks two of the dustsheets away to reveal a lady’s satinwood writing desk and a daybed upholstered in rose silk. ‘If the furniture is not to your liking, I’m sure we could find other items for you.’

  I stroke the inlaid veneer of the pretty little desk and pull open one of the drawers by its tiny ivory knob. ‘I wouldn’t want to change a thing.’

  Monsieur d’Aubery smiles again. ‘Let me show you the rest.’

  As we walk through the house, despite the chill in the rooms, excitement bubbles in my breast. There is a dining room, also with a lake view, a study and morning room, and the usual kitchen offices at the back. A staircase leads to four bedrooms with attics above. The garden is bounded by stone walls and there’s a small orchard at the end.

  Standing by the window looking at the silvery expanse of the lake, I know that I want to live in this perfect little house so much that it hurts.

  ‘I would be pleased if you and Madame Levesque would rent it,’ says Monsieur d’Aubery. ‘It distresses me to see it empty. I remember it as such a happy place.’

  ‘It is impossible not to love it,’ I say.

  He clears his throat and mentions a rent that seems to be absurdly low. ‘I prefer it to be lived in and kept aired, especially during the winter months. Naturally, for that sum, I would include sufficient wood for the fires and my carriage is at your disposal.’

  ‘You are too kind,’ I say, really meaning it.

  ‘May we shake hands on our agreement?’

  Monsieur d’Aubery’s hand is warm as I clasp it and all at once the miserable disappointment of my meeting with Auguste Moreau seems less sharp. ‘Thank you,’ I say, elated that Sophie and I will live in this charming house.

  As we walk back I reflect that my opinion of Mr d’Aubery has quite changed from the first time I met him. I’m grateful to him for his kindness to Sophie when he found her collapsed in the street and for his fierce defence of me at Château de Lys. I’ve seen how kindly he helped grieving Madame Gerard and her family. Even his anger towards me, born out of fear for my safety after the king’s execution, seems more understandable when I consider the suffering he has endured after the untoward deaths in his own family. He is not always the arrogant man I had believed him to be and his stern expression and sometimes overbearing manner hide a generous heart.

  A few days later we move our scant possessions into the little house and Sophie professes herself as pleased with our new home as I am.

  Madame Viard stands in the hall directing operations as two maids make up the beds with clean linen and give a final polish to the windows. A basket of provisions has been sent from the kitchens and these are now arranged in the larder. Fires burn brightly in every hearth and the slightly musty odour of a house closed up for too long has been replaced by the scent of lavender and beeswax.

  ‘I hope you will find everything to your satisfaction,’ says Madame Viard after she has shooed the maids outside.

  ‘I’m sure we shall,’ I say.

  She looks around the hall, her eyes missing nothing. ‘A pretty house,’ she says. ‘I would be happy to live here myself. Is there anything else you require, Mademoiselle Moreau?’

  ‘There is one thing,’ I say. ‘When is market day?’

  ‘Morville on a Thursday. If you’re wanting a lift Jacques will take you in the cart together with the cook, Madame Thibault.’

  After she has gone, Sophie and I rearrange the chairs in the drawing room so that we have a view of the lake and she sets out her pencils and sketchbook on a table while I examine the books on the shelves beside the writing desk in the study.

  I hear footsteps on the gravel outside and am delighted to see Monsieur d’Aubery approaching the front door. Hastily I glance in the hall mirror and pat my curls into place before opening the door.

  ‘Welcome!’ I say.

  ‘I called to see if you are settled or if there is anything you require?’ He lifts his head and sniffs. ‘Lavender! Grandmother always kept that scent in this house.’

  ‘The furniture is newly polished. Please, come into the drawing room.’

  ‘Good afternoon, Madame Levesque! You’re ready to start a masterpiece, I see,’ he comments as he enters the room.

  Sophie looks up from her sketchpad and gives him a brilliant smile. ‘Hardly a masterpiece but this view of the lake with its little temple is so peaceful that I shall enjoy the labour, whatever the result.’

  ‘Will you stay for tea?’ I ask. ‘We have no maid so I’ll see to it myself.’

  ‘Then I shall come with you to carry the tray.’

  Laughingly, I protest but secretly I’m pleased when he insists.

  The coals are glowing in the kitchen range and before very long the kettle is singing and the cups are set out on a tray. It amuses me to see a former comte filling up the sugar bowl and pouring boiling water on to the tea leaves. We return to the drawing room and make toast by the fire.

  ‘Perhaps next time you come to call I shall be able to offer you gâteau à la vanille,’ I say.

  ‘I can see I will have to pass by at four o’clock every day,’ says Monsieur d’Aubery with a smile. ‘I was also going to tell you that…’

  There is a loud rat-a-tat on the door and I hurry to open it.

  Monsieur Viard stands on the step. ‘Maman told me you were both safely ensconced in your new home. I wa
s passing and couldn’t help glancing in at the window and seeing you all so snug around the fireside.’

  I hold the door wide open in welcome.

  Monsieur Viard beams and follows me into the drawing room, where he looks far too large to fit its neat proportions. ‘Madame Levesque… Etienne.’ He bows. ‘I hope you will forgive the intrusion?’

  ‘You’re very welcome,’ says Sophie. ‘I’ll fetch another cup and we shall make you hot buttered toast.’

  Monsieur Viard holds his hands out to the fire. ‘Well, this is very agreeable!’

  It pleases me to have the company of two such personable men. Both of them are fine-looking; Monsieur d’Aubery leaner, darker and more intense than Monsieur Viard, who always has a ready smile to bestow. Sunshine and shadow, I think to myself, both pleasing in their different ways.

  ‘Jean-Luc, when you arrived I was about to mention that I have employed a new carpenter to replace Antoine Gerard,’ says Monsieur d’Aubery. ‘And he’s happy for Victor to be his apprentice.’

  ‘But that’s wonderful!’ I say. I’m delighted that he hasn’t forgotten the Gerard family. ‘I had an idea about them, too,’ I say. ‘I was wondering whether to call on Madame Gerard to see if she could spare me her eldest daughter to be our maid?’

  Monsieur d’Aubery’s expression is doubtful. ‘Babette is very young and untrained.’

  ‘I’m used to girls of that age and shall train her myself. Then, when we’ve moved on, she’ll be useful at Château Mirabelle.’

  ‘An excellent idea,’ says Monsieur d’Aubery, ‘and, Heaven knows, another wage coming into the Gerard household will help a great deal.’ He smiles so warmly at me that I blush.

  Our guests drink several cups of tea before leaving, promising to return in a day or two. As Sophie and I stand on the doorstep to say goodbye, Monsieur d’Aubery invites me to go riding with him later in the week.

  ‘I should like that very much,’ I say.

  ‘Once the weather is warmer I’ll row you across the lake to the island,’ says Monsieur Viard, apparently not to be outdone. ‘And we’ll take a jaunt into Morville one day soon, if you’d like?’

  ‘You must all come to dine, too,’ says Monsieur d’Aubery, ‘and a hand of cards afterwards.’

  ‘They’re most attentive,’ says Sophie, looking at me from under her eyelashes after the men have left. ‘I do believe they’re vying for your attention, Maddy.’

  ‘They’re very kind,’ I say, blushing.

  ‘And uncommonly attractive,’ says Sophie. ‘Ah, well! Time will tell.’

  It’s growing dark and I light the candles and close the shutters, wondering how it would be to have either Monsieur d’Aubery or Monsieur Viard as a suitor. I like them both. Monsieur Viard is light-hearted and makes me laugh but there is something about Monsieur d’Aubery’s serious manner that makes me want to discover more about him. Perhaps a person needs to earn his trust, but then I suspect he would be a faithful friend for ever.

  Sophie and I sit companionably by the fire chatting about our new friends until the coals glow orange and the ashes fall into the hearth.

  Chapter 14

  March 1793

  We settle into our new life and now that Sophie has been forced to face the inevitable, I see how hard she’s trying to make the best of it. Her baby has quickened and frequently I see her resting her hand on her abdomen, a faraway expression on her face. She occupies herself with her drawing, while I have decided to write a treatise on education for girls. I’m sure Papa would have approved.

  Young Victor Gerard walks his sister to our house each morning on his way to work. Often I invite him to join Babette for breakfast, hoping that this will lessen the financial burden for poor Madame Gerard. It brings a lump to my throat when the boy talks so earnestly of his intention to work hard at his apprenticeship and assume responsibility for his family. Babette, too, is eager to please and I’m finding her quick to learn her duties.

  Monsieur d’Aubery regularly calls on us in the afternoons, sometimes bringing Monsieur Viard with him. I look forward a great deal to these tea parties as a cheerful interlude in our quiet life and am flattered by the banter between the two men as they compete for my attention.

  On most mornings I join Monsieur d’Aubery for his morning ride. Sophie says the fresh air and male company puts colour in my cheeks.

  I cannot deny it. My waking thoughts have begun to be filled by Monsieur d’Aubery, or Etienne as I call him to myself. As we come to know each other better, his formality towards me diminishes. I like the way he listens to me so intently and his occasional flashes of humour. I anticipate our times together with great pleasure.

  On a fresh spring morning, Babette and I set off from the house with our shopping baskets in hand to visit the market. Sophie stays behind, fearful that the potholed country lanes will make the trip too uncomfortable for her now that her waistline is expanding.

  We present ourselves in the stable yard, where Jacques is ready with the charrette, hitched up to the piebald cob. The tabby cat winds itself around my legs, purring loudly, as we wait for Madame Thibault. I notice that the cat’s belly is swollen. Her kittens must be due.

  ‘Did I remember to add butter to the shopping list, Babette?’ I ask, as I bend down to rub the cat’s ears.

  She holds out the list to me.

  The cat’s purring grows louder. ‘You look,’ I say, ‘since Madame here is demanding my attention.’

  A moment later I glance up and see that our maid’s eyes are welling with tears. ‘What is it, Babette? Have I upset you?’

  ‘I can’t,’ she says.

  ‘Can’t what?’

  ‘I can’t read.’

  I curse myself for my insensitivity. Living in a country village, there is no reason at all why the daughter of a carpenter should be able to read. ‘Don’t worry, Babette. Shall I take the list? And we might as well sit in the cart to wait.’

  A moment later I sit up straight with a smile on my face as Etienne trots into the stable yard on Diable.

  ‘Off to market?’ he asks. He sits well on the great black horse, his posture relaxed and confident.

  ‘We look forward to our little shopping expeditions to Morville,’ I say.

  Etienne smiles. ‘Enjoy yourselves.’ He wheels Diable away and then the small black-clad figure of Madame Thibault hurries into the yard. Out of breath, she climbs up to sit on the bench seat beside me. ‘Oh, dear,’ she says, ‘I do hope I haven’t made us too late. We don’t want to find that all the best goods have been sold.’

  Jogging along the road to Morville with the breeze in my face and the early-spring sunshine warm on my knees, I’m filled with a sense of well-being. The trees are just beginning to unfurl their new leaves and there are primroses in the hedgerows. I haven’t felt as settled as this since my parents died.

  Madame Thibault breaks into my reverie. ‘Have you heard about the happenings in the Vendée? I had a letter from my cousin.’ The cook clasps her plump little hands over her bosom. ‘She says her son was called to join the army. He’s only just seventeen and now they want to send him off to war.’ She clicks her tongue in disgust.

  ‘Surely boys that young aren’t needed?’

  ‘Three hundred thousand men are to be raised from all parts of the country to fight with the English, Austrians, Spanish and Prussians. The men have to find their own provisions as they march, plundering and stealing, so in some areas there isn’t any food left for families to buy.’

  ‘I knew it was bad in Paris but didn’t realise the difficulties had reached the country, too.’

  Madame Thibault shakes her head. ‘The people won’t stand for it and they’re going to take up arms against the government.’

  ‘Civil war?’ I ask, shocked.

  Madame Thibault nods, her eyes full of tears. ‘I shouldn’t have said anything but I’m worried for my cousin’s family. Please forget I mentioned it. Of course I’m loyal to the Republic and wouldn’t want
anyone to think otherwise.’

  ‘There have been so many changes since the storming of the Bastille that it’s hard to keep abreast of them all,’ I say. ‘Revolution will always upset the order of things but, at the end of it, we should expect many lives to be improved.’ I hope I’m right. Certainly events in France are not following the course I expected in my earlier, more idealistic life.

  ‘Except those who die in the course of the changes,’ says Madame Thibault, sniffing. ‘Still, please forget what I said. I’m upset for my cousin, that’s all.’

  When we arrive at the market square in Morville, Madame Thibault trots off with her basket leaving Babette and myself to wander amongst the stalls. Although the square is crowded, very little merchandise is available.

  On previous visits the stalls had been piled high with firm green cabbages, baskets of eggs and walnuts, pyramids of apples polished to a russet shine, preserved confit of duck glistening in bowls of goose fat, and pats of creamy goat’s cheese wrapped in vine leaves. Today, instead of dozens of plump chickens for sale there are only a couple of scrawny hens in moult, who regard us listlessly through the wooden bars of their cage.

  We manage to find a cabbage, carrots, onions and some flour, but the butter has all been sold and there is little choice at the butcher’s stall.

  ‘Shall I run to the baker’s and see what he has left while you buy the oil?’ asks Babette.

  ‘That’s a good idea.’ I hand her a few coins.

  Once I’ve bought olive oil and salt, I visit a stall selling household goods and buy a small and rather grey-looking piece of soap at exorbitant cost. I have no idea if soap will be available again in the near future but I remember Etienne saying that without soap man is quickly reduced to the level of the beasts.

  Babette returns to my side with a baguette tucked under her arm.

  ‘I need to look at the haberdasher’s, Babette, and then we’ve finished.’