I remember a day the previous August, before everything in my life changed. Then, my pupils were the daughters of the wealthy, their silky tresses braided with pretty ribbons and their chatter as noisy as a flock of tropical birds as we escaped the schoolroom in a flurry of muslin and silk. Today my charges are more like dusty little sparrows in their dun-coloured clothes and ragged haircuts. But there’s no reason why we shouldn’t escape, too.
I clap my hands. ‘We’re going outside and I’ll read you a story there. Leave your slates on the table and I’ll look at them later.’
The children look up at me, faces bright with expectation.
‘Hold hands and file out of the schoolroom two by two in an orderly manner, please! Emile, you will stay close to me where I can see you.’
Jostling and giggling, the children hurry out down the stairs and into the open air. They follow me in a more-or-less neat crocodile and once outside I allow them to sit on the edge of the fountain pool and splash their hot little hands and faces with the cool water. It’s refreshing to listen to the water spouting from the fountain and the children stare at the prancing horse and the naked cherubs around its feet and nudge each other and giggle.
Emile, of course, has to be the one who jumps into the pool with a joyous whoop and splashes the rest of the children so violently that they scream in shocked delight. My protests go entirely unheard and I’m beginning to think I’ll have to wade into the water myself to pull him out when the air is rent by a shrill whistle.
The laughter and squealing fade away and an uncomfortable silence prevails. Someone whispers, ‘It’s the master!’
Etienne, stern-faced, comes forward with his hands on his hips. He looks every inch the master, in spite of his shabby work clothes. ‘And what is happening here?’
One of the little girls, her wet hair in rat’s tails, begins to tremble.
‘It’s so hot…’ I begin, anxious to protect my charges.
‘Indeed it is extremely hot,’ says Etienne. He kicks off his shoes. ‘And I can see a lot of grubby little urchins all in need of a good wash. Shoes off, all of you!’
I don’t think it’s the right time to say that half the children don’t have any shoes.
Etienne jumps into the fountain, making a great splash, and water slaps against the sides of the pool. ‘Come on! Hurry up now!’
I laugh to see him gasp as the cold water soaks him to the skin.
One of the braver boys dips his toes in the water, recoiling at the cold, and then one by one the others follow. Only a moment later all the children are paddling and splashing and running under the fountain. The bolder ones have their hair plastered across their faces as they come up for air after diving below the surface of the pool.
‘Aren’t you coming in?’ Etienne, his wet shirt clinging to his muscular chest, wades towards me where I stand beside the pool.
‘If I do,’ I say, ‘I don’t believe I’ll ever have any authority over the children again.’ I can’t take my eyes off him and the sun feels hotter than ever on my overheated cheeks. ‘It’s different for you, you’re the master.’
‘You could paddle a bit. In a lady-like way, of course.’ His brown eyes are alight with mischief and I glimpse the small boy he once was.
Hesitantly, I take off my shoes then sit on the side of the pool and lower my feet into the water. Closing my eyes in ecstasy for a fraction of a second, I wriggle my toes in the delicious coolness.
Etienne holds out his hand to me and I stand up.
‘There, that wasn’t so difficult, was it?’
‘Oh, dear,’ I say, glancing over his shoulder and seeing Emile climbing high up on to the statue of the prancing horse.
Etienne sighs, releases my hand and goes to haul the troublemaker back to safety.
Lisette Marchand pulls me over to one of the stone cherubs at the base of the fountain. ‘Look!’ she says. She presses her hand over the cherub’s mouth to stop the water, giggling with glee.
Suddenly water spurts out in a great stream and hits me full in the face. I gasp and then laugh as I see Lisette’s frightened expression. ‘It’s all right, chérie, I’m not cross, only surprised.’
I’m wringing water out of my hair when Etienne returns to my side.
‘Well, well,’ he drawls. ‘A veritable water sprite! You look just like a lady of fashion about to enter a Parisian salon with your muslin dress all damped down.’
I glance down and see that the fine cotton of my dress has been rendered almost transparent and is clinging to my figure. Hot with embarrassment, I pull the wet muslin away from my body. Turning aside, I call out to the children.
‘That’s enough now! Time to come out of the water.’
Grumbling, they cease their frolics and begin to climb out of the pool. They stand shivering while water drips from their clothing into puddles around their feet.
‘We must get you dry again before your mothers see you,’ says Etienne. He points to the other side of the park. ‘Do you see that oak tree?’
The children nod, their eyes fixed on his face.
‘When I give the signal, I want you to run to it and sit in the sun. Off you go!’ He puts two fingers to his mouth and emits an ear-splitting whistle.
The children race off into the distance, their skinny little legs going up and down as fast as the shuttle on a Spinning Jenny.
‘Wherever did you learn to whistle like that?’ I ask, as we amble after them.
He smiles. ‘It’s the result of a misspent youth.’
‘I must thank you for allowing the children to sully your fountain. It was good to see them so happy.’
‘I used to love paddling there on a hot day when I was a boy.’ Etienne chuckles. ‘This was an excuse for me to recapture the fun we used to have, my brother Laurent and I.’ His smile fades. ‘I still miss him but perhaps he would not have been able to adapt to our changing circumstances in the new order of things. He had a clear sense of his position in life, like our father.’
I glance at his face, which is serious now. ‘It must be hard for you to see that world slipping away.’
‘What other choice is there? I must bow to the revolutionary forces and do whatever is necessary or Château Mirabelle will be confiscated by the state and sold to someone who has no appreciation of its history or any idea how to manage it.’
‘And there’s no turning back from the Revolution now, is there?’
He shakes his head, flicking droplets of water over my face.
When we reach the oak tree, the children are lying in the sun, basking like little lizards.
I lean against the tree trunk while I read aloud from Jean de La Fontaine’s book of Fables. The lilting cadences of the story combined with the warmth of the sun lull several of the children to sleep. Even Etienne, who lies on the grass nearby with his hands behind his head, is dozing. The air is very still. After a while I stop reading and close my eyes too.
Some time later the sound of a waggon rattling along the carriage drive wakes me.
‘I wonder why a waggon is using the main drive instead of the kitchen entrance,’ says Etienne, rubbing sleep from his eyes. ‘I’ll go and see what it’s about.’
He yawns widely. His hair has dried in spiky tufts, I see, with a pang of affection for him.
‘Are your clothes nearly dry, children?’ I ask.
There’s a chorus of assent.
‘Then it’s time for you to run along home.’
The children line up to shake my hand and then skip away towards the village.
Etienne remains deep in conversation with the driver of the waggon and I go over to discover what is happening. There are two other men in the vehicle, which is piled high with rusty metal and old railings. As I draw closer, the driver walks his horse around to face the opposite direction then jumps back up on his seat. The waggon rolls towards the main entrance again.
‘What was that about?’ I ask.
A muscle tightens in Etienne’s jaw.
‘He’s come to collect the gates.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Mayor Prudhomme has decreed that all citizens must give what metal they can to be melted down and made into arms and ammunitions. They will return tomorrow to denude the kitchen of Madame Thibault’s saucepans.’
‘But they can’t!’
Etienne’s face is white. ‘Yes, they can. They’ll come to your house, too, I expect. I’m going to walk up to the gates now and see that those ruffians don’t damage the posts while they’re about their business.’
‘I’m coming, too.’
He turns away without a word and marches off along the drive and I trot beside him. We hurry along, passing through the coolness of the pine woods until the gatehouse comes into sight.
The three men are shouting instructions to each other as they struggle to lift one of the great wrought-iron gates off its hinges.
‘My grandfather designed these gates,’ says Etienne. ‘Do you see the family crest in the central cartouche and our initials in the filigreework?’
‘They’re very beautiful,’ I say, saddened to see them being manhandled.
‘They were made in the forge in the village.’ There are tears in Etienne’s eyes. ‘Every time I return from a journey my heart lifts when I see these gates because they signify that I’m nearly home.’
Grunting and arguing as they work, the men manage to free the top hinge.
‘Can’t you stop them?’ I ask, seething with indignation.
Etienne simply looks at me until I realise the stupidity of my question. Any former noble who doesn’t conform will be accused of anti-revolutionary behaviour. The mayor and his committee would confiscate Château Mirabelle before Etienne could draw breath.
There is a hoarse warning shout as the heavy gate twists from the workmen’s hands. There’s a screeching sound as it falls sideways, still secured at the bottom.
‘Look out!’ calls Etienne, as the gatepost shudders and then topples.
Blocks of stone tumble to the ground with a thundering crash.
One of the workmen tips his hat on to the back of his head and scratches his ear. ‘Ah, well,’ he says philosophically, ‘you won’t be needing a gatepost if you’ve got no gates to hang on it, will you?’
The others roar with laughter.
‘I can’t stay and watch this act of desecration,’ mutters Etienne. He stalks back up the drive.
I long to hurry after him but I know nothing I can say will soothe him. Instead I return to the house and hide all of our saucepans, except one, in the chicken house.
The sun beats down on my head and the air is still and silent, as if every living thing is dozing. The long grass sighs gently as I meander across the meadow. Even the river is flowing sluggishly, as if half asleep.
I carry a covered basket containing cake and a handful of the cherries from the orchard that Jean-Luc brought me earlier this morning. He’d found me in the garden and made me put down my hoe and sit beside him on the bench.
‘As sweet and red as your lips,’ he’d said, as he fed me cherries, one by one.
Perspiration beads my upper lip as I walk slowly up the stony slope of the vineyard. After Etienne’s distress at the destruction of the gates I’m pleased to be able to bring him some good news.
I find him crouched over examining the soil at the base of one of the vines. He starts as he looks up at me, squinting into the sun. Standing up, he brushes the dusty earth off his hands. ‘It’s very dry.’ He lifts a vine shoot and supports it in his palm. ‘Look here,’ he says.
I peer closely at the vine and see that the raceme is covered in tiny greenish-white flowers.
‘The vines are blossoming,’ he says. ‘Before long we’ll see minute green grapes and in about a hundred days the harvest will be ready.’
‘I brought you a slice of cake,’ I say, ‘and Babette sends you a message from her mother. Several of the women have agreed to help with the vines.’
Etienne’s face breaks into a wide smile. ‘That is most welcome news. Shall we go and sit in the shade?’
At the bottom of the hill he draws up the bucket from the well beside the chai. Removing his hat, he bends over and tips water over his head and hands. Shaking it from his eyes, he lowers the bucket again and then uses the cup tied to the side of the well to gulp a long draught of water.
‘Thirsty work?’
He nods, smiling, and offers the cup to me.
The water is sweet and cool and I drink it down greedily.
We go inside the chai, stopping in the doorway for a moment while our eyes adjust to the shadows. Sunlight paints a bright lozenge on the beaten earth floor. Stepping out of the sun, the temperature is suddenly several degrees cooler.
Our footsteps echo around the high-ceilinged chamber as Etienne leads me over to a long wooden table. We perch on a bench at one end. I unwrap the fragrant gateau à la vanille and offer it to him.
‘What a picture!’ he says, studying the golden cake and the glossy crimson cherries resting on the starched white linen. He falls on the cake and devours it in seconds, eyes closed in appreciation.
‘Here, have mine,’ I say.
He needs no further urging but eats the second slice more slowly, savouring every morsel, sighing when it’s all gone. We sit together quietly, eating the cherries and enjoying the peace.
Somewhere in the distance I hear a murmur of sound and then a snatch of song.
‘What’s that?’ I ask.
Etienne cocks his head to listen, frowning in concentration. ‘Singing. Is it soldiers?’ He stands up rapidly and runs to the open door.
I follow him and we see a column of women processing along the lane towards us, followed by a gambolling tribe of ragged children, all singing the Marseillaise at the top of their voices.
‘I thought it might be soldiers,’ said Etienne, relief plain to see in his face, ‘coming to take whatever provisions they could find from the village and the château.’
The women, a dozen of them, come to a stop before us.
Madame Gerard steps forward. ‘We’ve come to work,’ she says.
Etienne goes to shake her hand. ‘You are all most welcome.’
A short while later the women are moving slowly across the vineyard removing some of the leaves from the canopy of vines to allow the sun to reach the budding fruits.
I watch them for a while, pleased to have played my part in finding a way to help both Etienne and the village women.
A few days later I return to the vineyard. A baby wails as I walk past the chai and there are several small children playing in the doorway with Widow Berger minding them. She waves at me as I pass. The younger village women are already at work and I seek out Madame Gerard.
‘How is it?’ I ask.
She pushes away a lock of damp hair that has escaped from her sunbonnet. ‘No one is complaining.’ I see that there are freckles sprinkled across her cheeks. ‘Not too much anyway. It’s hot, and bending makes your back ache.’
‘I’ve come to help,’ I say.
‘You, Mademoiselle?’
‘It would be terrible to allow the harvest to fail if we can prevent it.’
We work alongside each other for the next couple of hours and Madame Gerard is right; it is backbreaking work. It’s also a fine balance between leaving enough of the canopy to prevent heat stress on the vine and allowing the fruit to ripen and sweeten without risking mildew.
In the middle of the day, when the sun is at its highest, we hear a bell ringing and go down to the chai where Madame Thibault and a kitchen maid are ladling out bowlfuls of soup. Madame Gerard and another woman retreat behind a makeshift curtain to nurse their babies.
The men huddle together at the far end of the table. Uncertain of my reception amongst the women, I take my soup and place myself next to some of the older children. Lisette Marchand shyly asks if she may sit beside me.
The young woman opposite me at the table nudges her neighbour and whisp
ers something under her breath as she looks over my shoulder.
The chatter and laughter fade away and I see that Etienne is standing in the doorway. He walks down the room, exchanging a few words with everyone.
‘I didn’t expect to find you here,’ he says when he reaches me. The sun has touched his high cheekbones and his loose blue trousers are powdered with dust.
‘I want to help.’
‘Thank you. We need every pair of hands available.’ He smiles as he watches some boys running around whooping as they play tag. ‘Even Emile has a part to play.’
He moves on and it is only when he has spoken to all the workers that he collects his own bowl of soup and sits down with the men.
I finish my soup, disappointed that he doesn’t talk to me again.
Madame Thibault brings out platters of cherries and the girls hook them over their ears like earrings, while the boys challenge each other to see how far they can spit the stones.
All too soon we finish our meal and are wending our way back up the slope to continue work.
At the end of the day, on my way home, I pass the walled vegetable garden and see that the door is slightly ajar. Inside the ground is overgrown but I notice that Marcel has planted some seeds, albeit in haphazard rows, before he was called to work in the vineyard again. I bend over and pull up a handful of groundsel and dandelions. The weeds are thick and lush while the seedling lettuces and bean plants are frail, but the saving grace is that the weeds have at least sheltered them from the sun.
An hour or so passes. Finally, when I stand with my hands on my hips to ease my aching back, I realise that I’ve cleared several rows. The sun is beginning to set as I dip a watering can into the cistern of water beside the greenhouse and then start to walk slowly up and down the rows, watering the thirsty plants.
At last it’s too dark to see and I slip out of the walled garden and close the door behind me.
Chapter 23
July 1793
I close the schoolroom for the summer to allow the children to help in the vineyard. The days turn into weeks, all blending together in a blur of heat and backache, thirst and blisters, as we continue to tie in the vine shoots and trim back the wilder excesses of the tendrils, to allow the strength of the plant to go to the grapes. Once the grapes begin to swell we remove some of the smaller fruits to allow the others space to grow. Etienne tells me this is called the ‘green harvest’.
The Chateau on the Lake Page 20