‘You are looking very fine,’ he says. ‘Are you about to pay a social call?’
I laugh. ‘Where would I go to do that?’ I open the door wider to allow him to enter.
‘Something smells good.’
‘Jean-Luc brought us some rabbits. He’s coming for dinner.’
The smile fades from Etienne’s face.
‘Perhaps you would care to join us?’
The kitchen door opens and Sophie comes into the hall, drying her hands on a cloth.
‘I’ve invited Etienne to dinner,’ I say.
‘Oh, I see. How lovely.’ Sophie smiles brightly at him. ‘Perhaps you’d go through into the garden while Madeleine and I are busy in the kitchen?’
After he has gone outside, Sophie grips me by the wrist and gives me a shake. ‘Why did you invite him?’ she hisses. ‘It’s all set up for you to have a quiet little dinner with Jean-Luc. I was going to plead a headache and leave you alone together.’
‘Please don’t act as matchmaker on my behalf, Sophie.’
She sighs heavily. ‘No matter,’ she says. ‘Perhaps it’s not such a bad thing after all. It will focus Jean-Luc’s mind if Etienne is making sheep’s eyes at you.’
‘He doesn’t make sheep’s eyes at me!’
‘You let me be the judge of that! Now come and help me in the kitchen.’
A short while later the doorknocker bangs again.
‘Good evening, Jean-Luc,’ I say. He’s freshly shaved and wears pristine white linen at his neck. His hair is perfumed with pomade. ‘Come through to the garden. Etienne is waiting for us.’
Jean-Luc frowns. ‘I didn’t know he was going to be here.’
‘Neither did we.’
Etienne is sitting on the garden bench with his eyes closed and his face turned up to the evening sun. Minou is asleep on his knee.
Jean-Luc claps him on the shoulder, making him start. ‘Did I wake you, Etienne?’
‘I confess you did,’ he says, lifting the kitten gently to the ground and rising to his feet. ‘I began early in the vineyard today, before the sun grew too hot.’ He yawns. ‘As soon as I sit down these days, I fall asleep. It must be much harder for the women, especially those who have children to care for.’
Sophie calls to me through the window and I hurry back to the kitchen to carry out the tray of covered tureens to the table set up beneath the apple tree. I lay an extra place setting and despatch Etienne to bring another chair from the dining room.
‘Will you open the wine, Jean-Luc?’ asks Sophie.
He obliges, sniffing the cork and swirling the wine around in the crystal goblet before tasting it and pronouncing it to be excellent.
The rabbit stew is thick with onions and scented with sage, and the peas are small and tender. We still have half a loaf left to mop up the gravy with.
‘A feast!’ says Etienne later, wiping his mouth on his napkin.
‘It’s a shame you didn’t change out of your peasant garb before inviting yourself to dinner,’ jests Jean-Luc. ‘Madeleine, however, looks ready to step into a Parisian drawing room, despite her labours today in the vineyard and vegetable garden.’ He leans back and stretches one arm behind me to rest on the back of my chair.
Etienne’s eyes flicker towards Jean-Luc’s hand behind my neck. ‘I hadn’t intended to intrude,’ he says. ‘I merely came by to see if Madeleine and Sophie would like to have this copy of the Moniteur.’ He offers me the rolled-up newspaper.
‘I prefer L’Ami du Peuple myself,’ says Jean-Luc. His hand is resting lightly on the nape of my neck now and I shiver slightly as he toys with one of my curls.
‘I was reading about the Committee of Public Safety,’ says Etienne, his gaze following the movements of Jean-Luc’s hand.
‘What exactly does the Committee do,’ asks Sophie, ‘apart from maintaining public order? I haven’t read a newspaper in weeks and, tucked away here in the country, it’s hard to know what is happening.’
‘The Committee is essential to keeping order in wartime,’ says Jean-Luc. ‘It plays a crucial role in organising the provisioning of the army… and of the people, come to that. It appoints the generals, and also the judges and juries for the Revolutionary Tribunal.’
Etienne runs his finger contemplatively around the rim of his glass. ‘The Tribunal is handing out increasingly harsh treatment to those who are believed not to support revolutionary ideals.’
‘It must do so,’ says Jean-Luc, leaning forward. ‘France is in great peril and we must be aware at all times of traitors and spies lurking in our midst and plotting our destruction from within. We are threatened not only by invading foreign armies but by the anti-revolutionary revolts in the west and south.’
Sophie glances at me. ‘But despite the Revolution the people are still struggling to find enough to eat.’
‘Don’t you see?’ says Jean-Luc, looking intently at each of us in turn. ‘That is the very reason why much stricter controls must be instigated. The anti-revolutionaries marching to Paris from all over France mean that soldiers are deployed in supressing internal strife instead of fighting off the marauding British and Dutch.’
‘But why does there have to be fighting?’ asks Sophie, pressing a hand to her temple. ‘It’s frightening, never knowing if the army or the anti-revolutionaries are going to pass by or if someone we know will turn out to be a spy.’
‘Perhaps we’ve spoken enough of this for now,’ I say, glancing at her shaking hands.
Etienne gives me a barely perceptible nod and refills our glasses. ‘There are to be fireworks in Morville next week,’ he says, ‘to celebrate the anniversary of the storming of the Bastille. Perhaps we should make up a party and go and watch?’
Sophie clasps her hands against her breast. ‘How lovely that would be!’
‘But, Sophie,’ I say, ‘won’t the journey be too uncomfortable for you?’
She looks at me with her eyes shining. ‘I’m prepared to put up with that for the chance to have some fun. I’m so very tired of being imprisoned here.’ She smiles dazzlingly at Etienne. ‘Forgive me! This house is a most elegant gilded cage but I long for a change of scene.’
Etienne inclines his head to her. ‘Then we shall take the carriage and convey you as gently as possible to Morville, where you shall enjoy the sights of the town celebrating.’
Sophie and I present ourselves at the housekeeper’s parlour the following morning.
‘How delightful that you are to join me in my endeavours,’ says Madame Viard. ‘My son told me that Mayor Prudhomme requires a flag and we can be proud to demonstrate our loyalty by making this important emblem of the Republic.’
We exchange pleasantries while she spreads out the red, white and blue linen on her dining table and then we start to cut and sew the pieces of the flag together.
‘Madame Levesque has taken coffee with me on several occasions,’ says Madame Viard, passing me the scissors, ‘but it’s time for you and I to come to know one another better, Mademoiselle Moreau.’
I return her smile and bend my head over a piece of hemming.
‘Tell me about yourself,’ continues the housekeeper. ‘I believe you come from Lyon and both your parents have passed away?’ She cuts a new length of thread and watches me closely while I mitre a corner of the flag.
‘My father had a school in a small town outside the city,’ I say, not wishing to disclose any more than is necessary.
‘You have no family left?’
‘Sadly, that is so.’ I’m made uncomfortable by her questioning gaze.
‘But you have both settled in well here?’
‘I love it,’ says Sophie.
‘And you, Mademoiselle Moreau? Have you also made a new beginning at Château Mirabelle?’
I concentrate on rethreading my needle. ‘We’re fortunate to rent such a charming house.’
We’re silent for a while until Madame Viard leans over to inspect my stitches. ‘Very neat work,’ she says. ‘My son speaks hi
ghly of your natural grace and talents, and I see that he is right.’
Sophie glances at me with her needle poised in mid-air.
‘How kind of him,’ I murmur, wondering where this conversation is leading.
‘I hear from Jean-Luc that the mayor will soon be calling for more volunteers for the army,’ says Madame Viard. ‘A mother can be very proud of a son who is serving his country, but nonetheless I should not care to see my Jean-Luc go to war. His role here as estate manager is too important for him to be spared, don’t you agree?’
‘Of course,’ I murmur.
Madame Viard holds up the section of the flag that she’s just completed. ‘Perhaps you both hope to make your home permanently here at Château Mirabelle?’
‘I can imagine nothing we should like better,’ says Sophie.
I shrug. ‘As to that, who knows what the future will bring?’
‘Who knows indeed?’ Madame Viard smiles at me as she nips off a thread with her sharp little teeth.
Chapter 24
14 July 1793
One evening the following week the carriage draws up outside our house and Jean-Luc and Etienne make a deal of fuss over Sophie, settling her comfortably inside.
‘I feel as excited as a girl going to her first ball,’ she says.
Colbert has been given strict instructions to avoid all potholes and the carriage makes stately progress on its way to Morville. The road is unusually busy and we’re overtaken by a number of horses, carts and charrettes. Pedestrians crowd the roadside, all heading for town.
We rattle over the stone bridge as dusk descends and the sky fades from lavender to indigo. Colbert drives us to the bustling courtyard of the Lion d’Or.
It’s only a step to the market square and an orchestra welcomes us, playing slightly off key but with a great deal of enthusiasm. Children run about squealing with excitement and the citizens are dressed in their best clothes, many of them wearing red caps or tricolour sashes.
Tables and chairs have been set out around the square and we sit as far away from the band as we can so that we don’t have to shout at each other. The remaining sultriness of the day can still be felt in the warmth of the cobbles beneath our feet and the air is smoky with the aroma of cooking sausages.
The Hôtel de Ville is bedecked with red, white and blue bunting, and the flag that Sophie and I helped Madame Viard to make flutters proudly from the flagpole.
‘It looks very fine, doesn’t it?’ says Sophie to Jean-Luc.
‘Excellent! The mayor was delighted to receive it.’
‘The sausages smell delicious.’ Sophie looks at the cloud of smoke rising from the brazier set up outside the church.
‘Shall you eat one if I fetch it for you?’ asks Etienne.
‘Yes, please!’ she says.
Etienne disappears to join the multitude gathered around the glowing brazier and Jean-Luc orders jugs of wine from one of the serving maids.
‘The church is no longer boarded up,’ I say.
Jean-Luc nods. ‘There’s a new priest now; one who supports the Revolution.’
I glance at Citoyenne Mathieu’s house across the square. The door to Père Chenot’s garden is firmly closed.
We sit at our table listening to the laughter and the voices simmering with excitement all around us, and watching the children running about without a care. Flickering lanterns are strung between the plane trees and bedeck the roof of the lavoir, where the young have congregated to flirt with each other, unimpeded by their parents’ censure. As the sun sets a boy carrying a glowing taper moves from one table to another lighting the candles.
Etienne brings sausages and coarse bread wrapped in newspaper. His hair and clothes smell of hot smoky fat and I help him to tear the paper into four makeshift plates.
‘This is unbelievably delicious,’ says Sophie, her lips glistening with grease as she devours a sausage.
Jean-Luc’s sausage disintegrates as he bites into it and a chunk bounces off his chest, smearing the front of his silken waistcoat before falling to the ground. He swears under his breath. ‘Wretched peasant food! Look at my waistcoat… it’s ruined!’
I dip my handkerchief into a glass of water and wipe away the worst of the staining. ‘It really needs soap to take out the grease but that looks better.’
Jean-Luc captures my hand in his and kisses it.
I realise that Sophie is watching us with an indulgent smile while Etienne’s face is pinched with disapproval. Pulling my hand away, I’m relieved when the orchestra strikes up a noisy military march full of crashing cymbals and banging drums.
After a while the orchestra begins to play dance music and we watch young couples leave the lavoir and begin to dance in the square, swiftly followed by their parents and even grandparents.
‘Shall we?’ Jean-Luc rises to his feet and holds out his hand to me.
We take our places amongst the other dancers and it is soon apparent that this is nothing like an elegant, formal dance in a London drawing room but an opportunity to forget the troubles of the world and lose ourselves in the moment. Two fiddlers stand at the front of the orchestra and enter into a competitive frenzy of speed, their bows scraping up and down almost too fast to be seen. Whirling around, I see Babette, her cheeks flushed and her eyes bright, dancing with Victor, and Madame Gerard is holding hands with her children as they spin in a circle, shrieking with glee.
Several dances later, laughing and breathless, we withdraw and Jean-Luc kisses me swiftly on the lips as we return to our table.
I can’t help noticing Etienne’s eyes upon me as I fan my overheated cheeks and drink my wine.
‘Oh, I should so like to dance!’ says Sophie wistfully.
‘Perhaps if we wait for a more restrained tune we might take a turn together around the dance floor?’ says Jean-Luc.
‘Then I shall make a note on my dance card,’ jokes Sophie, clapping her hands. ‘And since it’s dark no one need notice my condition.’
A portly man in a white wig approaches our table, his hand held out to Jean-Luc and a wide smile on his face. His yellowing teeth are slightly crossed at the front. ‘Was that you I saw dancing with a pretty lady, Viard?’
‘Indeed it was,’ says Jean-Luc. ‘May I present the lady in question, Mademoiselle Moreau? Madeleine, this is Monsieur Prudhomme, Mayor of Morville.’
He bows to my curtsey. ‘And I believe you are one of the ladies we have to thank for the new flag for the Mairie?’
‘Together with my friend Madame Levesque here.’
‘It was an honour to work on the flag,’ says Jean-Luc.
Mayor Prudhomme nods at Sophie. ‘Naturally.’ He turns to Etienne. ‘And I hear you are attempting to save the grape harvest at Château Mirabelle by employing the village women, d’Aubery?’
‘Indeed.’ Etienne’s voice is carefully neutral but I know him well enough to realise that he doesn’t like Prudhomme any more than I do.
‘Well, we shall see.’ The mayor puffs up his chest, full of self-importance.
Prudhomme puts his arm around Jean-Luc. ‘Will you be at the Jacobin Club tomorrow evening?’
‘Most definitely.’
‘Good, good.’ The mayor makes a small bow to us all and saunters away to greet the people at the next table.
‘For one with such influence, he is a most unassuming man, don’t you think?’ asks Jean-Luc.
Etienne’s lips thin to a line. ‘As the son of a pork butcher, he has worked assiduously to rise in society.’
Not wishing to fan the flames of potential discord I turn my attention to the moths fluttering around our candle flame. I’m relieved when the orchestra begins to play a lilting melody.
Jean-Luc stands up and bows to Sophie. ‘A boulangère. I believe this dance is mine. Shall we?’
Giggling a little, Sophie stands and makes her curtsey to him.
Etienne holds out a hand to me. ‘Madeleine?’
I hesitate, but where is the harm in dancing wi
th him in a public place? I rest my hand on his arm.
He holds me lightly, the heat of his fingers searing through the thin muslin of my gown as he leads me towards the dancers. The lingering taint of sausage fat on his clothing cannot disguise the clean, soapy scent of his warm skin beneath.
The violinists play a sweet, melancholy air as the women dance around the circle, taking each man in turn by the hand and twirling him around, gradually returning to their partners. I’m circling with a man I recognise as the greengrocer. Two more steps and Jean-Luc is smiling at me and then I pass on to another man I don’t know. Then Etienne’s hand is in mine and we twirl slowly in the warm darkness, as lightly as thistledown on a summer’s breeze. His breath is a soft sigh on my cheek as we move together and then apart. I close my eyes, wishing time would cease to exist and that I might remain for ever in this bubble of happiness.
The dance tune fades to a close. Etienne continues to hold my hand for a second or two after the music finishes but then he leads me back to our table.
‘What a wonderful evening!’ says Sophie.
‘Isn’t it?’ I say, still feeling the lingering warmth of Etienne’s fingers.
‘And it’s not over yet,’ he says. ‘They’re preparing to light the fireworks.’
‘Not too tired, Sophie?’ I whisper.
She shakes her head, kneading her back. ‘Though I rather wish I hadn’t eaten all of that sausage.’
A sudden lightning bolt makes us gasp and look up. A vast shower of white stars is falling slowly from the velvet black of the sky above. Another series of explosive bangs follows, so loud that Sophie and I clap our hands to our ears, while some of the children scream in fright. Burning streaks of red, green and gold shoot across the sky, illuminating the night.
‘Isn’t it beautiful!’ says Sophie, gazing heavenwards as a crackling starburst of violet drifts towards the earth, leaving a trail of sparks.
Great fizzing fountains of gold and silver erupt twenty feet into the air and whistling wheels of brilliant light whirl around, spitting sparks in all directions.
I clap my hands and laugh aloud. Then I feel the pull of Etienne’s gaze and turn slowly to look back at him, the laughter fading from my face. The naked longing in his eyes makes me catch my breath. I cease to hear the crowd exclaiming as each new wonder bursts in a spectacular display of colour and light and see only Etienne. I stare back at him, speechless and unable to move for the yearning that tingles in my veins.
The Chateau on the Lake Page 22