The Lost Castle

by Kristy Cambron

  “Who is this, Julien?” Anger flashed in her eyes.

  “I was going to tell you. But if you’d honored my request not to venture into the woods on your own, none of this would have happened. How many times must I ask this of you?” He turned his attention from the woman’s obvious acrimony back to Vi.

  He ran a hand through his hair, frustration seeping out on a sigh. “This is Mariette—Marie for short. My brother’s wife. And this little troublemaker who found you this morning”—he sent a stern look over to the little girl, who lowered her head to stare down at her buckle shoes—“even though she knows she’s not to go into the woods alone—is Criquet. My sister.” He made a low whistle sound against his teeth, drawing her attention back to his face. “We’ll talk about this later.”

  “My book, s’il te plaît?” Criquet turned, pointing to the bookshelf by the corner with the cot. A mishmash of goods occupied the shelf: a basket, soiled gardening gloves, a weathered hand spade, and a stack of books. “Last time we were here. I left it. I can’t sleep without it.”

  “Ne t’inquiètes pas, Criquet. I will fetch your book for you.”

  Vi stood, silently watching.

  The explanations for who they were turned out to be quite suitable, though the thought of Criquet searching for a beloved book, only to be frightened by a stranger hiding in their cottage—it must have been terrifying. She felt sorry for the little girl, for an innocent devotion to reading had stirred such angst.

  Marie, on the other hand, her venom was clear. Devotion or not, she couldn’t see past the intruder in their midst. Vi actually thought if she’d had the rifle in hand, the mother-to-be wouldn’t shy away from using it, despite anything Julien had to say. She stared up at him, an icy indifference evident in the lines of her face. Quite different from the hero-worthy gaze Criquet had lavished upon him.

  “Your brother would never agree to this. He left you in charge, to look after his family. Is this how you would repay him?”

  “You’re my family too.”

  “And yet you hide stowaways in the cottage?” Marie’s words were spat, toxic and accusing, at the man who had defused the confrontation that could have ended so terribly. “I will not have”—she slid her steely glare over to Vi, inspecting her from lashes to toes—“this, under my husband’s roof.”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about.” Julien leaned on the rifle on a deep sigh, the same way he’d done the day before. “Do not question me for doing what is right, Marie.”

  “Right?” she scoffed. “This is not right.”

  “I had little choice in a matter you know nothing of. I understand this was abrupt, and in light of the shock you’ve just endured, I will overlook your hostility. I’d have explained when the time was right. But you must know I always have this family’s best interest at heart. I would not allow a threat under my brother’s roof. Not with you both here. Not for one single moment. Do you understand?”

  The flex in her jawline eased, evidence that she’d backed down a shade by the softness in his tone and the authenticity in the words he’d chosen. Marie took Criquet’s hand in hers though, drawing the child closer, just in case the stranger was still a viper in disguise.

  “I will not question you now. But you will make her leave from this house. This instant.”

  “Take Criquet back to the estate house,” Julien countered, his voice steady. When she didn’t move, he just stared back with softened eyes. “Marie. Please? Do as I ask. We’ll discuss this later.”

  Marie issued a seething glare in Vi’s direction before she turned in a huff and tugged Criquet out into the sunshine with her.

  Vi watched them go, silently, until their shadows disappeared over the ridge.

  Julien turned back to her.

  He’d resolved the decision he’d made for her to stay, but something else looked to have lately knocked the stuffing out of him. Dark circles rimmed the underside of his eyes. His brow was furrowed and dark, partially covered under tousled waves that hung down, shielding his eyes from looking at her. He had a strong face—one that Vi might have thought handsome if he’d walked into the Blue Lagoon Club once upon a time in London. But here, in the mix of shadow and light streaming in through the cottage door, the young man in Julien looked more mature than his obvious years.

  Embattled. Troubled and hopelessly worn out.

  “I’m sorry for that. There was a problem in the vineyard this morning. Something I couldn’t avoid, and . . .” He cut his explanation short on an overt sigh. “I meant to come earlier. Now I know I should have.”

  “Well, I suppose I know why she was so angry. I would be too if I found a drifter on my property, especially with the state of things, a child to look after, and since she’s . . .” Vi cleared her throat. Who talked of such things as babies with a man she’d spoken to in total for less than half a day? The proper Brit in her recoiled that she’d been clumsy enough to lead into it, with no way out.

  “Nearing her time, of course.” He smiled then, a curious curve that spread wide on his lips, as if he enjoyed her lopsided attempt at discretion a little too much.

  Grins like that didn’t exist in the heart of war-torn France; they belonged on the cover of LIFE magazine. Why, the office gals who filled the dance floor at 50 Carnaby Street wouldn’t have known what to do but buckle at the knees over a smile like that. And there it was, shining down on her.

  “But you misunderstand. Marie thinks I’m, uh—” He cleared his throat. Straightened up and tried to add a more serious bent to his features. “Keeping you.”

  “Keeping me?”

  “Yes. That you’re kept. Here.”

  His gaze flitted to the cot, and a rush of understanding fluttered the length of Vi’s insides. The nostalgia she’d felt in his smile melted faster than an icicle in summer. She turned away in shock, a blush burning her cheeks. “Oh . . .”

  “Which I’m not, of course,” he rushed out, tripping over his words. “No expectation.”

  Vi gripped the rifle a little tighter, issuing clear intention. “You’re right there’s no expectation!”

  “Exactly what I said, no expectation whatsoever. The cottage has been used by soldiers in the past . . .” Julien shook his head. His turn to squirm through an explanation now. “That’s beside the point. You are here as our guest. I’ll make sure Marie understands that in full, and that there is no reason to mistrust you.”

  Vi might have held on to her embarrassment if she hadn’t felt as weary as he looked. Even then, adrenaline was still fighting her on her way to calm, and her stomach had begun a fresh battle by once again clawing with hunger at her midsection. She needed food. Rest. A safe haven from dreams and imaginary planes blasting horror from the sky.

  “Well, might I ask you then what your intentions are? Knowing, of course, that I am quite capable of using this rifle against you if you should dare to try anything at all.”

  Julien’s smile had faded some, backtracking to what she read as kindness in the eyes again. He tilted his head toward the entrance. “The door’s open.”

  “Are you asking me to go?”

  “No.” Julien shook his head slightly.

  The narrowing of his eyes, an arm braced in a loose fist at his side, the sturdiness in his stance—even with the weight he’d eased off the injured leg—showed he earnestly meant what he was about to say.

  “I’m saying we’ll offer you shelter at the estate house. No more hiding in the woods. If you really are running from something or someone, it’s best to hide you in plain sight. We have laborers here. Dozens of them. Women and children mostly, and some of the aged men who were deemed unfit to fight. They’re not conscripted into labor for the Nazis because they work for me, and we supply a large portion of wine to Hitler’s fighting forces. They leave us be, as long as they believe we’re obeying their law, bringing in the harvest, and living under their yoke of fear.”

  “And why would you do that for me, a complete stranger?”r />
  “Because it’s the right thing to do.”

  Vi started, doubting anything in the grip of war could be that simple. “What about the little girl?”

  “Criquet.”

  “Where are her parents—your parents?”

  “Dead.” He straightened, easing weight off his leg. He seemed to notice how her glance had drifted down and cleared his throat. “Our mother when Criquet was born. Father drank himself into the grave not long after.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Me too.” And he looked it. “My brother and I . . . and Marie. We’re her parents now.”

  “Look, all jests of your sister-in-law’s wrath aside, why would you permit me to stay with your family? With your parents gone and your brother off fighting? You don’t know who I am.”

  “Is there a reason I shouldn’t trust you?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Then leave Marie to me. From my view of it, I’ll have someone else close by who knows how to handle herself with a firearm. And let’s just say we’ll all have an extra pair of eyes to keep Criquet and her curiosity from pitching over the second-story balcony of the estate house. Everyone wins.”

  It was against her better judgment, but Vi couldn’t pinpoint a rebuttal he’d accept. So she nodded, figuring she could put up with Marie’s brusque attitude for a day or so anyway. All Vi needed was a safe stop for a few days. Then she’d move on, and the estate house would fade into another stop in a long line of war’s grim memories.

  “Very well. I’ll stay.”

  “One more thing.” He eyed her without filter. “How many trucks did you see the other night?”

  Vi swallowed hard, trying to decide what kind of game he was playing.

  Not one of those men had come within a hundred paces of the cabin. It was too dark and far too secluded for the truck drivers to have seen anything that far up on the ridge. No one could have known she was there . . . unless they already did.

  “Is that why you look so tired?” Vi stared back at him, no longer caught off guard by Julien speaking as if she were his equal in matters of espionage. What mattered more was that he’d trusted her. “That was you out there with those men. How long has it been since you’ve slept?”

  He brushed it off. Just stood, waiting for her answer. “Just answer the question. How many trucks, Lady?”

  Without hesitation, she clipped, “Four.”

  “And men?”

  Vi drew in a deep breath, enough to cover a full explanation.

  “No less than twenty. All able-bodied. Certainly enough that they could be conscripted to work for the Nazis, I’d say. But curiously enough, they’re scurrying about like worker bees in your woods. I’d say you spend more time in this cottage than you’d care to admit. Perhaps as a lookout? It’s a perfect vantage point to clock Nazi patrols on the road to the castle. And I’ll save you from inquiring further—there were over forty crates. Give or take a few. Some that required two grown men to carry. Stands to reason the wares in those trucks were more than crates of pears or bags of walnuts. Or cork for bottling wine. I’d say, more like antiaircraft weaponry. Or rifles, perhaps? Maybe ammunition. In any case, I’d say that should answer your next few questions. So, is that enough? Are we finished? Because even if you’re not hungry, I am.”

  Julien nodded. The general retreated again. “Bien.”

  “What’s good?”

  “That my instincts about you were dead on.” Julien extended his hand, offering a shake on it. “We received word through the wire that His Majesty’s Special Operations Executive organization had a young linguist go missing in Paris a few months back. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

  They have a wire?

  Vi hesitated only a moment as the thought sank in, then, with her decision made, placed her hand in his. One firm shake and she let go, turning toward the cot and bookshelf in the back. “It’s SOE for short, you know.”

  “I’m aware of that, Lady. But I said it for your benefit.”

  “Then we know where we stand, don’t we?”

  She knelt and, thumbing through the small stack of books, found the only title befitting a little singing fairy. She tucked the book under her arm and walked back, offering the copy of Histoires ou Contes du Temps Passé.

  “Here. I’d wager Criquet will want her Mother Goose Tales for bedtime.”

  Julien nodded. But instead of taking the book as she’d expected, he tipped his head to the door so she could take it herself. “Welcome to the resistance, Lady.”

  THIRTEEN

  AUGUST 1, 1789

  LES TROIS-MOUTIERS

  LOIRE VALLEY, FRANCE

  It was said that a deep wood like Bosquet du Renard should be enchanted.

  In folklore, the very nature of “Fox Grove” fit the definition. It could be home to dragons and fairies, gnomes or elves, if one believed in such things. All manner of mythical creatures could inhabit its secret corners, though Aveline believed in only one of them: the elusive fox, which after several days of working in and around the cottage, she still had yet to see.

  She could hear their whimsy—a shuffle and a bushy tail whisking away behind her while she pulled down linens from the line, or evidence of mischief around the rubbish bin, meaning the fox had looked in on the scraps left over from the last night’s meal.

  After days of waiting for a missive from her father, mother, or the yet-absent Philippe, the monotony of cottage life was beginning to weigh heavily upon her. Robert had seen to sending her books, but having surely missed her brother-in-law’s burial and waiting for further account of affairs in Paris, she found they failed to hold her attention. Even Robert and Fan had been in and out, leaving her unattended for longer spans of time as they saw to their responsibilities in the vineyard.

  Aveline was seeing to refilling the water buckets at the creek—a task Robert could have done for her, but she’d preferred to venture the short way on her own and prove to herself, if no one else, that she wasn’t completely dependent. The buckets were only half-full, and she kept to ginger movements with her burns still healing, but she raised the wooden yoke over her shoulders, balancing for the trek up the ridge.

  And there he stood.

  A fox.

  Just as curious and clever as she’d have guessed he would appear. Bobbing his head slightly, shimmering, brilliant orange-rust fur down to the ivory tip of his tail, two black boots making a stark contrast as front paws padded back and forth.

  Notorious for their reticent nature around humans, foxes usually kept a fair distance and only emerged from their hollows when shadows lingered at dawn and dusk. But this one was inquisitive and had abandoned his clandestine nature by boldly stepping out at midday. He kept his eyes keen to Aveline, watching intently, though she moved only as much as it took to breathe and maintain the balance of the load across her shoulders. And then, as quickly as he’d appeared, the animal turned and darted off with nimble speed, fleeing down the long road that cut through the heart of the wood.

  Aveline lifted the load from her shoulders and eased the yoke to the ground, then secured it on a sturdy bank at the water’s edge. And though she hadn’t a reason other than capriciousness, she swept off in pursuit of the wary bandit’s tipped tail.

  The fox had been far too agile for her to rival in a long skirt and Fan’s shoes that were a size too large. So she gave in, easing to an idle walk as it swept under a log and disappeared into the inner depths of the wood. She walked—no longer in pursuit of a fox but instead wandering down the castle’s road.

  It might have been different, had the castle not fallen. Had Philippe stayed and their marriage taken place as scheduled. As it was, Aveline had spent the better part of the fortnight during which she was to be readied for their marriage celebration battling back from injury with no clear direction as to her next steps. Save for the castle, which she hadn’t seen since the night of the uprising.

  The road would take her there, if she wi
shed to know what had become of it.

  The grove drew her closer. Like the fox, it too owned a kind of enchantment. Step after step she walked, with the distant call of birds overhead, the whisper of a breeze through the trees, and the occasional crack of tree limbs falling somewhere in the depths of the thicket.

  And suddenly, there she was—in a clearing surrounded by moat waters on all sides. Transfixed by the sight before her, walking the road that led to its façade, moving through the shadow of the once-beautiful Château des Doux-Rêves as it emerged from the trees.

  The impact of seeing black bones contrasting a blue sky sent her hand flying to her chest. Aveline stopped, the horror icing her feet in place, and rested trembling fingertips on the bodice where the brooch had once been pinned.

  The stone walls still reached to their former height, but the roof no longer existed. It had lost its high pitch, the corner turret reduced to jagged edges instead of a smooth cone on top. Strips of blackened fabric blew in the breeze on the ground floor. Birds flew through invisible glass barriers, windowpanes and ceiling no longer impediments, to perch on the crystal chandelier left teetering in the foyer.

  Aveline proceeded down the path, stones crunching beneath her feet, until she reached the front steps. One of the heavy wooden doors hung low on its hinges; the other was gone completely. She pushed it back with a creak and dipped her head under the surviving lintel to step inside.

  Too many days had passed—the ruins no longer released smoke curls into the sky. But the impact of the fire still laid her heart bare. It had once been a majestic pillar in the valley. Now it was a ghost. Where the Duc et Vivay’s former glory had been on display, birds roosted and rainwater left sodden. Where guests had descended from carriages and swept into a grand foyer, only a shadow of the castle’s former might, with a missing ceiling and charred timber, remained.

  Footprints marred the layer of soot and debris in a trail through the foyer: indication that someone had recently passed through. Looters, perhaps. Or maybe Robert had seen to a salvage operation and gathered men to reclaim any family heirlooms that might be left to them. Whatever the case, little remained but scorched remnants.