The Chateau by the River
Page 1
A faded photograph will lead one young woman to a ruined French castle where she will discover the truth of her own identity . . . and the enduring mystery of love.
Traveling to France on business, Alexandra Dawson has decided to seize the opportunity to explore a mysterious piece of her own heritage—a half-burnt picture of a woman who looks eerily like her, taken more than a hundred years ago in a local castle. In the charming rural village of Chandeniers, she discovers something else too—the gruff, ruggedly good-looking heir of the crumbled château.
Éric Lagnel is completely uninterested in Alex’s queries, until he realizes that she may have stumbled on a way to save the building. Their unlikely partnership is a surprise. But as Alex slowly unravels the secrets of her great-great-grandmother’s photograph—and the true history of the château—she begins to understand that no one is ever prepared for the ways love can heal old wounds and open the hardest hearts.
Books by Chloe Duval
STOLEN TIME
THE CHTEAU BY THE RIVER
Table of Contents
Books by Chloe Duval
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Author’s Note
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Epilogue
About the Author
The Château by the River
Chloé Duval
Translated from the French by
Domitille Vimal du Monteil
LYRICAL PRESS
Kensington Publishing Corp.
www.kensingtonbooks.com
To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.
LYRICAL PRESS BOOKS are published by
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A sa Rencontre by Chloe Duval © Bragelonne 2017
Translated from French by Domitille Vimal du Monteil © Bragelonne 2018
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Lyrical Press and Lyrical Press logo Reg. US Pat. & TM Off.
First Electronic Edition: December 2018
eISBN-13: 978-1-5161-0090-3
eISBN-10: 1-5161-0090-5
First Print Edition: December 2018
ISBN-13: 978-1-5161-0091-0
ISBN-10: 1-5161-0091-3
Printed in the United States of America
Dedication
To my grandmother, who loved beautiful stories
And to my mother, who is just the same
Acknowledgments
Some stories are so easy to write they just flow from mind to screen. Some are harder, more demanding, a storm that ravages everything on its way and leaves you wrung out and slightly dazed, wondering whether you will ever be able to resume a normal life. The Château by the River is part of the latter category. And I would never have made it out alive—physically and emotionally—without the amazing help and support of the people around me. They are the ones I want to thank.
My Prince Charming—without his help, I wouldn’t have been able to leave aside the everyday chores of life in order to immerse myself in the writing of this novel. His sharp eye was invaluable in tracking down the typos that managed to slip into the manuscript despite my best efforts.
Carine, Céline, Marine, Caroline and Stéphanie—the first recipients of my despair-filled messages. They never stopped telling me I could do it, that I would finish it and that running away to a desert island to hope the world would forget about me was not a viable strategy.
Suzanne and Jo Ann—their unwavering support and their daily reminders to stay cool kept me sane.
Pousson and Poilet—the girls’ nights out to remind me there was a world out there, outside my castle, were salutary.
My French editor, Anne-Laure. She trusted me, gave me extension after extension after extension on my deadline, and without her, this novel would not be anything like it is today.
Last but not least—Tara, my wonderful American editor, who trusted me with this book and gave me the opportunity to write it as I had in mind.
As always, a huge thank-you to you, dear readers, for your kind words and for trusting me enough to pour some of your hard-earned money into this book. Without you, this book would never have made it so far, and neither would I.
Author’s Note
Dear Reader,
First of all, I’d like to thank you all, from the bottom of my heart, for picking up this novel. I put all my heart and all my soul into it and I hope you’ll love my characters as much as I do. I’ve lived with them for so long that to this day yet, almost a year after writing the words “The End,” I still have trouble remembering that they are not living people who I can visit anytime I want to. I hope they will feel as real to you as they do to me.
But before you dive into their story, please let me tell you about the real fairy tale behind The Château by the River.
A few years ago, as I was surfing idly on the internet, I found an article from a French online newspaper, telling the story of a very old and very beautiful castle in ruins, lost to the wilderness of nature after a huge fire destroyed it in the 1930s: le château de la Mothe-Chandeniers, situated in the small town of Les Trois-Moutiers, in the Loire valley. Because the fire had rendered it uninhabitable, the castle had quickly been abandoned by its owners. Without any maintenance, each year that passed after that fateful day, the castle deteriorated a bit more, until it became a real danger to the life of anyone who approached it. For the last few years, the current owner had tried everything he could think of to save the castle from total destruction, but to no avail. When the article was written, tired of fighting without any results, he had decided to have the castle dismantled.
When I read the article, my heart broke, and for a few days, I could think of little else than t
his castle. I wanted to do something, anything, because the castle lover in me couldn’t bear the thought of such a magnificent building, so old, which had lived through most the events that forged France, being destroyed. But I didn’t have the first idea of how to be useful. So I did the only thing I could think of: I wrote a book about it. For the necessities of my story, as I was a romance novelist and not a historian, I changed the name of the castle, and a few details of its history, so that I could do what I wanted with it. That’s how Gabrielle and Thomas, and Alex and Éric were born.
It took me around a year and a half to write The Château by the River. And by the time I was finished and it was published in France, the real castle had made the headlines: after a very successful crowdfunding operation, the castle had been bought by a few thousand contributors, from all around the world, with the intent of stopping its destruction.
The doomed castle, “my” doomed castle, had been saved.
As you can imagine, dear reader, I was really, really happy to see that unexpected turn of events! The next few years will tell how this fairy tale will unfold. But for now, let’s dive together into Alexandra’s and Gabrielle’s story, and the castle that linked them through time.
Happy reading!
Chloé Duval
Prologue
Thomas
La Rochelle
February 1900
Thomas leaned on the rail of the Étoile du Nord1 and stared at the horizon, waiting.
He waited for the bell signaling the ship’s departure, waited for the coast to fade and disappear beyond the waves, waited for the pain to subside and for the gaping hole in his chest to close over.
Time heals all wounds, they said. He would forget.
But he knew all too well it was a lie. He would never forget her.
In the distance, the first glimpses of daylight were beginning to chase the dark away. The deck was bustling, awash with a diffuse unrest from which an occasional order or question could be heard. The seagulls’ hungry cries rang out overhead as they fought over a bread crust or an old piece of vegetable, viciously pecking at each other.
In spite of the freezing cold, the docks were crowded with fishmongers, sailors, and traders come to oversee the delivery of their various goods. A few latecomers ran up, dragging heavy luggage behind them. And at the very end of the dock, swaddled in several layers of clothes to keep out the cold and biting wind, the passengers’ loved ones waved as they exchanged a last goodbye, a final smile, a lingering gaze with those they would not see again for a very long time—if they ever did.
Thomas stepped back, retreating to the bow of the ship, away from the commotion and tearstained smiles. How ironic life could be, he thought bitterly. Six months ago, he had nothing to look forward to other than a dull life and endless days to fill as best he could—and he was content. What one does not have, one cannot lose.
He had found out in the most brutal manner that he was entirely wrong.
There is always something that can be lost.
Or someone.
Fleeting images crossed his mind, and he closed his eyes, jaw clenching painfully as his heart broke again.
The sailors on the dock were casting off, and the railing began to hum softly under his fingertips; the tugboats stood by, ready to tow the ship out to sea so it could begin its long journey toward America, where he could start over again and leave his past behind.
Everything was ready and had been for a long time. He had crossed the sea several times, met with investors, partners, chosen warehouses and workshops.
He’d had it all planned out.
And everything had changed.
She’d waltzed into his life one day with her sweet smile and dreamy gaze and upended all of his carefully prepared plans, illuminating every aspect of his life.
For a few wonderful weeks, he had felt himself change under her influence, becoming happier, lighter. Life—his life—had begun to hold meaning.
He’d found himself thinking of the future. Hoping. Dreaming.
But dreams were fickle, deceitful things. When they lasted too long, you started to believe in them. And when they fell apart, when the bubble burst and reality came rushing back in, the fall was a hard one. And the higher you climbed, the harder you fell.
He had hurtled down the whole damn mountain.
He’d found the strength to stand back up, somehow, keep his head high and move forward even though he was only an empty shell, a shadow of his former self. A shadow of the man he’d been with her.
But a shadow could be a positive thing. It was a close friend, almost comforting. He’d been lost in the shadow once before. He was familiar with it. He almost relished the return.
He knew it would in time swallow the pain that ran through every inch of his being. He would grow numb again, distant.
He wouldn’t fall for the same trick again. Angels couldn’t love monsters.
The ship slowly drew away from the dock. At last, Thomas was leaving.
For good.
There would be no going back this time. Not ever. He was leaving the country that had brought him only pain and shattered illusions, never to return.
He kept his gaze on the horizon, refusing to acknowledge the sharp knife piercing through his heart, or the urge to jump ashore and run to her to beg on bended knee for her to explain. To love him.
It was too late anyway.
* * *
1 Northern Star.
Chapter 1
Alexandra
Chandeniers-sur-Vienne
Present day
“In fifty meters, turn left. You have arrived at your destination.”
The low, masculine voice purring with a delicious Scottish accent was coming from the GPS on my phone.
Don’t judge me. We all have our guilty pleasures. I’d downloaded the app six months ago and ever since then, I sometimes—read: every day—turn on the GPS to drive home, just to hear its husky, sexy accent.
Even if all it did was tell me to merge and keep right.
Jamie’s fault, Your Honor. Everything is James Alexander Malcolm MacKenzie Fraser’s fault.
I looked around for the crossroads Fake-Jamie had just signaled and switched on my turn signal to swerve onto an adorable paved street. A few seconds later, I drew level with the aptly named L’Auberge du bout de la rue,2 which was indeed at the end of the street. I had booked a room there for the next few days.
I smiled to myself as I got out of the rental and spun on the spot, taking in the scenery, the ambience, the sounds, the smells.
This was it. This was what France meant to me. Charmingly old-fashioned cities with cobbled streets and centuries-old stone buildings. In this place, everything breathed history. No matter where you went, where you looked, you could almost feel the presence of the people who had lived there a hundred, two hundred, a thousand years earlier. And the town of Chandeniers, at the very heart of the Loire valley and the surrounding vineyards, was the perfect embodiment of my idea of a historical French city, from the little stone bridge to the old water mill and the many book stands lining the banks of the Vienne River. After several weeks’ hard work, I was more than ready to kick back and enjoy playing tourist.
I sighed blissfully and swung the car door shut. Like most of the houses on the street that ran parallel to the river, the inn was built with white stone and had blue shutters. Its name gleamed in wrought iron letters over the door.
“If I could afford it, I would buy a vacation home here in a heartbeat!” I muttered to myself as I climbed the steps. “This place is amazing!”
I reached for the heavy doorknocker to signal my arrival when the door abruptly swung open and I came face-to-face—or rather, face to shoulder—with what seemed to be a Tom Hiddleston doppelganger with a little boy clinging to his hand.
“S
ee you tomorrow?” He dedicated a smile—one I could objectively say was devastating—to someone inside the house.
“See you tomorrow!” a female voice confirmed.
He turned around and almost ran straight into me.
“Sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
He stepped to his right just as I stepped left. We repeated the maneuver for a few seconds before we came to a stop, laughing.
Yup, that smile definitely qualifies as devastating.
“Shall I go right and you left?” he suggested.
“My left or yours?”
“Mine, or else we could be here all night. While it is the intended purpose for an inn, it kind of defeats the point if you stay on the threshold.”
I held back another laugh and stepped right, he shifted the other way and at last we could resume the courses of our normal lives.
“Good day to you.”
“You too.”
“Come on, Quentin, let’s go.”
“Yes, Papa.”
I watched them walk away then turned back to the door, which was still hanging open. A woman in her thirties stood there. There was a distinctive pout on her impish, bright-eyed face as she tracked the man for a few moments, before she shook her head slightly and turned to me.
“Hi, what can I do for you?”
“Hi. I’m Alexandra Dawson; I phoned this morning to confirm my booking.”
“Ah! I was waiting for you! Please come in.” She moved back to let me through. “I’m Marine Clément, the owner. Welcome to the Auberge du bout de la rue!”
“Thank you, Ms. Clément.”
“Please! Call me Marine. Ms. Clément is my mother!” She laughed. “I don’t think I’m quite old enough to go by Ms.!”
“I will, if you call me Alexandra,” I replied brightly. “I couldn’t agree more, to be honest.” I leaned closer to add in a mock whisper: “Ever since I got here, everyone’s been calling me Ms. Dawson; it feels like I aged twenty years in a month. I feel like I should check for wrinkles every morning!”