The Chateau by the River

by Chloé Duval

  “I will carry you to your bedroom,” he said.

  “Mmmmh.”

  Gabrielle felt him lift her in his arms and carry her to the next room. The room she probably hadn’t spent more than thirty minutes in since she’d arrived. Mr. D’Arcy deposited her on the bed, and through the veil of sleep, she thought she felt his hand on her hair and his voice murmuring, “Sleep, Gabrielle. I will watch over you and your father.”

  Then she knew no more.

  Chapter 9

  Alexandra

  Chandeniers-sur-Vienne

  Present day

  After leaving Mr. Sarcasm, I returned to town. I wandered aimlessly through the streets, taking note of several posters advertising celebrations the following week. Apparently, this was the anniversary of the founding of the town, some thousand years ago, and a costume ball would launch a week of festivities.

  Amused, I promised myself I would find a costume and go. I reached the banks of the Vienne and spent an hour browsing through the stands of old books, barely resisting the urge to buy them all. I did fall for just one, a red leather-bound book whose cover seemed to be calling out to me. “Pick me, pick me!” the golden letters of the title seemed to cry. And because I am weak, I could not resist. Who could resist Jane Eyre, anyway? Especially when this edition featured a dedication that set my squishy little heart aflutter—To my Jane, from her Rochester. I love you.

  And so I became the happy owner of a fifth edition of my favorite book. You can never have too many books, right?

  * * * *

  After this literary interlude, I resumed my walk. Charmed by the city, I paused frequently to sit on a bench, the edge of a well or a flight of stairs and sketch the picturesque sights in front of me: the vast, shimmering waterwheel, the bookstands by the river, the main street and its cobblestones and adorable little shops, their wrought iron signs swinging in the breeze, the clock tower, the church belfry.…

  In the early evening, I had a croque-monsieur, a salad and a glass of white wine at a terrace with Edward Rochester for company.

  Night had fallen by the time I returned to the inn. Eager to try out the four-poster bed, I took a record shower and sprawled blissfully across the sheets. I was exhausted, both from the trip and the tiring weeks beforehand, not to mention the whole castle ordeal, and my body practically begged for a good night’s sleep. Yet I could not drift off. Too many images, thoughts and emotions were jumbled inside my head.

  I had at last found the birthplace of my French ancestors. I had visited the castle they had lived in, and discovered it was about to be torn down. I had met the owner, a frankly unpleasant man.

  I was happy, excited, bubbling, impatient and sad all at once.

  Giving up on sleep for the time being, I got up, put on some yoga pants and decided to go for some air. I left my laptop in its case but took my tablet, hoping I might be able to talk to Spencer. He had promised to call me as soon as he could, but I could still try my luck. I really wanted to hear his thoughts about the castle and its future—or lack of one.

  After several calls failed to connect, however, I could only conclude he was still in a meeting. I gave up on him for the time being and called my best friend instead.

  She answered at first ring.

  “Tell me everything. Have you seen the castle? I want to know every detail!”

  “Wow, you sure don’t waste any time.”

  “Well, we already spoke a few hours ago.”

  “True. How are my cats? Do they miss me?”

  “They’re fine, they’re not starving and they’re not depressed, don’t worry about them. Go on, tell me about the castle.”

  I briefed her about my meeting with the unpleasant owner of the castle, the visit and the dreary future that awaited the ruin if we couldn’t find a way to save it.

  “‘We’?” Bea noted. “Aren’t you jumping a little ahead of yourself, getting involved?”

  “I meant ‘he,’ of course. But really… I don’t know, Bea. It feels like such a shame to let it be destroyed.”

  “I know, sweetheart, but unless you have a couple of millions to invest or very rich relatives, I don’t see how you’re going to be of any help. And you’re returning to California in ten days, anyway. Kind of seems like short notice to start moving mountains.” She frowned. “You are coming back, right? I certainly hope you’re not going to chain yourself to a vineyard to stay in France!”

  I burst into laughter.

  “Don’t worry, I won’t. I’m still coming home as planned. I miss you and I miss my cats. And Spencer too.”

  “I notice Spencer comes after me and the cats. I’m not sure he would appreciate that.” She giggled.

  “Probably not!” I laughed even harder.

  “Speaking of Spencer, what does he think of all this?”

  “I couldn’t reach him; he’s very busy today.”

  “Ah, lawyers, always overworked.”

  “You’re telling me! The price of success, I guess.”

  Bea’s shrug was compassionate.

  “What are you going to do now?” she asked.

  I sighed and looked up. A shooting star trailed overhead, and I reflexively made a wish. Then I turned back to my friend.

  “About the castle? I don’t know. Mr. Sarcasm clearly told me it wasn’t any of my business. It’s his castle, after all.” I shrugged. “I’m just going to move my research elsewhere. There’s nothing more to see there; it’s really just ruins. I’m going to start looking for Thomas’s birth certificate. Maybe I can find it here, or maybe I’ll have to go and look in the department archives. In a few days, I’ll go to Angers to try and find Gabrielle’s. I’m hoping I come across traces of their parents too. I know I’m reaching a bit—that’s starting to stretch to quite a long time ago, after all. There’s a risk nothing exists anymore. But I’m hopeful I can find at least something to put me on the right track. I’ll also ask the town hall about the castle. If I’m lucky, someone may be able to point me to a historian able to tell me about the people who lived there…and Marine, the innkeeper, knows a lot about the town and its history. She’ll probably have things to tell me even if there’s no straightforward connection with my ancestors.”

  Bea smiled. “Ever the optimist.”

  “Six weeks in France weren’t enough to change me, you know.”

  “Thank goodness! Okay, beautiful, I have to go. It’s back to work for me.”

  “See you later, then.”

  “Keep me posted, okay? I want to know everything. I want to live your French adventures vicariously.”

  “I promise. But you might be disappointed. I’m not the adventurous type; you know that.”

  Once we’d hung up, I tilted my head back, gazing up at the stars again, lost in thought. The castle was at the forefront of my mind, and Éric Lagnel’s face drifted in front of my eyes. The look on his face when he had admitted he’d probably have to sell it had moved me. There had been deep regret in his eyes. Yet not once during the visit had he shown any attachment to the ruins. He’d answered all my questions dispassionately and cynically.

  I knew I hadn’t imagined the glint of sadness and pain that had flashed through his eyes. All right, it had quickly given way to anger, but it had been there. I was sure of it.

  Which meant that whatever he might pretend, the fate of the castle was important to him. Very important.

  I scowled and absentmindedly fiddled with the string on my yoga pants.

  I knew there was no lack of castles in the Loire valley—or in France—but was no one really going to do anything to save this one? It was a part of history that would disappear with it. A part of my own history too, in a way.

  But I had no idea where to start. And even if I did, he didn’t want my help. He’d made that much clear. I had no way to take action. I was nobody.

&nb
sp; Since my mind didn’t seem ready to go to sleep, I picked up my tablet again and opened a new browser window. The internet was one great information source, but it was also—some might even say especially—a place you could waste a lot of time. You know how it is—one minute you’re looking for a butter chicken recipe and suddenly it’s an hour later and you’re reading about rice fields in India…or watching cat videos.

  Since I was no exception to the rule, I started out checking the opening hours of the Chandeniers and Angers town halls, and a few minutes later I found myself researching ongoing castle restoration projects. I was so absorbed I didn’t hear Marine come up behind me.

  “Can’t sleep?”

  I leapt out of my chair like a cat caught red pawed murdering the local goldfish.

  “Oh my God, you scared me!” I gasped, a hand over my heart.

  “I’m sorry, I thought you’d heard me. I wasn’t exactly quiet.”

  “I was so caught up in my reading the world could have caught on fire without me noticing!” I joked.

  “Well, that certainly happens to me often enough. Can I sit with you? I found out some information I think you’re going to like.” There was an excited gleam in her eyes.

  “Really?” I perked up curiously, motioning for her to sit.

  “Really,” she confirmed, taking a seat across from me. “I went to the castle this afternoon, I wanted to check something.”

  “The castle of Ferté-Chandeniers?”

  “Yes! The owner is actually my cousin,” she explained, seeing the puzzled look on my face.

  “Éric Lagnel is your cousin?”

  “Yes. That’s the coincidence I wanted to tell you about when we got interrupted earlier.”

  Well, today certainly was a day for surprises.

  “I thought about your ancestor’s name, D’Arcy, all day,” she went on. “I was sure I’d heard it somewhere—apart from Jane Austen, of course,” she quipped, “but I couldn’t remember where. So I decided to look through the file my uncle, Éric’s father, put together about the castle. It was his passion—or, well, my aunt’s, but over time it became his too.”

  “Wait a minute,” I interrupted, one hand raised to try and stem the flow of information, slightly dizzy. “Éric’s father has a file on the castle? Where can I find him? I have a thousand questions for him!”

  Marine’s smile turned sad.

  “He passed away six months ago. Heart attack.”

  Oh.

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  “It was difficult for all of us, especially for Éric since he’d already lost his mother…he had to come back from Africa to take care of the inheritance and the castle his father had left him.”

  So Mr. Sarcasm had lost both his father and his mother! Which might explain why he was so cynical. Life had been harsh with him. What had he been doing in Africa? And the castle had belonged to his father before him?

  “Anyway,” Marine went on, “from what you told me about your ancestors, I was almost sure the file was where I had seen that name. So I checked.”

  “And? Did you find anything?” I pressed her.

  “I did,” she said mysteriously.

  My heart started beating wildly.

  “Tell me!”

  “Your ancestor was the executor for Victor Leroy de Saint-Armand, the last owner of the castle,” she announced.

  “He was in charge of making sure his will and testament were fulfilled.”

  “Exactly.” She paused, letting the tension rise unbearably. “But that’s not all.”

  “It isn’t?”

  “No.” She smiled mischievously. “He wasn’t just the executor, even though that was the main reason for his presence in the castle.”

  Excitement bubbled up inside me. I could barely sit still.

  “Marine, if you keep on maintaining the suspense, I might just die from anticipation,” I warned her.

  She leaned toward me, a giddy glint in her eyes.

  “According to the documents I found in my uncle’s file, your ancestor, Thomas D’Arcy, was the son of Victor—which means he was the heir to the castle.”

  She paused again, bright gaze fixed on me, and declared, “Alexandra, I think you’re descended from the last baron de Saint-Armand.”

  Chapter 10

  Gabrielle

  Castle of Ferté-Chandeniers

  November 1899

  Gabrielle awoke with a start to pitch blackness and was, for a moment, completely disoriented.

  Then everything came rushing back.

  The fever, the anxiety. Her father’s turn for the better, her relief. And Mr. D’Arcy’s arms around, carrying her, holding her close to his chest.

  His hand in her hair, her name on his lips, ringing with kindness and endearment.

  And her utter trust, the sensation that she was protected, soothed.

  Heat rose to her cheeks, and her pulse quickened.

  Oh Lord, what was he going to think of her?

  She closed her eyes and sighed deeply.

  She shouldn’t have collapsed against him, but she had been unable to stop herself. His arms had felt so right around her. As though that was where she belonged.

  Utter foolishness.

  Face scarlet and pulse throbbing in her temples, Gabrielle rose to her feet and groped for the oil lamp. She was unlikely to come across anyone at this time of the night, so she simply tugged at her dress to make it somewhat presentable and slipped out of the room without a glance in the mirror. She tiptoed down the corridor and eased open the door to her father’s room. To her relief, he was still peacefully asleep, his breathing calm and even.

  She was about to turn back, her mind at ease, when she caught sight of Mr. D’Arcy in “her” armchair, deeply asleep.

  At once, images of the previous evening flooded her mind, and she unthinkingly skirted the bed and came up to him, watching him with keen, curious eyes.

  Just then, with his tie loosened, his shirt slightly askew, and his hair wilder than ever, he looked…peaceful. Relaxed.

  He looked, she decided, like a child blissfully falling into sleep, knowing that he was perfectly safe from the world outside.

  Smiling softly, she fetched a blanket from the foot of the bed, unfolded it and spread it over him. Her fingers lingered, hesitated for a second. She longed to smooth down the unruly cowlick…in a burst of daring, she reached out until her hand brushed against the black curls, but retreated at the last minute. She couldn’t.

  Shaking her head slightly, Gabrielle stepped back. Any desire to return to her room had vanished. She took the other armchair across from the bed, her hands closing automatically on the nearest book.

  But her eyes never even touched the book; they were glued on her sleeping host.

  The man intrigued her. What secret hid behind his gray eyes, his undecipherable looks and scar?

  Gabrielle’s vivid imagination did not fail her. For an instant, she pictured her father’s mysterious benefactor as the captain of a ship, sailing the seas in search of bloodthirsty pirates, or as an army officer prepared to fight for king and country. In another life, she thought, in another century, he would have been a knight or a musketeer. Better still—a masked avenger, unsheathed blade shining in the pale moonlight or bow in hand, a Black Tulip or a Robin Hood, possibly Lagardère from the cloak-and-dagger novels she loved so much.

  Whatever the truth, whoever he was, one thing was very clear in Gabrielle’s eyes—Mr. D’Arcy was an honest, upstanding man, probably brave and heroic. In a word, the type of man novels were written about.

  As though he could feel her gaze upon him, he opened his eyes, immediately meeting hers. She smiled.

  “Good evening,” she whispered. “Or rather, good night.”

  “Good evening.” He sat up, the blanket fall
ing to his feet. “How do you feel? Did you sleep well?” he inquired immediately.

  His concern pleased her far more than it should have.

  “Even Sleeping Beauty could not have slept better than I did!” she jested softly. She paused, then added, more seriously: “Thank you for watching over my father.”

  “Of course. I promised you I would.”

  Gabrielle nodded slowly. A peaceful quiet fell over the room, barely troubled by Maurice’s calm, even breathing. Now that the anxiety and oppression that had been hanging over her ever since she arrived had vanished, Gabrielle felt invigorated, full of energy, eager to discover the castle her father had spoken of so fondly. One room in particular…

  She hesitated, biting at her cheek, hands playing with the leather cover of the book in her lap, wondering whether she dared. Curiosity finally took over.

  “Mr. D’Arcy? May I ask you something?”

  “Naturally, Mademoiselle Villeneuve. What is it?”

  “Would you…show me the library?”

  He raised an eyebrow.

  “Now?”

  Gabrielle shrugged. “You are not asleep, neither am I.… Why not?”

  He must have felt her impatience. An amused grin tugged at his lips, and he nodded. “Follow me.”

  * * * *

  It seemed like hours to Gabrielle, but it must have been only minutes. They walked a myriad of corridors, winding staircases, galleries each more sumptuous than the last. Some were lined with magnificent marble busts while others were guarded by standing suits of armor, but all of them were hung with works from master painters, rich hangings or tapestries from the Gobelins. In every room they crossed, Mr. D’Arcy lit the electric lamps. Light pooled from the gorgeous crystal chandeliers to spill over the many treasures housed inside the castle. Impressed, slightly intimidated, Gabrielle looked around, convinced she would never manage to take everything in, absorb it, commit it to memory.

  Never in her entire life had she been close to so many riches. It was simply…

  “Magnificent!” she exclaimed when they entered a gigantic gallery lined with mirrors in which their reflections seemed to go on and on. A real-life fairy tale!