The Chateau by the River

by Chloé Duval

  And in my mind’s eye, the landscape flying beneath us superimposed itself on the plans I had found in Éric’s father’s file, on the images I had pictured as I read Gabrielle’s diary.

  Here was the ballroom, and the balcony that looked over the moat at the back of the castle. In this vast wing, the largest of all, was the library that had sheltered so many precious works. There, in the wing that was still standing, had been the servants’ quarters where Maurice had remained bedridden for so long. If I called upon my imagination, I could almost see Gabrielle and Thomas come and go in the snow-filled courtyard, watch the snowflakes fall through the window, fall in love little by little.

  So many lives, so many memories, so many moments of happiness that were in danger of disappearing a second time, and this time for good.

  No.

  It couldn’t be. I refused to accept it. Today more than ever, I refused to accept all of this could disappear. I would fight for this castle to survive this hardship the way it had all of the others.

  For once in my life, I would leave my mark upon something.

  For once in my life, I would do something truly useful.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Éric’s face darken, and impulsively slipped my hand into his.

  “We’re going to save it, Éric,” I murmured as the balloon glided away from the castle. “I swear we will.”

  He didn’t reply, but I saw his slight nod, and his hand tightened around mine.

  For long seconds we remained silent.

  Then, as we coasted by the town of Chandeniers, Éric pointed to a building.

  “See that big building there?”

  “Yes, what is it? It looks like a huge barn.”

  “It’s a kind of art gallery, halfway between a museum and an exhibition center. I don’t know if they’re still there, but there used to be a few pictures of the castle dating back to before the fire.”

  My breath caught in my lungs.

  Oh my God!

  Photos of the castle as it was in Gabrielle and Thomas’s day!

  “There weren’t a lot,” Éric went on, “maybe four or five.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me earlier? I have to go there!”

  “I didn’t think of it. I haven’t…I haven’t been there in a long time. Once we went there often with my father. It’s...it’s where he met my mother. She was head of the gallery.”

  “Oh. I see. Marine told me about your parents. Their story was…beautiful,” I murmured.

  “It was. A shame it ended in tragedy, right? Like all beautiful stories.”

  My heart clenched.

  “I’m really sorry about your parents, Éric.”

  He only nodded, his gaze faraway.

  * * * *

  The landing was smooth—almost. At the last minute, just as Franck was going to complete a perfect maneuver and alight like a leaf gliding on the surface of the water, a treacherous gust of wind rocked the basket and made it bounce one, twice, three times. We’d all been crouched down, but somehow, I ended up in Éric’s arms, my back against his chest, sitting sideways across his legs.

  His arms closed around me as though to keep me from being tossed about. And if I didn’t pull away, it was only because I was safety conscious. Very conscious of my safety. It had nothing to do with the feeling of warmth and contentment that suffused me. When at last the aircraft fell still, the weight of the envelope and the inertia tipped it over, pushing me even farther into Éric’s arms.

  “Sorry,” Franck apologized, pushing himself up onto one elbow and switching the last machinery off. “Sometimes the landings are a little rougher than planned.”

  “No harm done,” Éric assured him. “That wasn’t so bad.”

  His arms still around me, his voice a low, throaty purr in my ear, he asked, “You all right, princess?”

  A shiver ran up my spine.

  “Fine.” I was short of breath.

  “How’s your ankle?”

  “No worse than before.”

  “Okay. Think you can get up?”

  “Yeah, no problem.”

  He didn’t let go of me.

  “You can stop holding me now,” I risked, trying to ignore my frantic heartbeat while Franck dragged himself out the basket. “I’m not going to fall.”

  It was the adrenaline of the landing that had made my heartbeat skyrocket, it had to be.

  “That’s true,” Éric’s voice said in my ear.

  But he didn’t move. And after a few seconds, I realized I wasn’t moving either. It seemed to me that every cell in my body was hyperaware of Éric’s proximity. I felt his breath upon my neck, his chest against my back, the small of my back pressing—involuntarily!—against the front of his pants.

  My head spun, and this time, there was no wine to use as an excuse. And deep down, I knew it had nothing to do with a lack of sleep either.

  It was him, and him alone, that set my senses afire.

  And for an instant, I wanted more than anything for him to kiss me. I wanted it so much that it scared me.

  Fudge. Fudge fudge fudge.

  I had to move. Fast.

  I was about to do just that when a small twitch on Éric’s part informed me that he wasn’t indifferent either to the closeness of our bodies. The sudden desire that blazed in my lower stomach was almost painful in its intensity.

  Just then, Franck popped his head over the edge of the basket.

  “You all right in there? Need any help climbing out?”

  “We’re fine, thanks!” I rushed to reply.

  Clearing my throat, I broke free of Éric’s arms—he released me without protest—and crawled out of the basket.

  Once the envelope had been folded and the gear packed away in the van Franck’s assistants had been following us in, we joined them for the traditional celebratory drink. We toasted our first balloon flight with a delicious glass of wine right where we had landed, in a field before a picturesque vineyard and its manor. We lazed about in the sun for over an hour, talking and reliving the high points of our experience.

  As usual, Éric was taciturn and I was chatty enough for two, asking everyone about their jobs or why they had chosen to do this.

  Time fairly flew by and soon enough, it was time for us to return to our starting point, where we had left my rental car.

  We drove in semisilence, Franck’s team talking among themselves while I listened, half lost in thought. As for Éric…I wasn’t sure what he was doing. He seemed…unsettled. And I couldn’t help but wonder whether it was due to us flying over the castle and talking about his parents…or something else.

  Several times, I felt his gaze rest on me. And each time, I tried to ignore the quivering sensation in my stomach.

  Back at the car, we drove back toward Angers without a glance toward the pastries still waiting inside. After checking out of our hotel, we left for Chandeniers.

  And during all this time, we didn’t exchange a single word.

  “Do you want me to put on some music?” I asked after a while.

  “If you want to.”

  I reached for the radio, then changed my mind.

  “I have a better idea. I could read the next part of Gabrielle’s diary to you. I don’t know about you, but I’m dying to know who Thomas’s father was.”

  “If you want to,” he repeated.

  “Gee, contain your enthusiasm,” I grouched.

  He shook his head and stole a glance toward me.

  “Sorry. I think the lack of sleep is catching up to me.”

  “Want me to drive?” I immediately offered. “I can, you know. My ankle barely hurts.”

  “No, I’m fine. And I don’t believe you. I saw you grimace earlier when you were walking. I’ll drive, but please read, it’s a great idea.” His smile was strai
ned.

  I raised my eyebrows but didn’t push it. I took out Gabrielle’s diary and flipped to where I had left off the day before, summarizing briefly for Éric’s benefit—who was who, who did what, who flirted with whom. I introduced him to the dogs, explaining that Thomas had found them one morning in the stables and had taken them in. I teased him for his resemblance to Thomas.

  Then I plunged back into the story, discovering the truth behind Thomas’s father through Gabrielle’s eyes.

  I had to stop often, throat tight, when I read what Thomas had suffered. I shared Gabrielle’s rage as she heard those horrors.

  My wrath vanished as soon as Gabrielle realized her feelings for Thomas, and I allowed the butterflies in my stomach free rein. My heart beat to the same rhythm as hers when their faces drew close. Hands clenched on the diary, I had to force myself not to skip lines, whole paragraphs, and shout, “Just kiss her!” And like Gabrielle, I could have strangled that loathsome Mr. Choiseul for interrupting their moment.

  And when Gabrielle and Thomas played in the snow, the sheer absurdity of the situation almost made me laugh out loud. And I probably would have burst into laughter if tears hadn’t been streaming down my cheeks.

  I felt ridiculous, stupid, completely off course.

  A sob wrenched itself free of my throat, surprising me.

  “Hey, Alexandra,” Éric said gently, wrapping an arm around my shoulders.

  I didn’t know when we’d grown familiar enough with each other that it seemed natural for him to do such a thing.

  “I’m okay,” I sniffled, wiping the tears away. “I’m just…I’m just tired, don’t worry about it. It’ll pass.”

  But the tears didn’t pass, not right away at least. Éric pulled me toward him and hugged me, one hand stroking my hair, letting me cry my eyes out. I almost thought I felt his lips on the top of my head, but I must have been mistaken.

  When my tears ran dry, I was painfully aware of his hand running through my hair, a gesture that was both soothing and electrifying, of the warmth of his body, of his heartbeat against the hand that had curled on his chest as though it had a mind of its own.

  It felt so right there, nestled in his arms. Like Gabrielle in Thomas’s arms, I felt…cocooned.

  I didn’t want to leave the comfort of his embrace.

  But I had to leave the comfort of his embrace.

  I couldn’t go there. I couldn’t let my body react to Éric the way it did. It was a mistake. Éric wasn’t for me. I had Spencer. I loved Spencer. With all my heart. I was going to marry him.

  So why did the thought of spending the rest of my days with him seem like a jail sentence just then?

  I had to move away from Éric. Immediately.

  Seizing my courage, I cleared my throat and pulled away, ignoring the sensation of heartbreak that gripped me.

  “I had no idea—” I said, looking down at my folded hands. “I knew his past was dark, but I had no idea how dark. I thought…I thought those kinds of things only happened in books.”

  “I know. Life…life is unfair sometimes.”

  “So you’ve said, often enough.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I’m glad he had Gabrielle to bring him some measure of happiness.”

  “Some women are the redemption of men. They are…a bright light in a dull and drab existence. Gabrielle was one of those.”

  His words moved me, and I found I still had a few tears left. I hurriedly wiped them away.

  “God, I’m so stupid. Crying over a story that’s a hundred and twenty years old.”

  “It’s not a hundred and twenty years old to you. You threw yourself into this story like it was your own, so it’s only natural for you to be emotional.”

  I sat straighter and gaped at him, surprised yet not that he had once again seen straight to the core of the matter. He reached out and wiped the lingering tears on my cheeks, exactly like Thomas had done for Gabrielle.

  His fingers burned like fire on my skin, and yet I had to fight not to nuzzle into his palm.

  “Are you all right?”

  I nodded. “I’m okay. Thanks. Sorry about that. You really must think of me as a kid.”

  “Not at all. I understand. But we should get out of the car now, before Marine starts wondering what we’ve been doing for the past ten minutes in here. And judging from the barking, Max is eager to greet us.”

  I then became aware that we were parked in front of the inn. Once more, I had been so consumed by my reading that I hadn’t noticed anything going on around me.

  I hastily checked that my little crying jag hadn’t made a mess of my face and cursed inwardly when I saw that it had. As Éric stepped out of the car, I pasted a smile on my face and opened the door.

  It was time to get back into the real world—and draw away from Éric before I was no longer able to.

  Chapter 22

  Gabrielle

  Castle of Ferté-Chandeniers

  December 1899

  “Where should we put it?”

  “There.” Gabrielle pointed to a pedestal table in the corner of the ballroom.

  “Very well.”

  Wordlessly, Guillaume and Arnaud Colin set the huge gramophone down. The photographer turned to her.

  “Anything else? A grand piano, a double bass, an organ, the entire symphonic orchestra from Vienna?”

  Both of Gabrielle’s eyebrows rose high into her flyaway hair. Arnaud had clearly loosened up since he had come to the castle, and he sometimes even bantered with her. She had been the first one surprised.

  “Well,”—she pretended to think—“now that you mention it, there is the piano in the billiard room.…”

  Seeing his eyes widen, she hastily added, smiling: “It was only a jest! The gramophone should be enough. Thank you for your help. Now remember, not a word. I want this to be a surprise!”

  Both men nodded.

  “Perfect! Again, thank you both.”

  “At your service, fair maiden,” Arnaud declared before he followed Guillaume out of the room.

  He has changed, Gabrielle thought. There’s no stopping him now.

  Especially when his unbearable friend was not around, as was the case today. Mr. Choiseul had had to leave for “urgent business that required his immediate attention.”

  Such a shame, Gabrielle lamented, we will not be able to ring in the New Year with him. I do not believe I shall ever get over it!

  Chuckling at her own jibe, Gabrielle turned to the gramophone. She had better check now that it was in working order, rather than discover it was broken that evening once everyone had gathered in the ballroom. She deposited a record on the turntable and cranked the handle to wind it up. As the table began to turn, she placed the stylus into the groove of the record. After a short burst of static, the opening notes of The Blue Danube rang out.

  Gabrielle smiled in satisfaction.

  The machine worked perfectly. Well, the sound was not strong enough to fill the ballroom. It did not carry further than a few meters around the horn, but the dancers would not be many. It would do well enough.

  Gabrielle was delighted. She knew her surprise would enchant everyone, her father especially. Maurice loved to dance, and he’d had precious little chance to since Héloïse’s death.

  A familiar wave of nostalgia washed over her, and she swallowed the lump threatening to form in her throat. She usually managed to deal with the absence and the void left by her mother. She had grown used to it. But today the pain flared stronger than ever.

  And Gabrielle knew exactly why.

  She missed Thomas. She missed him so very much. She missed his eyes, his smile. She missed their conversations late at night in the library. She missed his very presence, the sound of his footsteps on the carpet, the way he said her name, with a barely detectable hint of
an English accent. The look on his face when he was with Duchesse and the puppies, his gentle manner with them, with her. The light in his eyes when their gazes met… She missed every part of him, so much that at times she couldn’t breathe.

  She wished she could confide in her mother, ask her whether it was normal for her to feel such a gaping emptiness when he was parted from her, as though half her soul had been cut out. But she could not. Héloïse was no longer there to hear her talk of her first love and provide her with wise advice. So Gabrielle kept her questions to herself and filled the emptiness as best she could, pouring her hardships into her diary instead.

  Eyes closed, heart and mind overflowing with melancholy, Gabrielle swayed to the waltz’s gentle melody. Carried away by the music, she gathered her skirts in one hand, eyes still firmly shut, and spun as she hummed, the world fading away.

  As though her prince, the man of her dreams, were not hundreds of kilometers away but on her arm.

  Thomas had been gone three weeks already, and it had been seven days since she had last heard from him.

  She missed his letters. They had filled a little of the loneliness that his absence had created in her life and heart.

  Gabrielle had been the first one surprised when Hélène had handed her a small envelope, three days after Thomas’s departure. She had been in the library with her father, assiduously working on the inventory, when the governess had come in to deliver the daily reports Étienne sent from the bookstore to Maurice. But instead of returning to her usual tasks afterward, she had headed toward Gabrielle, and, with a knowing smile, had deposited the letter in front of her. Gabrielle’s heart had leapt when she had read the name of the sender.

  Blushing, she had slipped it into her pocket. Anticipation ate her alive, but she wanted to be alone to read it. She’d waited all day, and in the evening, once Maurice and the others had retired for the night, she had padded to the library and sat on their love seat. She’d unsealed the letter and pulled out an ivory-colored sheet of paper folded over an exquisite dried white-and-red rose. Its scent was still fragrant. There had been a few words on the paper.