Chateau of Secrets: A Novel (7 page)

But if Papa had already left the château, she would have to care for herself. Like she’d wanted to do in Paris.

She lifted the telephone receiver from the cradle, to call Tante Corinne and see if she’d heard from Philippe, but the line was dead. Sighing, she dropped the receiver back onto the brass bands.

She leaned back against the open window, the warm moonlight casting shadows over the office. In the silence of her home, she listened to the sound of her breathing. Was Papa someplace inside the house? Or were there Germans hiding upstairs?

No matter how much she hoped the Germans had kept marching down the valley, she didn’t know for certain, and she hated this, the feeling that her home was no longer a safe place.

Something moved behind the desk, and her breath caught in her throat. Clenching her fists, she willed herself to be strong, but her courage dissolved within her. She turned to flee back out of the window until she heard the softest of meows from under the desk. The trappings of her breath slipped out as she ducked under the desktop.

The source of her fear was crouched in the dark corner. A kitten.

“How did you get in here?” she whispered as she gently pulled him out into the light.

The kitten reached up with its paw and batted her nose.

She cradled him close to the window, brushing her face over his soft gray fur. On his neck was a white fleck in the shape of a star, and she could feel his tiny ribs through his skin.

“If Papa found you, he would put you right back outside where you belong,” she said, scolding him.

She scratched his chin, and he purred back at her. A kitten could do nothing to protect her, yet somehow it made her feel more secure, bold even, to have it near. She dug through the top drawer of Papa’s desk until she found the flashlight he kept for when the electricity failed. Then, the kitten in her arms, she
crept through the large dining salon, past the long table and massive fireplace with the three lambs carved on the mantel. On her left side, a row of windows framed the courtyard,
chapelle
, and long drive. On the other side of the room four windows overlooked the river valley and the grassy hill and forest across the valley.

“Papa?” she called out again as she tiptoed into the foyer. No one responded, but the front door was partially open.

Had someone been here, or had Papa left the door open when he left?

She closed it.

On the other side of the foyer was the kitchen, and when she stepped inside, she flipped on the flashlight and set the kitten beside the brick fireplace. Copper pots hung neatly on each side of the mantel and two cast iron kettles rested along the hearth. The fireplace was built when the château was renovated in the seventeenth century, but their cook only used the white gas oven her parents had installed before she was born.

Gisèle stared at the spokes on the range and then looked at the three drawers beside it. She should make Michel some bread or something else, but how was she supposed to feed her brother when she didn’t even know how to light an oven?

She sighed. Just because she wanted to help didn’t mean she was able to do it.

Opening up the refrigerator door, she removed a pint of milk and trickled it into a bowl for—

She looked back down at the kitten as he lapped up the milk. “What should I call you?”

There were too many silly pet names—Fluffy, Tiger, Smudge. But this kitten was smart, hiding from the Germans. Shadow—that’s what she would call him.

Then she scanned the contents in the refrigerator. There was a tub of butter, along with salami and cheese. On the counter was a half loaf of
pain noir
, the hardy black bread their cook liked to bake. It wasn’t much food, but she hoped it would sustain her brother until the Germans left.

She set the flashlight on the counter and reached for a glass goblet to fill with water when the door to the kitchen swung open. Shadow leapt up on the counter, and she dropped the goblet as she whirled around, glass shattering across the floor.

Someone stood at the door, but she couldn’t see their face. Sweeping the flashlight off the counter, she shined it toward the door.

“Émilie,” she said with a sigh, her heart calming. “What are you doing here?”

The older woman tossed her valise onto the wooden table that stood before the fireplace. “I tried to walk to Cahagnes, but didn’t get far.”

Gisèle sank back against the counter. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s no matter,” Émilie said, eyeing the salami and cheese on the counter. “I don’t know what is to become of us, but in the meantime, I can help you and your father.”

“I need you, but . . .”

Her gaze fell to the kitten lapping milk on the floor. “You better take that cat outside before Vicomte Duchant sees it.”

“Papa’s not here.”

Émilie’s eyes welled up with worry. “Where is he?”

Gisèle swallowed hard, trying to calm the fear that sparked fresh inside her. She didn’t tell Émilie about the soldiers she’d seen marching toward the château. “He was planning to head south, after Philippe and I left, but we didn’t get past Saint-Lô. I spent the night at the Batiers.”

Émilie glanced back toward the door. “Is his automobile still here?”

“I haven’t checked the carriage house yet.”

“What about Philippe?”

“I don’t know.” She couldn’t consider the possibility that he’d been injured, but the bombs had been falling and people stampeded in their frantic attempt to escape them.

“It will not be safe for you here,” Émilie said.

“I’m afraid no place is safe in France.”

“Perhaps I could stay and help you find your father?”

“I will go check the carriage house.” Gisèle rapped her knuckles on the stovetop, the loneliness beginning to fade away. “Can you bake some bread tonight?”

“It doesn’t seem right to bake . . .”

“I want to take it to those who are hungry.” She paused. “Like my mother used to do.”

Émilie tilted her head slightly, studying Gisèle’s face. “Your mother used to take food every week to the children in the orphanage.”

Gisèle nodded. When she was younger, she’d sometimes joined her mother to deliver the baskets of fresh vegetables and bread. “I’m not going to the orphanage.”

Émilie opened the refrigerator. “But we can pretend you are.”

Gisèle picked up Shadow. The world outside might be spiraling, but here inside the château, perhaps she and Émilie would find peace. Until Papa or Philippe returned, it would be their refuge in the storm.

S
aturday night’s dinner was supposed to be a casual affair, but Austin’s mother wore pearls with her ivory cocktail dress and coral cardigan. The table was set with antique silver and crystal goblets and folded napkins on the china plates. I wore the same yellow sundress I’d worn at today’s luncheon, but still I felt underdressed.

Mr. and Mrs. Vale anchored each end of their dining room table. On one side, Mrs. Vale sipped a mint julep with shaved ice. On the other, Mr. Vale drank his bourbon straight up. I sat across from Austin’s older sister, Lisa, and Austin faced his brother—a sixteen-year-old skateboarder officially named Lawrence, though for some reason unknown to me, everyone called him Vos.

Lisa’s husband, Wyatt, was absent from the meal. I’d only seen Wyatt twice in the year since I began dating Austin, but in his absence Mrs. Vale touted his successes as a busy executive, as if the family could somehow take credit for his accolades.

Marissa had tried to talk me out of coming tonight, tempting me with an evening out at Tarrant’s instead to celebrate the end of the school year. Marissa thought I spent way too much time pandering to Austin and his campaign. Before he proposed, she’d tried to talk me into breaking up with him, saying I should be with
someone who loved me much more than Austin ever could. Now that we were engaged, she tolerated him, but sometimes I wondered if an undercurrent of jealousy drove her to dislike him. Still I missed hanging out with my best friend. I’d asked her to celebrate at the gala with me last night, but she declined. Even though we were on the phone, I knew the exact moment she’d rolled her eyes.

“A gala is work,” she informed me. “You need an official ‘Hooray—summer is finally here’ party that doesn’t involve politics.”

I promised to celebrate with her next week, but now I’d have to reschedule. I didn’t need a coordinator for my wedding. I needed one for my life.

Mrs. Vale cupped her manicured hands and held them out to her daughter. “Please pass the green beans.”

Lisa reached for the bowl on the sideboard behind her and passed it along. The beans were followed by Virginia ham, rosemary potatoes, and French bread from Patty Wilson’s chain of boutique bakeries.

Lisa began buttering her bread. “I wish I could go to New York with you on Tuesday.”

I glanced up at her and then over at Austin, confused. Just an hour ago, after a conversation with both Austin and Olivia, I’d texted my mom with the go-ahead to buy plane tickets. She’d booked me on the first flight out on Tuesday, through New York, but I hadn’t even told Austin it was a done deal.

Lisa smiled at me as if she was conspiring. “We could storm Fifth Avenue together in search of your trousseau.”

“I won’t have time . . .”

Lisa glanced at Austin. “Does Starla still own a shop in Manhattan?”

He choked on his bite of ham.

I poked my fork into a potato. “Who’s Starla?”

Austin took a long sip of water, recovering before he replied. “An old family friend.”

I turned back to Lisa. “I’m only flying through New York.”

Now Lisa seemed confused. “Aren’t you going with Austin to the fund-raiser?”

I put down my fork—I didn’t know anything about a fund-raiser.

Austin lifted his glass of sweet tea. “Chloe’s leaving for France on Tuesday.”

In his ambiguity, it sounded as if I were going on vacation.

Mrs. Vale took the potatoes from Lisa. “Why in the world are you going to France?”

“I think it’s fantastic,” Lisa said. “You can storm the shops in Paris instead.”

Austin winked at me. “An excellent idea.”

“Perhaps I will,” I said, trying to match my voice with the lightness in his, but I wasn’t letting him off the hook. I’d wait and ask about the fund-raiser when we were alone—there was no sense in pointing out my ignorance in front of his entire family.

Mrs. Vale dished a small serving of potatoes onto her plate. “Austin tells us the wedding plans are going well.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I replied.

Vos snorted at my formality, but even after a year of dating Austin, I wasn’t quite sure what to call her.
Mrs. Vale
didn’t sound right. Neither did
Katherine
. Austin and Lisa called her
Mother
, but I figured I needed an invite to use that title. And even if she suggested it, I wasn’t sure I could say the word. Katherine Vale was nothing like my mother. For the moment, I was sticking with
ma’am
.

“Lisa can help you finalize the décor for your reception. She has excellent taste.”

“Mother!” Lisa sputtered. “Chloe has wonderful taste too.”

If Mrs. Vale had been sitting beside me, I was certain she would have patted my hand, but instead she indulged me with a strained smile. “I’m sure you do, dear, but it’s good to rely on the experts for something as big as this.”

Austin reached for my hand instead, as if his touch would erase her insult.

“Patty Wilson told me she will make your cake,” Mrs. Vale said.

I glanced at Austin. “But my mother was planning—”

“For heaven’s sake, Katherine,” Mr. Vale interrupted, “it’s her wedding. Let her choose who makes the cake.”

Austin looked at his dad. “Patty and Robert are some of our largest contributors.”

“And they will continue to contribute, even if Patty doesn’t bake your damn cake,” Mr. Vale said. “Robert has much bigger reasons to have you in office than to secure business for his wife.”

Mrs. Vale stabbed one of her potatoes. “But Patty makes the best cakes in Richmond.”

Heat rose to my face. It was one thing to insult me, quite another to insult my mother. “I don’t think—”

Austin squeezed my hand a bit harder than necessary. “Perhaps this isn’t the right time to have this discussion.”

“It’s only a cake,” Vos said as he rolled his eyes. “I’ll make it.”

I slowly chewed a piece of the ham. While I loved Austin, dinners like these might drive me mad. Perhaps after the wedding I could use whatever excuse Wyatt had contrived to go AWOL. In my absence, perhaps Mrs. Vale would begin to sing my praises.

The doorbell rang, and the housekeeper bustled down the hall to the door. Seconds later, the former runner-up for Miss Virginia—Megan Browning—stepped onto a different kind of stage, the theater of the Vale family dining room. Her blond hair was smoothed back into a neat ponytail and she wore a fitted shirt over black leggings. Even though she was almost twice his age, Vos gawked at her.

Megan shifted her briefcase into her left hand, breaking the awkward silence. “I didn’t mean to interrupt your dinner.”

Mr. Vale threw his napkin onto the table and pushed back his chair. “Megan’s helping me write an opinion for Monday morning.”

“But you’ve hardly eaten . . . ,” Mrs. Vale said.

He lifted his plate from the table. “I’ll finish in my office.”

Vos leaned slightly to watch Megan’s backside as she disappeared down the hall.

“Lawrence,” Mrs. Vale snapped from the other end of the table. “Pass the potatoes.”

Vos glanced away long enough to retrieve the silver platter in front of him and pass it along to his mother. Mrs. Vale added another spoonful of potatoes to the pile already on her plate.

I shifted uncomfortably on the hard seat. The family liked to pretend Justice Vale wasn’t sleeping with his law clerk, and I tried to ignore this fact with the rest of them. The thought made me queasy. Megan had graduated from George Mason University two years ago with her degree in law, but I doubted Justice Vale had hired her for the degree. Silently I wondered how much he paid her to assist him.