The Chateau on the Lake (16 page)

‘Citoyen Louis Capet.’ Monsieur Viard corrected me with a half smile.

‘Of course. And when we mentioned that we wished to retreat to a cottage somewhere in the country, Monsieur d’Aubery kindly offered to rent us a house.’

‘And I believe Madame Levesque is expecting a happy event?’

‘Her husband’s last gift to her,’ I say. ‘Thankfully, her spirits are much improved now.’ I straighten my lesson notes neatly on the teacher’s desk. ‘Everything is ready here.’

‘And I’m late for luncheon.’

We leave the schoolroom and I close the door behind me.

‘Maman doesn’t like me to be late,’ says Monsieur Viard with a wry smile as we hurry along the corridor. ‘I have my own suite of rooms next to hers but we always take our meals together in the housekeeper’s parlour.’

‘I hope the children won’t make too much noise as they come and go,’ I say as we start down the stairs.

Angry voices drift up from below and as we reach the bottom step I wonder if it’s an altercation between the servants.

Monsieur Viard stands still and I see that an angry flush colours his cheeks.

Then the door to the housekeeper’s parlour is flung back against the wall and a small man in a greasy-looking jacket and wooden
sabots
staggers out.

Madame Viard appears in the doorway with her hands on her hips. Her high-crowned cap is crooked and its silk ribbons loosened. ‘Don’t you ever try that again, you lecherous bastard! You’re drunk, Marcel, and I won’t have you in this room until you’ve sobered up.’

Marcel glares at us with bloodshot eyes. ‘What are you looking at?’ he demands.

Monsieur Viard’s jaw is set as he steps forward, his fists clenching as he towers over the smaller man. ‘Get back to work!’ he says.

The man stares back at him belligerently and there is an uneasy moment while I wonder if they will come to blows, but eventually Marcel drops his gaze and shambles off down the stairs.

‘Are you all right, Maman?’ Monsieur Viard takes his mother in his arms.

She clings to him for a moment, crimson spots of anger on her cheeks. ‘He’s a good-for-nothing peasant!’

‘I’ll come back in a moment,’ he says, kissing her forehead.

She nods and wipes away a tear before retreating into her quarters.

Silently, Monsieur Viard and I walk down the stairs side by side.

‘Thank you for showing me the tower,’ I say, as we reach the servants’ lobby.

‘I’m sorry you had to witness that unpleasant scene,’ he says. A muscle still flickers in his jaw.

‘As long as your mother is unharmed…’

‘I would never let anyone hurt Maman.’ The intensity of feeling in his voice leaves me in no doubt that he means what he says.

‘Goodbye, then.’

Unsmiling, Monsieur Viard inclines his head in the smallest of bows. I’ve barely stepped over the threshold when the door closes behind me.

 

 

Sophie and Babette are sewing in companionable silence at the table in the dining room.

‘I’ve eaten,’ says Sophie. ‘I was too hungry to wait for you but yours is on a covered tray in the kitchen.’

‘I’ll fetch it and sit beside you,’ I say.

A few moments later I’m eating my cold meat and bread. ‘Babette? Who is Marcel?’

Our young maid looks up from her stitching. ‘Marcel Viard? Madame Viard’s husband?’

Carefully, I put down my fork. ‘I suppose he must be.’ Thoughtfully, I chew on a piece of bread. It’s hard to imagine that weasel-faced Marcel can be the housekeeper’s husband, or indeed Jean-Luc’s father. Perhaps, before he developed his fondness for the bottle, he’d been a more prepossessing young man? Whatever the case may be, Jean-Luc appears to feel little affection for his father. And who can blame him?

The following afternoon I wait outside the servants’ entrance until the children begin to arrive from the village. The smallest hold their older sisters’ or brothers’ hands and the others chatter together in groups.

At last all twelve children are here and I clap my hands to gain their attention. ‘Good afternoon, children. I am Mademoiselle Moreau and you may call me Mademoiselle. First of all, are there any of you who would like to visit the privy before we start our lessons?’

Twelve pairs of solemn eyes study me.

One little girl comes forward and stands before me, twisting her skirt in embarrassment.

‘Good girl.’ I smile at her. ‘It’s just around the corner behind the hedge. Run along now and we’ll wait for you.’

Half the other children step forward then and I shoo them off. They run, laughing and squealing, to the necessary house. I call one boy back after I see him push another child.

‘And what is your name?’ I ask the miscreant.

‘Emile Porcher.’

‘You will not push the other children again, Emile, unless you wish to spend the next two hours standing in the corner. Do you understand me?’

‘Yes.’ He pouts and refuses to meet my gaze.

‘Yes,
Mademoiselle
.’ I tip up his chin until he is forced to look at me.

‘Yes, Mademoiselle.’

‘Good. Remember that I will be watching you. Off you go!’

Emile swaggers away and I sigh. We haven’t even started our lesson and already I’ve found the class troublemaker.

Once the children are all assembled again I make them stand in an orderly line and bid them to be silent until we reach the schoolroom. As we tramp up the stairs I notice that the door to the housekeeper’s parlour is firmly closed.

Inside the schoolroom I call the children forward, one by one, to sit before the slate that bears their name. I set them to work making a fair copy. Soon a dozen little heads are bent over their slates and I experience again the thrill of believing that perhaps I can make a real difference to young minds.

Nearly two hours later I finish reading the children a story and then draw the lessons to a close. I’m preparing to escort them downstairs again when the door opens.

‘Children, please rise as we have a visitor,’ I say.

Dutifully, they scramble to their feet.

‘Good afternoon, children,’ says Jean-Luc Viard. He stands with his powerful legs apart and his arms held behind his back and fixes them one by one with a stern eye. ‘Have you all been good?’

There is an answering chorus of, ‘Yes, sir,’ and ‘Very good, sir.’

‘Is this the truth, Mademoiselle Moreau? Or do I need to bring my birch switch to teach them another lesson?’ He regards me with a quizzical eye and it’s all I can do not to smile.

‘The children have been most attentive,’ I say, glancing at young Emile, who squirms on the bench and attempts to look nonchalant.

‘I am very pleased to hear it.’ Monsieur Viard’s face splits into a wide grin. ‘In that case…’ From behind his back he brings a plate mounded with slices of bread, liberally spread with jam.

A moment or two later the children’s smiling faces are also smeared with jam.

I clap my hands and chivvy my charges into a crocodile. ‘Now remember, not a word until we’re outside!’

They clatter downstairs and Monsieur Viard and I follow.

The children line up to shake my hand before dismissal. ‘Now all go straight home and no dawdling on the way! I’ll see you here again on Tuesday afternoon.’

‘And I shall call by to see that you are behaving yourselves,’ says Monsieur Viard as the children scamper off.

‘That was thoughtful of you, to bring the bread and jam,’ I say. ‘Some of the poor little mites look as if they don’t have enough to eat.’

‘They probably don’t, with the price of bread what it is these days. Still, I’m not sure I needed to come and threaten them, after all. You appeared to have everything perfectly under control.’

I smile. ‘I’ve been teaching for long enough to know how to manage a classroom of children.’

Monsieur Viard looks serious again. ‘There’s something I wish to discuss with you. May I walk you home?’

He takes the basket of books from my arms and we set off along the path towards the house.

‘What is it you wanted to say?’

Monsieur Viard rubs his nose and sighs. ‘First I apologise for the unpleasant confrontation with my father yesterday. I suppose all families must have their crosses to bear. For Maman and myself, it is my father.’

‘Think nothing of it,’ I say lightly.

Monsieur Viard glances at me sideways. ‘There’s something else,’ he says, ‘of a delicate nature. I hesitate to raise the subject but I feel it is my duty to do so.’ He appears to be agitated and begins to walk much faster until I am obliged to trot along beside him to keep up.

I experience a flicker of fear. Could he have somehow discovered the secret of where Sophie and I have come from?

‘As I said, it is of a delicate nature and I have no wish to cause you embarrassment. Quite the opposite, in fact.’ Jean-Luc’s usually laughing eyes are serious.

Nonplussed, I say nothing.

‘Etienne and I have known each other all our lives and I believe no one understands him better than I. It is clear to me, even though he denies it, that he has become uncommonly fond of you. And why would he not? You are very beautiful…’

‘Monsieur Viard!’ I protest.

He holds up a hand. ‘I state that not as flattery but as fact. Besides, I saw you in the doorway together the other night.’

Embarrassed and annoyed that he had witnessed that special moment, I look away.

‘In truth,’ says Monsieur Viard, ‘I believe you have stolen Etienne’s heart, but the sincere feelings of friendship I hold for you will not allow me to stand by and watch him make you false promises.’

I’m alarmed. ‘But he has made me no promises.’

‘I have seen how he looks at you and I believe you return his sentiments. It’s unfair of him to show you affection that might lead you to hope that he
will
make you promises.’

Irritation is mixed with my unease. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘Then I must be cruel to be kind.’

‘Please tell me what it is,’ I say frostily.

‘You should be aware that Etienne is not, and may never be, in a position to offer you marriage.’

My cheeks flare. ‘Such a subject has never been discussed between us.’

‘Maybe not,’ says Monsieur Viard unhappily, ‘but I am making it my business to tell you so that it never
will
be discussed. You see, I have to tell you that Etienne already has a wife.’

‘A
wife
?’ I stare at him and the silence stretches out. ‘But he’s a widower,’ I say at last.

Monsieur Viard spreads his hands, palms up, and shrugs. ‘Nobody knows that for sure except perhaps Etienne himself. His wife disappeared one day and was never seen again. There is no indication that she has died and so he is not free to offer you marriage.’

All at once I find it hard to breathe, as if there’s a great weight pressing down on my chest. I recall the time Georgiana told me that it was rumoured that Etienne had murdered his wife. I’d dismissed that as idle gossip but she’d never said that there was any question of his wife being missing.

‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘The news has shocked you. Please believe me, I have told you this out of friendship, to avoid your being hurt, but I fear I may already be too late.’

I draw in a deep breath. ‘Nonsense!’ I say. ‘I owe a debt of gratitude to Monsieur d’Aubery for all his kindness to Sophie and myself but there’s no question of my having lost my heart to him.’

‘Really?’ Monsieur Viard looks at me doubtfully.

‘Absolutely.’ I smile brightly and hope the crushing unhappiness that is making my stomach churn doesn’t show in my face.

‘Nevertheless I can see that the news has come as a great surprise to you and I confess I’m disappointed that Etienne didn’t tell you himself. I do believe that a true friend would never have concealed such knowledge from you.’

‘There was no need for him to tell me,’ I say, ‘since there is no understanding between us.’

‘Then I can only say that I am very relieved.’

I begin to walk faster, suddenly desperate to be alone with my misery, somewhere Jean-Luc will not be watching me and waiting for me to break down.

We reach the house and Monsieur Viard hands me my basket as I open the door.

I do not invite him inside. ‘Thank you for escorting me.’

‘Perhaps…’

‘Yes?’ I step into the doorway.

‘Perhaps, tomorrow, when I visit Morville, you would care to accompany me? There’s an inn where they serve a very good chicken pie.’

I just want him to go. ‘Sophie needs me tomorrow.’

‘Please don’t let me stop you!’ says her voice from behind me.

Monsieur Viard bows. ‘How delightful to see you, Madame Levesque!’

‘Won’t you come in?’ asks Sophie.

My heart sinks but Monsieur Viard glances at me and says, ‘Thank you but I’m sure Mademoiselle Moreau will wish to tell you all about her new pupils.’ Lifting a hand in farewell, he sets off back along the path.

Sophie closes the front door. ‘Did the lessons go well? Come into the drawing room and tell me all about it.’

‘Oh, Sophie,’ I say, unable to hold back the tears any longer. ‘It’s Etienne.’ I fall into her arms.

‘Whatever is it?’ she asks, patting my back as I sob on her shoulder. ‘Is he ill?’

‘No. He’s married!’

Sophie draws in her breath and holds me at arm’s length to look at my face. ‘But I thought his wife was dead? Where is she? Not here at Château Mirabelle, surely?’

‘Monsieur Viard said nobody knows.’

Sophie stares at me in amazement. ‘But that’s ridiculous. Surely Monsieur d’Aubery would have told you if he still had a wife? I shall ask Monsieur Viard about it myself.’

I catch at her sleeve in alarm. ‘No! I don’t want him to know my affections are engaged.’

‘I’m sorry to say that it appears Monsieur d’Aubery has not been open with you.’ She kisses my cheek. ‘Now, shall we have our tea and play piquet to take your mind off this supposed wife?’

We pass an uneventful evening but I am so distracted that I lose all but one game to Sophie. Afterwards, we retire to bed and I lie with my arms folded behind my head, staring into the darkness. I can no longer deny to myself that I’m halfway to falling in love with Etienne and the knowledge that he may still be married has cut me to the bone.

 

 

‘Did you sleep badly?’ asks Sophie as I toy with a piece of bread at breakfast the next morning.

‘Hardly at all.’ I sigh. ‘But I’ve come to a decision. I can’t ask Monsieur Viard to tell me more about Etienne’s wife but perhaps his mother will tell me the truth of the situation.’ I’m hoping that my awkwardness at asking such a question will be outweighed by her embarrassment since I witnessed the confrontation with her drunken husband.

After the breakfast dishes are put away and Babette has arrived, I put on my coat and walk to the château. I let myself in by the servants’ entrance and peer round the kitchen door.

‘Is Madame Viard here?’ I ask Madame Thibault.

She shakes her head. ‘She’s in the housekeeper’s room.’

I walk up the back staircase and tap on the door. Madame Viard’s voice calls for me to enter and I see quickly suppressed surprise on her face when she sees who is calling on her.

‘I wonder if you would spare me a minute?’ I say.

‘Of course, Mademoiselle Moreau.’ Her tone is bland and polite. ‘Would you care to take coffee with me?’ The silk of her skirt swishes as she pulls out a chair from under the table and takes another cup from the sideboard.

‘I was talking to Monsieur Viard… your son, that is, not your husband… and he said something that surprised me.’ I run my finger around the rim of the coffee cup, noting that the porcelain is unexpectedly fine for a housekeeper.

‘Jean-Luc mentioned that he told you about Monsieur d’Aubery’s wife,’ says Madame Viard. She looks at me appraisingly. ‘It’s no secret here but he believed you didn’t know. And, in the circumstances, he felt it his duty to bring it to your attention.’

So it is true then. A crimson tide of distress floods my face. ‘Monsieur Viard appeared to be under the misapprehension that I might have had some kind of special understanding with Monsieur d’Aubery,’ I say. ‘It isn’t the case but, nevertheless, I confess to curiosity and hope that you might enlighten me further. Your son said that no one knows the whereabouts of Madame d’Aubery?’

Madame Viard regards me with shrewd dark eyes. ‘It caused a great deal of scandal at the time and we never have found out exactly what happened. Finish your coffee and I’ll show you something that may interest you.’

I drain my cup of scalding coffee and follow her from the room. We go through the servants’ door into the château. A long corridor stretches away in front of us and our footsteps fall softly upon thick carpet. Finally we reach the end and Madame Viard opens the last door.