The Chateau on the Lake (38 page)

A muscle twitches in his jaw and his eyelids flicker but still he sleeps. I curl my hand around his.

The room is quiet. Only a few city sounds, a barking dog and a passing horseman can be heard through the window. A clock ticks sonorously on the mantelpiece and I breathe in and out to the same rhythm.

I sleep.

 

 

I hear my name and wake with a start. Light is creeping through the edges of the shutters. I yawn and then realise that Etienne’s eyes are open.

‘Madeleine,’ he says, his voice like a caress. ‘I dreamed of you last night but it seems it wasn’t a dream after all.’

‘Etienne, I was so worried! I couldn’t wake you.’ I touch my fingers to his neck. ‘Thank God! The fever’s broken.’

‘Where are we?’

‘Dr Dubois brought you here to his house.’

Etienne frowns in concentration. ‘I remember now. I crossed the Channel in a fishing boat and landed in a small cove under cover of darkness. The captain was expecting to load a fresh cargo of brandy and sail off again to England with the morning tide, but the militia was waiting for us.’

I grip his hand in fear of what might have been.

‘Several men went down,’ he says, ‘and there was such confusion… I was shot in the shoulder but escaped.’ He closes his eyes for a moment, his breathing agitated.

I stroke his forehead. ‘Shhh, now!’

‘Somehow I found my way back to the inn where Colbert was waiting for me. He carried me upstairs and put me to bed. My shoulder hurt like the very devil and he tried to remove the ball but it only made things worse. We daren’t call for a doctor. Colbert rode Diable, hell for leather, back to Paris to fetch Dr Dubois.’

‘You’re quite safe now,’ I say.

He smiles faintly. ‘I have nine lives, like a cat. But how did you come to be here? Is Sophie with you?’

I shake my head and tears well up in my eyes. I must not think of Sophie or little Marianne yet. ‘I came to warn you.’ I’m unsure how to break the news of Jean-Luc’s betrayal. ‘All is not well at Château Mirabelle.’

‘Is Jean-Luc with you?’

Mutely, I shake my head.

‘You came all the way to Paris, alone?’ He tries to sit up and I restrain him. ‘What has happened?’

‘So much that I hardly know where to begin.’ I’m reluctant to recount the truth in case the shock is too much for him, in his weakened state.

Etienne takes my hand. ‘Madeleine, you must tell me. Otherwise I shall only imagine something worse than it is.’

‘It’s very bad, Etienne. The worst news you can imagine.’

He shakes his head. ‘As long as you are safely by my side nothing else matters.’

I kiss our entwined fingers, feeling a tiny shaft of pleasure amongst the sorrow. ‘It’s Jean-Luc,’ I say.

He squeezes my hand tightly, his eyes shadowed with sudden fear. ‘Not dead?’

‘If only it were so,’ I say, my voice full of bitterness.

‘Madeleine, what are you saying? Jean-Luc is my closest friend.’

‘He’s no friend to you! He has done you incalculable harm.’

He stares at me. ‘You must have misunderstood…’

‘Misunderstood?’ The anger swells in my chest until I cannot contain it. ‘Etienne, Jean-Luc has been a secret poison in your life for years. He murdered Sophie and Marianne, and your wife and family!’

He grips my hand. ‘He killed Isabelle?’

‘And he tried to kill me and has turned the villagers against you. Even now they have taken over Château Mirabelle and are burning the books in your library and stealing all your treasures. Jean-Luc has denounced you as a spy and if you return there you will be executed.’

Etienne stares at me, his mouth slack with shock. ‘I can’t…’

‘I know it sounds as if I’m raving,’ I say. ‘It’s hard to believe the depths of his treachery, but I promise you that I’m telling the truth.’

‘Could you be mistaken?’

‘I wish I were.’

‘But
why
?’

‘Because Jean-Luc is your half-brother and wants what is yours.’

‘My half-brother?’ His expression is incredulous.

‘Let me tell you the whole story.’

Half an hour later Etienne leans back against the pillows, white-faced, while his fingers pluck at the sheet folded over his chest. The sight of his distress hurts me and I sit on the bed beside him and wrap my arms around him.

‘I can hardly comprehend it,’ he whispers. ‘If it had been anyone but you telling me this story I should not have believed them.’

The door opens and Dr Dubois enters. ‘I see my patient is awake. I’m sorry to disturb such a touching scene but we’d better have a look at that shoulder, Etienne.’

Pink with embarrassment, I slide off the bed.

Dr Dubois keeps up a flow of conversation while he deftly unwinds the bandages.

‘The wound is still angry, Etienne,’ he says, ‘but there is less infection.’ He smiles at me. ‘You have a good nurse in Mademoiselle, or should I say Monsieur, Moreau? She may keep you company if you wish?’

‘I’m not letting her out of my sight,’ says Etienne, reaching out for my hand. ‘Not after what has happened.’

‘You never told me the turn of events that brought you here, Mademoiselle Moreau,’ says Dr Dubois.

I render a brief version of the facts and at the end of it he shakes his head. ‘After recent happenings here in Paris, the beheadings and the terrible atmosphere of suspicion, with neighbour denouncing neighbour, you can trust no one, Etienne.’

‘I’m beginning to understand that,’ he says. ‘When the Moreaux and I arrived at my house in Rue de Richelieu to break our journey to the coast, a mob of revolutionaries threw stones at us. Once we were inside they tried to force their way through the door. Your grandmother nearly died of fright, Madeleine. When we left, I instructed my housekeeper to close the house and go to stay with her daughter until I send for her again.’

‘You escaped lightly,’ says Dr Dubois. ‘The new Law of Suspects has made terror the order of the day. Anyone whose neighbour has a grudge against him has reason to be frightened since little proof is required when charged with a crime against the Revolution. Punishment is fast and merciless. The tumbrils are rattling their way to the guillotine daily.’

Etienne rubs his eyes in despair.

Dr Dubois sighs. ‘I have other patients to attend to now. I will see you at dinner.’

Later that afternoon Etienne insists on getting up. ‘I shan’t sleep tonight if I don’t get some fresh air. Anger against Jean-Luc is seething inside me and I must take my mind off it. Where are my clothes?’

‘They were so torn and soaked with blood that we had to burn them.’

‘Then fetch my bag, please.’

It’s useless to argue with him when his mouth is folded in that line of grim determination.

In his travelling bag I find a shirt stiff with seawater and sweat and help him to ease it over his bandages.

Discreetly, I turn my back while he struggles into loose workmen’s trousers and ties the waist with cord. Then I pass him a shabby homespun coat with a limp red, white and blue cockade pinned to one shoulder.

‘There’s a revolutionary sash in the pocket,’ he says. ‘I’d better put it on, if only for the benefit of the servants.’

Unsteadily, he stands up and runs his fingers through his tousled hair. ‘I need a shave,’ he says. ‘I must look like the worst kind of peasant.’

‘Tomorrow,’ I say, tucking my pigtail inside the man’s cap I wear. ‘Now take my arm.’

We make slow progress and Etienne is pale and shaking by the time we reach the garden. A blackbird sings in a tree, the liquid notes full of joy. We sit side by side on a bench in the knot garden. I stretch out my legs and some of the tension of the past days drains away. For now I decide to put aside sadness and revel in the company of the man I love.

I watch Etienne carefully as he draws in deep breaths, eyes closed and face turned up to the autumn sunshine. He’s pale under his tan and the fierce stubble on his chin is blue-black. His hair falls in dishevelled curls over his forehead but he’s still the handsomest man I’ve ever seen.

A smile spreads across his face. ‘I can feel you watching me.’

‘You’re exhausted. I should have made you stay in bed.’

He shakes his head. ‘Blood loss has made me weak but I’ll be well again soon. Meanwhile, I must plan what we are going to do.’

‘We can’t go back to Château Mirabelle,’ I say.

Etienne sighs deeply. ‘Everything I thought was true has turned out to be a sham.’ He turns to me. ‘Except for you, Madeleine.’

I cannot help but laugh. ‘You say that when I’m sitting beside you disguised as a youth?’

‘You make a very fetching youth, if I may say so.’ He curls his fingers around my hand.

The sound of an altercation drifts out of the kitchen window, disturbing the peace.

‘Perhaps Cook has burned the dinner,’ says Etienne, closing his eyes again.

A man shouts and then a girl screams. A door slams violently and I sit up in alarm. ‘Shall I go and see what’s happening?’

Then the doors from the drawing room open and footsteps crunch over the gravel path.

‘Etienne!’ I whisper, my heart somersaulting in my chest.

Dressed in his fine coat of cornflower blue silk, matching knee breeches and white stockings, Jean-Luc is strutting towards us.

‘Well, well,’ he drawls as he comes to a halt. ‘Look at the lovebirds!’ He shakes his head in mock consternation. ‘People will spread terrible rumours about you, Etienne, if you’re seen holding hands with a young man. I understand now why my enquiries for a lady travelling alone came to naught.’

Etienne struggles to his feet. ‘How dare you show your face here?’

‘Has Madeleine been telling tales out of school? She’s cleverer than I gave her credit for, but still stupid enough to leave a note at your townhouse letting me know where to find you.’

The familiar scent of Jean-Luc’s musky hair pomade almost makes me gag.

‘I thought we were friends, Jean-Luc?’ Etienne’s voice is low and I can hear the hurt in it.

Jean-Luc’s face twists into a bitter smile. ‘We were, up to a point. But did you not think how galling it was for me to be ever at your side but never your equal?’ His voice grows hard. ‘I’m older than you and our father should have passed on the estate to me. Still, everything is different now,’ he says. ‘It took me years to formulate and carry out my plans but I had to act swiftly when Isabelle told me she was breeding.’

‘You bastard!’ Etienne is white and shaking with rage.

‘That, of course, was my problem,’ says Jean-Luc. ‘Despite that I’ve turned the situation to my best advantage. And the Revolution has evened up the odds for me. Château Mirabelle is mine now.’

‘Not for much longer!’

Jean-Luc’s smug smile makes my fingers itch to slap his face.

‘You have cause to be grateful to me. Now that you know Isabelle is dead, you’re free to pursue your affair with Madeleine,’ he says. ‘And you’re welcome to her since she’s proved herself unworthy of me. What a shame that you’ll have so little time together.’

‘You’re not fit to utter her name!’ Etienne’s hands ball into fists but beads of perspiration break out on his forehead.

‘Idle threats, my dear Etienne. She will be made to suffer.’ Jean-Luc fixes me with a hard stare. ‘No one who harms my dear mother shall escape retribution. I’ve presented a letter from Mayor Prudhomme to the Committee of Public Security here in Paris. It states that he has information you’re a spy for the British.’

‘You cannot prove that,’ says Etienne.

Jean-Luc pulls a gold watch on a chain from his pocket and glances at it.

Etienne draws in his breath with a hiss. ‘That’s my father’s watch! I searched everywhere for that. Where did you find it?’

‘I took it from his body after he met with his unfortunate accident,’ says Jean-Luc calmly. ‘I was determined to have something to remember him by. It gave me a curious sense of satisfaction to know that, just like Isabelle, it was so close to you but you couldn’t see it.’ He smiles broadly.

‘My father meant me to have it!’

‘Our allotted time is up,’ says Jean-Luc, glancing at the watch again. ‘There are men here with a warrant for your arrest, waiting only for my signal.’ He lifts up his arm and the French doors burst open and three soldiers run towards us. A man in a dark coat and a badly powdered wig follows at a more leisurely pace behind.

‘They allowed me five minutes alone with you to say goodbye,’ says Jean-Luc, ‘since we are such old friends.’

Etienne shakes off my restraining hand and swings his fist at Jean-Luc.

Jean-Luc utters a muffled curse, his nose blossoms scarlet and blood drips on to his fine coat.

Two of the soldiers grasp Etienne, who groans in pain as his arms are wrenched roughly backwards.

‘Be careful!’ I shout.

One of the soldiers imprisons my wrists. ‘Shut up and listen while we read the charges.’

‘Let go of me!’ I twist in his grip. ‘I’ve done nothing!’

‘Don’t struggle or it’ll be the worse for you!’ He grins, his teeth blackened stumps. ‘Never could abide a pretty boy and who would blame me if I have to hurt you? After all, I’m only doing my job.’

The man in the wig clears his throat and holds up a piece of paper. Clasping his lapel with the other hand, he strikes a pose in front of Etienne. ‘I am Citoyen Hugo Furet, empowered by the Committee of Public Security to inform you of the charges to be brought against you.’

‘I am innocent of any crime against the Revolution,’ declares Etienne.

One of the soldiers yanks his arm higher behind his back. ‘Don’t speak until you’re spoken to!’

I cry out as Etienne’s knees buckle and his eyelids flutter with the pain.

‘Shall we continue?’ Citoyen Furet clears his throat again. ‘It has come to the attention of the Committee of Public Security that you, Citoyen Etienne François Guillame d’Aubery, former noble of Château Mirabelle, near Orléans, have unlawfully travelled to Britain, France’s mortal enemy, for the purpose of aiding the escape of traitors to the Revolution. Furthermore, you are accused of hoarding food supplies at Château Mirabelle, in direct contravention of the revolutionary principle of equality.’

Etienne sways in his captors’ hold. ‘I tell you again that I am no traitor.’

I had believed the worst was over but now I’m shaking with terror and disbelief.

Citoyen Furet looks sternly at Etienne. ‘You will be taken to a place of confinement until your trial tomorrow.’

Etienne shakes his head, as if to clear it. ‘I’m not a traitor,’ he mumbles. His face is as white as whey and I expect him to pass out at any moment.

Fright nearly chokes me. Etienne is too ill to defend himself and my mind races as I try to think of a way out. Then, as Jean-Luc pulls a lace-edged handkerchief out of his pocket to dab his bloody nose, I have it.

‘Citoyen Furet!’ I call.

Hugo Furet raises his eyebrows. ‘You address me?’

‘Yes, M’sieur, I do. You’re making a mistake.’

‘I do not make mistakes.’ He turns away.

‘You have been misinformed, M’sieur. You have accused the wrong man.’

Furet turns back. ‘Explain yourself.’

I struggle to free my wrists from the soldiers’ grasp.

‘Release him,’ says Furet, ‘for the moment.’

I draw myself up to my full height and take a deep breath. I must not falter now. Looking Furet in the eye, I speak in tones as deep as I can manage. ‘My name is Moreau. I work in the vineyard at Château Mirabelle. And this man,’ I point to Etienne, ‘is Jean-Luc Viard.’

‘What cock and bull story is this?’ asks Jean-Luc, laughing.

I ignore him. ‘Citoyen Viard is the housekeeper’s son and a labourer in the vineyard and on the estate. But this man, ‘I point to Jean-Luc, ‘is the traitor and spy Comte Etienne d’Aubery, who feasts off suckling pig from golden plates while his estate workers’ children die of starvation.’

Citoyen Furet narrows his eyes. ‘Why would I believe this story?’

‘Sir, I am only a poor peasant but you must believe the evidence of your own eyes.’ I turn my hands palm up. ‘See the rough skin and broken nails from honest labour.’ I snatch up one of Etienne’s hands and thrust it towards Furet. ‘Look at the scars and calluses! Is this the hand of a nobleman?’ I demand.

Furet’s face remains expressionless for a moment then he addresses one of the soldiers. ‘Bring the other one to me.’

One of the soldiers takes Jean-Luc’s arm and frog-marches him to Furet.

Jean-Luc, scowling, struggles in his grip. ‘What nonsense is this?’

The soldier grasps him roughly by the wrist and holds out Jean-Luc’s hand for Furet to examine.

My mouth is dry and my pulse thunders in my ears. ‘Citoyen Furet, now you have seen the hands of these two men, Jean-Luc Viard and Comte Etienne d’Aubery, you know which one has the hands of a working man and which the soft-skinned hands of a noble.’

Jean-Luc laughs. ‘This is ridiculous! I am Jean-Luc Viard.’

‘Liar!’ I spit on Jean-Luc’s polished shoes. ‘You attempt to save your own cowardly skin by placing the blame for your crimes on a poor peasant who has sweated for long hours in the fields every day to make you rich. Now the worm has turned! Monsieur Furet, I appeal to you. Is
this
man, scented with perfume, wearing a silk coat and carrying a lace handkerchief, a common labourer?’ I turn to Etienne. ‘And
this
man, in his ragged and filthy clothes and shoes with flapping soles, how can you possibly believe him to be Comte Etienne d’Aubery?’

‘We’re wasting time,’ says Jean-Luc. ‘Take d’Aubery to meet the Revolutionary Tribunal and see what they have to say.’

‘Don’t speak again until I give you leave!’ barks Furet.

Jean-Luc flinches and the soldier holding his wrist jerks his arm up behind his back.

Slowly, Furet looks me up and down. ‘For one so young you think yourself quite a lawyer, don’t you?’

‘I believe in justice and the revolutionary ideals of equality and liberty for all, Citoyen,’ I say quietly.

‘And you,’ Furet turns to Etienne. ‘What do you have to say for yourself?’

He gives Jean-Luc a long stare of naked hatred. ‘I say this man is a tyrant and a coward, whose greed drives him to prey on those weaker than himself. He has violent fits of madness; everyone knows it runs in the family. And for further proof of his identity, I suggest you look at the pocket watch he always carries. It belonged to his father, Comte Guillaume d’Aubery. No labouring man could honestly own such an expensive timepiece.’

‘Check his pockets,’ Furet says to the soldier.

‘Take your filthy hands off me!’ bellows Jean-Luc as the soldier snatches the cornflower blue coat open and withdraws the watch.

The sun glints on the chased gold case as Furet flicks it open. ‘It is engraved with the entwined initials FGd’A.’

‘François Guillaume d’Aubery,’ says Etienne.

‘Now do you see the truth, Citoyen Furet?’ I hold my breath until black spots dance before my eyes.

Citoyen Furet sighs.

‘Listen to me, you stupid little bureaucrat!’ says Jean-Luc. ‘Can’t you see they’re lying!’

Citoyen Furet casts a look of dislike at Jean-Luc and addresses me again. ‘I believe you have prevented me from being the instrument of a miscarriage of justice, Citoyen.’ He nods to the soldier who holds Etienne. ‘Release him. And take up the other.’

I feel no triumph as Etienne stumbles away from his guard, only overpowering relief.

‘No!’ screams Jean-Luc. ‘This is all your fault!’ He launches himself at me, twisting and bucking as the soldiers attempt to restrain him. ‘I’ll make you pay for this!’ He lashes out with his feet and elbows as he tries to reach me. ‘It’s her fault! She’s destroyed all my plans.’

I catch my breath in fear and glance at Citoyen Furet.

‘Silence!’ he thunders.

‘Etienne’s the noble!’ shouts Jean-Luc. ‘Take him before the Tribunal. He must be condemned!’

It takes two soldiers to bind Jean-Luc’s wrists behind his back while he yells and struggles. Spittle froths his mouth and his face is red and contorted with fury. Wild-eyed, he turns to Furet. ‘I’m telling you, that’s Comte Etienne d’Aubery and his whore Madeleine over there!’

‘He’s having another of his fits of lunacy, Citoyen Furet,’ says Etienne. ‘I warn you, he may become extremely violent. As you can see, he’s a big man and very strong when the madness takes him.’

Jean-Luc lashes out with his foot. ‘Shut your mouth, Etienne! You and that little bitch won’t get away with this. By God, just you wait until I get my hands on you…’