The Chateau on the Lake by Charlotte Betts

Author:Charlotte Betts [Betts, Charlotte]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780349404509
Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group
Published: 2014-11-05T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter 21

June 1793

Still in a reflective mood following our visit to the orphanage, Sophie and I walk out as dusk is falling. Château Mirabelle soars in front of us, floating on a sea of mist curling up from the parkland. The moon is a narrow crescent of silver suspended in the deepening blue of the sky.

‘It’s lovely, isn’t it?’ says Sophie. ‘Such a shame that there isn’t a family to live in it.’

‘There might have been be if Isabelle were still here.’

‘Poor Etienne,’ says Sophie. ‘He’s been left in a terrible quandary, not knowing if his wife is dead or alive. Unless he did murder her, of course.’

‘He didn’t!’ I snap. But should I put my belief in him?

‘It wouldn’t have been very clever of him to leave her body somewhere it could be found. Either way, he cannot marry again,’ Sophie pronounces.

‘I’d prefer not to discuss this.’

She catches hold of my arm and makes me look at her. ‘I don’t want you to suffer the same pain as I did by loving the wrong man, that’s all, Maddy.’

I nod at her in the gathering darkness but do not say I fear that it’s already too late.

The maid leads us into the drawing room, which is blazing with candles, and our host hurries forward to greet us. Etienne wears his pale blue silk coat and the silver buckles on his shoes gleam.

‘I’m so glad you came,’ he says, kissing our fingers. ‘May I introduce Monsieur and Madame Rochefort?’

I hadn’t expected any other guests. I see that my pink muslin dress is a much plainer affair than the full-skirted and flounced evening dress worn by Madame Rochefort. Her powdered hair is dressed in elaborate curls and decorated with feathers and seed pearls. Clearly Madame has no intention of following the simpler revolutionary fashions.

Madame Rochefort inclines her head to Sophie and then stares at her with eyebrows raised. Sophie’s dress, even though loose and unwaisted, cannot begin to conceal the curves of eight months of pregnancy.

Older by some years than his wife, Monsieur Rochefort is also formally dressed and wears a powdered wig and extravagantly embroidered waistcoat.

Once Sophie and I are seated side by side on gilded chairs, she catches my eye. ‘I’d never have come, in my condition, if I’d known Monsieur d’Aubery had guests,’ she whispers.

‘Perhaps he doesn’t realise that women who are increasing aren’t invited to formal dinner parties,’ I whisper back.

We make polite conversation, side-stepping questions from Madame Rochefort about our families and where we have come from.

Then the drawing-room door opens again and Jean-Luc enters. His white silk stockings are pristine, as usual, and his brown hair is arranged in carefully disordered curls. He gives me a mischievous smile and then turns to Etienne. ‘Apologies for my late arrival,’ he says, ‘but I’m able to accept your invitation after all.’

‘Did the Jacobin Club cancel their dinner then?’ asks Etienne.

Monsieur Rochefort’s eyebrows rise so high that they almost disappear under his wig but he refrains from commenting.

‘There’ll be plenty of other occasions for a Jacobin dinner in the future.

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