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Keep reading for an excerpt from The Secret of the Château …
Prologue
Pierre, 1794
Pierre Aubert, the Comte de Verais, could see the mob coming in the distance, up the track towards the château, brandishing flaming torches, shouting and chanting. There were perhaps fifty or more men, in their rough brown trousers and loose shirts. Most of them were carrying weapons – farming implements, sticks, pikes. He clutched his young son close to his chest, hushing the child and trying to ignore the pains that shot through him as he hurried along the path that led away from the château, towards the village. The girl was ahead of him, holding the baby. They had to get the children to safety first; only then could Pierre concentrate on saving himself and his wife.
Catherine. His heart lurched as he recalled her white, frightened face as he’d hurriedly told her his plans. If she did what he’d told her, she’d be safe from the mob, and soon the family would be reunited and they could get away. Into exile, into Switzerland.
France had changed over the last five years or so. The old ways, the ancien régime, had gone. There seemed to be no place in this new France for the likes of Pierre and Catherine. In the past it had been their class who ruled, but not anymore. If this mob caught them, they’d be imprisoned, summarily tried, and very likely executed – by guillotine.
But the mob would need to catch them first. Pierre had received a warning and was a good way ahead of them. The men hadn’t reached the château yet, and they wouldn’t find Catherine there. She was safe for now, and he’d return to her later. It would all work out.
It had to. It was their only chance.
Chapter 1
Lu, present day
It all began one drunken evening at Manda and Steve’s. We were all staying with them for the weekend, as we often did. Three of us – that’s me (I’m Lu Marlow), my husband Phil and our mate Graham – had arrived on Friday afternoon, and Steve had cooked a stupendous meal for us all that evening. We’d all brought a few bottles of wine, and I admit by the time this particular conversation began over the remnants of dessert we may have all had a tad too much to drink.
‘What are you going to do, now you’re retired?’ Phil asked Steve. Steve had been forced to retire early – given a choice between that or relocating to Derby. (‘Nothing against Derby,’ he’d said, ‘but we’ve no desire to live there.’) He was aged just fifty-nine. We were all fifty-eight or nine. We’d met forty years ago, during Freshers’ week at Sussex University and had been firm friends through rough and smooth ever since.
Steve shrugged. ‘Don’t know. I didn’t want to stop work. Not quite ready to devote myself to the garden yet.’
‘He needs a project,’ Manda said. ‘Something to get stuck into. He’s lost without a purpose in life. House renovation or something.’
‘But your house is beautiful,’ I said. ‘It needs nothing doing to it.’ We were sitting in their dining room, which overlooked the garden. They’d bought the house over twenty years earlier when their daughter Zoe was a baby. Zoe had recently sent Manda into a tailspin by moving to Australia on a two-year work contract. They’d done up their house over the years, turning it from a tired old mess into a beautiful family home.
‘Yes, and I don’t see the point of moving house just to give me something to do,’ Steve said. ‘More wine?’ He topped up everyone’s glasses.
‘Can you get any consultancy work?’ Phil asked. ‘I’ve had a bit, since I got my redundancy package.’ He’d done a few two-week contracts, and a part-time contract that lasted three months.
‘Probably. But it’s not what I want.’
‘What do you want, mate?’ Graham, who we’d always called Gray, asked.
Steve looked out at the rain that streamed down the patio doors. ‘Better weather. Mountains. A ski resort within an hour’s drive. Somewhere I can go fell-running straight from the house. A better lifestyle.’
‘Relocating, then. Where to?’
‘I fancy France,’ Manda said.
‘Yeah, I do, too.’ Phil looked at me, as if to gauge my reaction. First I’d heard of him being interested in living abroad – we’d never talked about anything like that. We went to France or Italy a couple of times every year on holiday – always a winter ski trip (Phil’s favourite) and usually a couple of weeks in the summer exploring the Loire valley, the Ardeches, Tuscany or wherever else took our fancy. Very often these holidays were with the other three people sitting round the table now.
‘France?’ is all I managed to say. An exciting idea, but my life was here in England. Even though there was less to keep me here, since Mum died. I imagined visiting Steve and Manda in France for holidays. That’d be fun.
‘I like Italy,’ said Manda.
‘But we don’t speak Italian,’ Steve pointed out.
‘We could learn …’
‘Where in France?’ Gray interrupted, leaning forward, elbows on the table. I knew that gesture. It meant he was Having An Idea. Gray’s ideas were sometimes inspired, sometimes ridiculous, always crazy.
Steve shrugged. ‘Alpes-Maritimes?’
‘It’s lovely round there,’ I said. Phil and I had had a holiday there a couple of years ago, staying in a gîte in a small village nestled among the Alpine foothills. We’d gone walking in the mountains, taken day trips to the Côte d’Azur, dined on local cheese and wine and all in all, fallen in love with the area.
‘It is lovely,’ Manda agreed. ‘But I’d hate to move somewhere like that and be so far from everyone.
