Chateau of Secrets: A Novel (2 page)

When did a secret cross over the gray wasteland between protecting one you loved and destroying him?

Last month Prime Minister Chamberlain had evacuated all the British troops he’d sent to France, along with a hundred thousand French soldiers. Michel had been among those evacuated at Dunkirk, and Papa thought his son was safe in England.

But Michel snuck home after the evacuation, and she prayed God would forgive her for her trespasses, that her secret effort to save her younger brother’s life wouldn’t become a mortal sin.

The women whispered prayers around her, and like many of them, she couldn’t confess her sin to anyone, not even to the priest who came once a week to preside over Mass. With the world in turmoil, they all had to guard secrets to protect the men they loved.

Aeroplane engines buzzed in the distance, and she shivered. The German bombers flew over them almost every night now, showing off their power for the citizens of Saint-Lô. Her country refused to be intimidated by their display.

Candles rattled in their bronze holders.

“Deliver us from evil,” she whispered as the planes passed overhead. Then she repeated her words.

Unlike Austria and Denmark, France would fight the Nazis.

When the drone of engines settled into the night, the village women silently slipped out the door. Gisèle rose to attend to her duties.

Just as she was the keeper of Michel’s secret, she was the keeper of the Chapelle d’Agneaux. While other aristocratic women attended their formal gardens or antique collections, her mother had painstakingly cared for the
chapelle
for two decades. Instead of remembering her mother at the cemetery beside the
chapelle
, Gisèle liked to remember her inside these walls. When she was at the château, Gisèle unlocked the door of the
chapelle
every morning so villagers could pray, and every night she blew out the vigil candles and swept the stone floors.

Outside in the courtyard, the misty breath of the river Vire stole up and over the stone walls of the
chapelle
and the turrets of the medieval château that stood before her, the home of the Duchant family for more than three hundred years. While her family had lost sons and daughters to the guillotine during the revolution and to the wars that were waged across France, this fortress of stone towers and secret tunnels had sheltered many of her ancestors through wars and storms. It had been a solace for her mother. And for her.

Gisèle quickly crossed the gravel courtyard and hurried into the foyer of the Château d’Epines. Sliding off her red suede
pumps, she padded across the marble floor in her silk stockings, the handles of the picnic hamper clutched in her hands. If she could store the hamper before she saw her father, she wouldn’t have to lie to him.

She snuck past the staircase that spiraled up to the second floor and the entrance to the drawing room, but before she reached the door to the kitchen, her father called her name. Then she heard the heels of his sturdy Richelieus clapping across the marble floor.

She dropped the hamper and kicked it to the edge of the antique console table.

The sight of her father in his brown cardigan and trousers, the familiar scent of applewood and tobacco, usually comforted her, but tonight the fear in his blue eyes wasn’t familiar at all. Papa—known in France as the esteemed Vicomte Jean-François de Bouchard Duchant—was never afraid.

She clasped the pumps to her chest. “What is it?”

His gaze wandered toward the tall window by the front door, like he was seeking solace from the
chapelle
outside as well.

“Hitler—” His voice cracked, and he hesitated as if he hadn’t yet digested the news he bore.

“Papa?” she whispered, pressing him.

“Hitler has taken Paris.”

Her shoes clattered on the marble and she stumbled backward as if the tiles had shifted under her feet. Her hands flailed, searching until they caught the banister.

Paris was a great city, the greatest in the world. How could it bow to a lunatic?

“But the war—” she stammered. “It has just begun.”

Papa’s shoulders dropped. “The government in Paris . . . they decided not to fight.”

She squeezed the iron banister. How could the Parisians refuse to fight?

If the French resisted together, if they refused to cower . . .

They had to resist.

“What will happen?” she whispered.

“Philippe is coming to drive you south, to the manor in Lyon.”

“I don’t care what happens to me.” Her voice trembled. “What will happen to France?”

He hesitated again, like he wasn’t sure he should tell her the truth. He might still have thought her twelve, but she was twenty-two years old now. A graduate of the prestigious Université de Caen. She was certainly old enough to know the truth.

She willed strength into her voice. If he thought her strong, perhaps he would be honest. “You must tell me.”

He seemed to consider her words before he spoke. “Hitler won’t stop until he takes all of Europe.”

She released the banister to pick up her pumps, her hands trembling. “I can’t go to Lyon.”

Compassion mixed with the fear in his eyes. “We must leave. Hitler seems determined to take London next, and his army will march through here on their way to the port at Cherbourg.”

She rubbed her bare arms. Lyon was ten hours southeast. “If they’ve taken Paris, it won’t be long before the Germans take Lyon too.”

“Perhaps.” Papa tugged on the hem of his cardigan. “But Philippe can take you to Switzerland before then.”

Hitler’s appetite for power seemed insatiable. He’d taken much of Europe now, but she doubted conquering the rest of France and even London would satisfy the German führer. With the French government refusing to fight, they needed courageous Frenchmen—former soldiers like Michel—to stop him.

But ten years ago, before her mother died, she’d begged Gisèle to care for Michel. Even though she was just a girl, Gisèle had sworn, on the crucifix of her mother’s rosary, that she would give her very life to watch over her brother. Michel may have been nineteen now, but he was just as headstrong as when he was a boy. How could she protect him from an onslaught of the German army and their bombs?

Papa rang a bell. “Émilie will help you pack your things for the trip.”

Seconds later their housemaid rushed into the hall, her white apron tied over her black uniform and her graying hair pinned back in a neat knot. But instead of stopping, Émilie rushed past Gisèle to the front door, a valise clutched in each of her hands.

Papa called out to her. “Where are you going?”

Émilie set down one of her bags. “My sister just called from Cahagnes. German tanks are moving through the town.”

Papa swore. Cahagnes was just thirty kilometers away.

As the door opened and then rattled shut, Gisèle slipped on her shoes. Before she left, she had to warn Michel that the Germans were near.

“You must pack your things,” Papa said as he glanced at his watch. “Philippe said he would be here within the half hour.”

Her chest felt as if it might explode. The Germans might kill them if they stayed, but she couldn’t leave without telling her brother. He had to flee as well.

“I need more time,” she pleaded.

“
Ma chérie,
” he said tenderly as he reached for her hand, imploring her. “It is not safe for you to stay here any longer.”

Her heart felt as if it might rip into two. How could she make him understand without revealing Michel’s secret?

He nudged her toward the steps. “I will meet you in Lyon.”

Still she didn’t move. “You must come with us, Papa.”

“I will follow soon, after I hide the silver and your mother’s jewelry. If they arrive while I’m here—” He cleared his throat. “The Germans won’t harm a member of the aristocracy.”

She nudged her chin up. “Nor will they harm his daughter.”

A siren wailed and the floor shook from more aeroplanes sweeping low in the valley. Hair bristled on the back of her neck.

Papa turned her shoulders toward the stairs. “Hurry, Gisèle.”

“I can’t—”

“You don’t have a choice.”

She knew he was afraid that he would lose her, just like he had her mother, but if she left right now—

She feared they would both lose Michel.

June 2014

Richmond, Virginia

T
he clock at the back of my classroom ticked past the hour of four, and I shoved my MacBook into its pink-and-brown-striped case.

Don’t be late!!!

Tommy Dawson, my favorite third grader, eyed the text on my phone. “Who is that?”

Mrs. Dawson nudged her son. “Miss Sauver doesn’t have to tell you.”

“It’s Austin,” I said before I turned off my phone.

He was sending a car to pick me up at five for tonight’s gala in downtown Richmond, and he hated it when I was late. It would take a good fifteen minutes to drive home and another forty-five to dress and do something decent with my hair, but I couldn’t rush Tommy or his mother.

Tommy plucked his backpack off the hook one last time and lingered beside my desk for a final good-bye before summer break. Mrs. Dawson reached for Tommy’s backpack and slung it over her shoulder before she turned back toward me. “When are you getting married?”

I smiled. “On August 10.”

“I’m sure it will be a gorgeous wedding.”

I maintained my smile, a talent I’d honed to perfection over the past six months. It had to be a dream wedding, the most beautiful one in Richmond that summer, or my first months of marriage would be a nightmare.

Mrs. Dawson handed Tommy a coffee mug, and he set it on my desk. After five years of teaching third grade, I had dozens and dozens of mugs, each one displayed on a shelf in my condo as a happy reminder of the student who’d given it to me. My students knew me and my passion for France well, gifting me every year with trinkets that displayed the Eiffel Tower or the Palace of Versailles or the Cathédrale Notre Dame in Paris. I admired the photo of Mont Saint-Michel on Tommy’s mug and thanked him and his mother for the gift.

Then Tommy reached into his pocket and pulled out a miniature plastic lion, the kind that comes in a box along with giraffes and elephants at the craft store. He lifted it up to show me.

“Who’s this?” I asked.

“It’s Aslan,” he stated with certainty, as if I should know exactly who it was.

Mrs. Dawson flashed an apologetic smile. “He’s been obsessed with Narnia ever since you read
The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe
.”

“Narnia is one of my favorite places too.” My gaze slipped down to Tommy and the lion clasped in his hand. “My grandmother used to read me the stories when I was about your age.”

His eyes grew wide. “Have you been to Narnia?”

I almost laughed until I realized Tommy was serious. “Not yet . . . but perhaps one day.”

He rewarded me with his grin.

“We’ll both miss you.” Mrs. Dawson glanced down at her son as he raced Aslan across the desk. “But I told him that he’d see you next year.”

My poised smile began to crack. “Unfortunately, I won’t be coming back to teach.”

Tommy’s lips trembled, and I leaned over, nudging his chin. “But I can still visit, can’t I?”

He nodded and then hugged me. Mrs. Dawson finally coaxed him out the door, but the truth was, I didn’t want them to go.

For the past nine months, Washington Elementary had entrusted twenty-seven students to my care. This year had been a challenging one, with two students, in particular, who felt quite confident in their leadership abilities. While I loved to teach—and loved the children—I hated conflict.

The year had been spent in a silent battle between two kids who were stronger than me in spirit. I’d had to feign confidence I didn’t have, but in the end, I was stronger for it. Perhaps I wouldn’t miss the demands of those two students, but I would miss the enthusiasm of the other twenty-five.

When I powered up my phone again, there was another text from my fiancé.

Chloe?

I typed back a quick response.

On my way.

I turned off the overhead lights and rushed to my car.

Thankfully the weeks ahead would be so full of wedding planning and campaigning, I wouldn’t have much time to think about missing my kids. Then by summer’s end, I would join Austin Vale and his political aspirations in matrimony. Come November, if public opinion held, I would be the wife of Virginia’s youngest governor in history, and I’d promised Austin that I’d
dedicate myself full-time to this new role. I would no longer be teaching elementary kids, but Austin and I both hoped parenthood would follow soon after our wedding.

My ’68 Mercedes roadster had no air-conditioning and the heat was as temperamental as Virginia politics, but the body was a beautiful burgundy color and the convertible top still worked. When I turned twenty-one, my dad had bought it just for me. The doors had gotten dinged up over the past seven years and the fender was slightly askew, but when my dad offered to buy me a newer model, I declined. I liked the mystique—the charm—of the old much more than the sheen of the new.

Austin didn’t have the same appreciation or affection for mystique. He’d asked me twice to replace my vehicle with a newer model, something more trendy, like a BMW or an Audi. I’d compromised much in our relationship, but I wasn’t trading in my car just because it had a few bumps and bruises. It had taken a few weeks of finagling, but Austin and I finally reached an agreement that worked for both of us. I drove the roadster to and from school. When he couldn’t pick me up for political events or meals with his parents, he sent a driver in a shiny sedan.

The sunshine lit my path home this afternoon, and the river beside the road seemed to beckon me.
Come play.
But there would be no time to kayak this weekend. Almost every minute was scheduled. Tonight’s gala. A luncheon tomorrow in the Fan. Dinner at the Vales’ plantation home. Sunday would be church downtown with Austin and then a golfing fund-raiser at the country club. Every event, Austin said, was another brick mortared on the monument of his campaign, each stone solidifying what his manager told the press. Austin Vale may have been young, but he was passionate, articulate, and qualified to lead the Commonwealth of Virginia. And his future wife would be leading alongside him.