The Chateau on the Lake Read Free

freedom and equality, I fear that the working men are allowing their passions to become so inflamed that they no longer see reason.’
    ‘It’s a time of great change for France,’ I say. ‘But who can blame the people if they demand equality?’ I’m on my favourite hobbyhorse now, my views formed from endless discussions with Papa and other members of the French community in London. ‘It’s patently unfair if the poor are those paying all the taxes while the aristocrats, who do not, flaunt their luxurious life style in their Parisian homes, leaving the workers on their estates to starve.’
    Mr d’Aubery’s well-defined mouth tightens. ‘It isn’t always like that.’
    ‘The French nobility stunt the growth of society,’ I say firmly. ‘And the clergy are greedy and over-privileged. I can only believe it to be of benefit to the people that Church property has been confiscated and the proceeds used to strengthen the economy.’
    ‘Whilst there may be an element of truth in what you say, Miss Moreau, do you not think it arrogant of you to make such statements as if they are fact when you have not only never lived in France, but not even visited the country?’
    Heat floods my neck and burns in my cheeks. ‘Perhaps distance lends perspective.’ I can hear the vinegar in my tone.
    His eyes glitter, as cold and hard as jet. ‘Then we must agree to differ, Miss Moreau.’ The comte makes me a stiff little bow.
    Mortified, I watch him walk away. How disappointing that one so well-favoured should be so haughty. Still smarting from his comment, I seek out more comfortable company.
    Sophie is talking animatedly to the man in the yellow waistcoat. His copper hair is carefully tousled and he runs his fingers through his disordered curls while his gaze rakes up and down my friend’s figure and comes to rest on her plump breasts.
    ‘Madeleine, this is Mr Jack Fielding,’ she says. ‘May I present Miss Moreau?’ Sophie lays a hand on my arm. ‘Mr Fielding is an artist and has just completed his portrait of Horace Walpole’s cousin.’
    ‘How very interesting,’ I say.
    Jack Fielding doesn’t return my smile but reaches out for one of Sophie’s curls and winds it around his finger. ‘There are intriguing chestnut lights amongst the brown and your olive skin tones are so much more interesting than the milky-white complexions of the native English.’ He studies Sophie through half-closed eyes. ‘Yes, I really think I must paint your portrait, Mrs Levesque.’
    ‘Oh, would you?’ Sophie gasps.
    ‘I shall call on your husband tomorrow to make the arrangements.’
    A quiver of unease runs down my spine as she smiles foolishly back at him and I remember that I saw just the same expression earlier that day on Amelia Wainwright’s face while she was eyeing up the infantrymen.

Chapter 2
     
September 1792
     
    ‘Again, Aunt Madeleine!’ Henry’s voice is high-pitched with excitement.
    I glance at Sophie and she shrugs and looks away. ‘Once more,’ I say, ‘and then you must play quietly while I talk with your mama.’ Grasping the string around the spinning top, I give it a sharp pull. The top, gaily painted in red, blue and yellow, starts to spin and the colours blur together into a rainbow as it hums and twirls upon the polished floor of Sophie’s drawing room.
    Henry shrieks with laughter but Sophie is staring out of the window and jumps when I touch her arm. ‘What is it?’ I ask.
    She turns to watch the spinning top until it begins to wobble increasingly violently before finally falling over.
    Henry looks up at me hopefully.
    ‘No more,’ I say.
    I wait until I’m sure he’s absorbed in arranging his soldiers into battle formations before asking Sophie again. ‘What is it that troubles you?’
    ‘It’s Charles,’ she whispers, glancing at her son’s dark head bent over his toys. Slowly, she pulls back the lacy frill of her sleeve and I gasp to see the ugly bruises on her forearm.
    Before I