64 The Castle Made for Love Read online

  Author’s Note

  The ‘castle made for love’ in this story is the Castle d’Ussé, built on the edge of the dark mysterious forest of Chinon in the Indre Valley.

  It inspired Perrault to write the tale The Sleeping Beauty. Built in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, it is the most beautiful Fairy tale building I have ever seen.

  The Paris International Exhibition of 1867 was the apotheosis of the Second Empire. Held mainly for political reasons it attracted visitors from all over the world and the list of Royal guests was endless.

  The whole of France became intoxicated with pleasure and pride – pride in its machinery and magnificent Army, pleasure in its money and its beautiful Capital.

  But three years later the Prussians had defeated the French Army at Sedan, the Emperor Louis Napoleon and the Empress Eugenie had fled into exile, the Palace of the Tuileries was burnt down and the Siege of Paris began.

  Chapter One

  1867

  Mademoiselle la Comtesse Marie Teresa Madeleine de Beauharnais stood on the terrace and looked out over the green land that sloped towards the River Indre.

  ‘Mine! All mine!’ she said to herself.

  Then she turned round to lean against the stone balustrade and look up at The Castle behind her.

  Built on a cliff where the forest of Chinon ended, The Castle stood above flowered terraces.

  Its massive fortified towers and its turrets, dormer windows and chimneys were silhouetted against the green background and with the whole structure picked out in white stone it appeared to have stepped straight out of a Fairy tale.

  Looking at it now, she expected to see Knights in armour with their pennants, flags, and fine horses riding out to fight with their lances against the dragons that lurked in the forests or the evil which attacked good.

  She remembered that when she was a child her father told her stories of such Knights and how The Castle they lived in was redolent with the history of France.

  To think of her father made her expect to see him come through one of the arched doorways and call out to her as he invariably did when he returned home.

  “Yola! Yola!”

  No one else called her by that special name.

  Her father had wished her to be christened Yolande, which was the name of one of their most illustrious ancestors, but her mother predictably had insisted that every name she bore must be that of a Saint, so she was called Marie Teresa.

  “Yola! Yola!”

  She could hear his voice now, echoing up to the Beauharnais flag that flew above the innumerable roofs and which could be seen for miles round by those who served them or lived on the estate.

  But now her father was dead and because there was no son, Yola had inherited The Castle.

  For a moment her pride of possession left her and she felt very small and lonely as she thought how much responsibility rested upon her shoulders.

  How could she manage without her father?

  How would anything seem the same without his laughter, without the talks they enjoyed together and the times they had ridden over the estate, glorying in the beauty of the Loire valley?

  It was her father who had told her how privileged they were to live in what was called ‘the Garden of France’.

  It was not only the beauty of it and its mild soft atmosphere but the magic that made all who lived there different from the inhabitants of any other part of France.

  Yola had grown up not only with the tales of Knightly valour but also with the legends of Joan of Arc.

  She had made her father tell her over and over again how Joan had appeared and visited the Dauphin at the Castle of Chinon. While waiting to be received by him, she had spent two days fasting and praying at an inn not far from the town.

  Although her mystical ‘voices’ had told her that the Dauphin must throw out the hated English conquerors, the courtiers had laughed at the idea that a peasant girl could be anything but an imposter.

  When finally she was admitted to the Palace, the Great Hall was lit with fifty torches and three hundred gentlemen in rich apparel were assembled there.

  To test her, the Dauphin hid amongst the crowd and a courtier wore his robes.

  Joan had then advanced shyly and, immediately recognising the future King, she went straight to him.

  She knelt and embraced his knees.

  “Gentle Dauphin,” she said, “my name is Joan the Maid. The King of Heaven sent word by me that you will be anointed and crowned in the City of Rheims and you will be Lieutenant to the King of Heaven.”

  Charles, however, was hesitant.

  He had always doubted whether Charles VI was really his father, because his mother, Isabella of Bavaria, was notoriously immoral and had had innumerable lovers.

  Then Joan said to him,

  “I tell you in the name of Our Lord Jesus Christ that you are the heir to the throne of France and a true son of the King.”

  It was all so dramatic, Yola thought, and now because Joan of Arc seemed so real to her, she prayed for courage that she might not be afraid but should rule in a small way as Charles had been able to do once he had been crowned King.

  Then, as if the seriousness of her thoughts amused her, she shook herself free of them and turned again to look out towards the River Indre.

  It was so wonderful, she thought, to be home after spending a year in a school near Paris since her father had died.

  She had not been able to return to The Castle because there had been no one to chaperone her, but now that she was eighteen her grandmother had left her villa where she lived at Nice to come to Beauharnais.

  It was the beginning of May and the creepers climbing over the terraces in front of The Castle were coming into bud.

  The purple-flowered wisteria was a poem of beauty, while the daffodils, hyacinths, narcissi, cyclamen and anemones made the garden a kaleidoscope of colour.

  The camellias were pink and white against the walls of The Castle and in the valley the blossoms on the fruit trees turned it into a Fairyland.

  As Yola walked across the courtyard to the stone steps that led up to the great entrance doors, she looked like a flower herself in the soft pink of her small crinoline.

  It was, of course, Monsieur Worth who in the year of the great Paris International Exhibition had changed the fashion by decreeing that the huge crinoline which had been made the vogue by the Empress Eugenie should be replaced by a much smaller and shorter one.

  The demi-crinoline had become the rage almost overnight. Gowns were still, however, worn over small hoops and there was a mass of draperies, ruchings, and trimmings.

  It meant, of course, that seamstresses must work every hour of the clock and that the astronomical sum of sixteen hundred francs was charged for even a simple little costume in the new shape.

  Yola had bought a few gowns to return home with and had been astounded at the prices she was asked to pay for them.

  Hats that were nothing bigger than a small bowl perched on top of an elaborate coiffure of plaits and curls cost one hundred and twenty francs and she told herself that it was wrong that so much should be spent on mere feminine ornamentation.

  But she knew that none of the pleasure-seeking, wildly extravagant Parisians would be likely to listen to such a revolutionary idea as economy.

  Yola had, however, purchased what she needed carefully and sparingly.

  She knew that now that her father was dead she was exceedingly rich, but she was wise enough to tell herself that she must decide first how she intended to live before she expended large sums on gowns, which she might not need once she returned home.

  She felt sure, however, that her grandmother, who was worldly-wise, would
want her to spend some time in Paris so that she could be introduced to Society and doubtless attend State functions at the Tuileries Palace.

  Not that aristocrats of the old regime like the Dowager Comtesse de Beauharnais approved of the Emperor and the Empress, whom they considered to be ‘upstarts’.

  But Yola felt certain that at the back of her grandmother’s mind and those of her other relations would be the idea that she must meet eligible gentlemen, one of whom she would eventually marry.

  ‘I shall be in no hurry,’ she determined.

  She stood still for a moment on top of the steps and looked again over the valley covered with blossom.

  ‘For the moment this is my Kingdom,’ she added to herself, ‘and I have no desire to share it with anyone.’

  She went into The Castle, climbing the great seventeenth century staircase to find her grandmother in the beautiful salon whose windows also overlooked the valley.

  There were bowls of hothouse flowers standing on the magnificent furniture that had been handed down for generations and their fragrance filled the air.

  Sitting in a high-backed chair that was covered with needlework made and embroidered by a sixteenth century ancestor, her grandmother looked like a painting by Boucher.

  With her white hair piled high on her head and the long fingers of her blue-veined hands glittering with rings, it would have been impossible, Yola thought, not to recognise that she was an aristocrat.

  “Where have you been, ma chérie,” the Comtesse asked.

  “I have been out on the terrace, Grandmère,” Yola replied, “and I decided that this is without exception the most wonderful castle in the whole of the Loire valley.”

  “You are just like your father,” her grandmother said with a smile. “He always said that while Chinon and Blois were magnificent and Chambord and Chenonceaux beautiful, our castle had a magical mystical quality that was different from everyone else’s.”

  “That is exactly what I feel, Grandmère,” Yola said. “It is what I believed as a child to be a Fairy tale castle come true.”

  “And that is why,” her grandmother said, “we must find you a Prince Charming so that there shall be a happy ending to your story.”

  Yola stiffened.

  “There is no hurry for that, Grandmère.”

  “But there is,” her grandmother insisted, “you see, ma petite, although I am very happy to be here with you, I came against my doctor’s instructions and I cannot stay long.”

  “Grandmère, it is almost as warm here as it is in Nice and you know as well as I do that many of the trees in the gardens are semi-tropical. Why, we even have some palm trees, and Papa has grown shrubs and orchids, which in the past could only be found near the Mediterranean.”

  Even as she spoke, Yola knew that her grandmother was not really attending.

  “You know, of course, my child,” she said, “what your father wished for you?”

  “With – regard to – marriage?” Yola asked hesitantly.

  “He must have spoken of it?”

  “No, Grandmère, we talked of almost everything, but he never actually mentioned any man in particular he would wish me to marry.”

  “Well, fortunately, I saw your father only a month before he died,” the Comtesse said. “He came to stay with me at Nice before he went to Venice, an ill-omened visit which he should never have made.”

  There was a sharpness now in the Comtesse’s voice, but Yola said nothing.

  She knew only too well why her father had gone to Venice, but it was something she did not wish to discuss with her grandmother, knowing what her feelings would be.

  “Your father talked to me about your future,” the Comtesse went on. “Perhaps he had a presentiment that he would not live very long or perhaps he thought that you were growing up and would soon be old enough to be betrothed.”

  Yola moved restlessly across the room.

  The sunshine coming through the windows revealed the blue lights in her dark hair and the exquisite purity of her white skin.

  As she stood against one of the dark velvet curtains, looking out with unseeing eyes, she looked very lovely and her grandmother paused for a moment to appreciate the picture she made.

  Then she said,

  “I suppose the reason why your father did not mention whom he wished you to marry was that it had been so long in his thoughts and in mine that he thought you must be aware of it.”

  “Whom are you talking about, Grandmère?” Yola asked.

  Now she walked back from the window to stand at her grandmother’s side.

  “The Marquis de Montereau, of course!”

  For a moment Yola stared at her grandmother incredulously.

  Then she said in a voice that seemed almost to be strangled in her throat,

  “The Marquis de Montereau!”

  “Yes, ma chérie,” you must have heard of him since you were a child, although you may not have seen him. He is not only a distant cousin, but he lived here until he was twelve. Let me see – you must only have been three at the time, so it is not surprising that you don’t remember him unless he has stayed here since?”

  “No, Grandmère, he has not stayed here since I can remember.”

  “That was, of course, due to your mother,” the Comtesse said, “but then – ”

  She checked herself as if she thought that nothing good would come of disparaging the dead.

  Yola was well aware of the words that were left unsaid.

  Her mother, contrary to every tradition of the family, refused to have anyone to stay with them.

  It was to be expected that the Comte de Beauharnais, as the head of a large and ancient family, would not only provide for his less fortunate relatives but also house a number of them.

  When he had inherited from his father, The Castle had been filled with cousins, aunts, great-aunts, grandparents and close friends, all of whom had grown old beside the owner.

  But her mother had managed within five years of their marriage to disperse them all.

  What was more, she would not open the house to friends who for years past had come from Paris to spend some weeks or a month at The Castle that they admired and loved.

  Yola could remember when she was a child endless arguments and rows between her father and mother because her father wished to entertain and her mother was adamant that they should not do so.

  Then suddenly her father had given up the battle and accepted that the guest rooms in The Castle should be closed and that his hospitable impulses, which were so much a part of his character, should be curbed.

  The Castle had seemed very large and quiet and sometimes grim as she grew up. There had not been her father to laugh with and, if they had not escaped to go riding so that they could feel free and unrestrained, Yola felt it would have been intolerable.

  Gradually she began to understand and realised that her mother ought never to have been married.

  She had really wished to become a nun, but her parents appreciated that the Comte de Beauhamais with his magnificent castle and great estates was an important and highly eligible parti.

  They had forced her against her will to accept the arrangements they had made without consulting either her or, as Yola knew, her father.

  He had accepted as inevitable that his marriage would be an arranged one and that his bride would bring him a huge dowry to add to the already large fortune he possessed.

  Only when he realised the violence of his wife’s hatred for him did he know with horror that he was sentenced to a lifetime of misery.

  They had had one child, after which there was no chance of there being any more.

  Yola could never remember her mother kissing her with any affection or holding her in her arms. Her days and many of her nights had been spent in the exquisitely beautiful Chapel that stood alone a little way from the house.

  Built between 1520 and 1530 it was in the purest Renaissance style and connoisseurs went into ecstasies over its sculpture and
decoration.

  But to Yola it was a place of repentance that vibrated with the wrath of God and the fear of punishment.

  Forced to attend a Church service every day before she could read or understand what was being said, her only consolation had been that sitting in the hard carved pew she could look at a magnificent Aubusson tapestry that traced the history of Joan of Arc.

  It was thus that the Saint was impressed indelibly on her mind, while her mother’s religion made her feel cold and critical.

  How could it be right for her mother to wish to be a Saint, to pray incessantly to God and at the same time to be so unkind, unsympathetic and unfeeling towards her husband?

  Why should she expect God to bless her, when she in her turn gave only hatred or indifference to other people?

  It was a long time before Yola put such thoughts into words and yet they were there as soon as she could begin to think objectively.

  It was not surprising that her father was everything in her life and, because he was an extremely intelligent, well-read man, he not only taught her but talked to her as if she was a contemporary.

  She could argue on abstract subjects almost before she could do simple arithmetic.

  She read the French classics when other children were learning nursery rhymes and her father also taught her to appreciate beauty while his suffering made her sensitive and perceptive about everybody and everything.

  Looking at her granddaughter now, the Comtesse thought that her huge dark eyes mirrored her feelings so clearly that anyone watching her could actually see what she was thinking.

  Aloud she asked,

  “What do you know of the Marquis if you have never met him?”

  “I have – heard about – him,” Yola replied.

  “From whom?”

  “The girls at school. He was talked about by them and presumably by their parents, as often as they discussed the Emperor.”

  The Comtesse’s lips tightened.

  She might live in a secluded villa in the South of France, but she was well aware that the Emperor Louis Napoleon’s love affairs were discussed over the length and breadth of France and none of them to his credit.

  “The Marquis is a young man,” she said after a moment, “and must therefore be expected to enjoy himself.”