Free The Chateau on the Lake by Charlotte Betts

she doesn’t disentangle herself from her son’s little arms.
    Tearfully, she waves her handkerchief as we drive away and our last glimpse of him is when Betty lifts him up and takes him inside.
    ‘Oh, Maddy, what have I done?’ weeps Sophie, sinking back against the velvet cushions.
    We travel all day, stopping only to change horses and eat a hasty supper at an inn. Sophie is pale and silent and at one point we stop the carriage as nausea threatens to overwhelm her. At last, we arrive at Dover.
    I cannot help but be relieved that Mr d’Aubery is familiar with the harbour. It’s dark already and we descend from the carriage and wait, shivering, on the bustling quayside while he takes the carriage to the stables.
    Once on board the packet, our cramped, windowless cabin smells of salt and tar but we are so tired we can do no more than undress and fall into the bunks. We expect to set sail on the dawn tide.
     

     
    Late the following morning Sophie and I stumble up on deck. The sea is still high but the packet edges closer to the shore as a flotilla of rowing boats comes to greet us.
    ‘The tide is too low to risk sailing into the harbour,’ explains Mr d’Aubery.
    I look over the rail at the churning sea so far below, to where a boat awaits us. I’ve always been frightened of heights and the boat looks very small. ‘But how will we…’
    ‘There is a ladder.’
    ‘I can’t!’ Sophie says, horrified.
    ‘You must,’ he says.
    ‘No!’
    I grip Sophie’s arm and give her a shake. ‘Will you return to England then?’ Her face crumples and she shakes her head. ‘Mr d’Aubery will go down first,’ I say, ‘then I’ll help you.’
    Trembling from head to toe, she allows us to set her feet upon the flimsy rope ladder.
    ‘Close your eyes and keep moving,’ I say, smiling encouragingly at her, although my own heart is knocking fit to burst.
    Sophie screws her eyes shut and lowers herself, step by step, down the ladder.
    A sailor helps me over the side and I have to resist the urge to cling, whimpering, to the deck but I follow my own advice, close my eyes and set off.
    Once our baggage has been lowered, the boatman starts to pull on the oars. Even if our clothes weren’t already miserably damp, we would soon have been soaked by the persistent drizzle and the salt spray.
    Eventually, to my great relief, the boat battles into harbour and jolts against the quayside. Chilled to the bone, I set foot for the first time in my father’s homeland.
     

     
    The stench of Paris assails our nostrils as soon as we reach the outskirts in the public coach, a thick mixture of coal smoke, excrement and rotting vegetation. The air carries something indefinably different from the smell of London… garlic and tobacco and strong cheese, perhaps. All this had once been a part of Papa’s life.
    Three days of travelling in a draughty diligence and two nights in damp sheets infested with bedbugs have left both Sophie and myself scratching and sneezing. Our noses are streaming, my hair is a bird’s nest, and I would give half the gold coins sewn into the hem of my petticoat to be able to lie in a clean bed in a darkened room.
    The news that greeted us on our arrival in France, that King Louis has been charged with treason and sentenced to death in a few days’ time, has alarmed us all but we dare not discuss it in front of our fellow passengers, several of whom wear the red, white and blue cockade of the revolutionaries.
    In a whispered aside as we waited to board the coach, Mr d’Aubery said that any hint of concern for the king might cause our new travelling companions to condemn us as well.
    ‘You must call me Monsieur d’Aubery, and if you must speak at all make sure it is only in French. And do not let your guard down,’ he instructed, ‘even for a moment.’
    I’ve had plenty of time whilst travelling to mull over my misgivings about this journey and my thoughts on the Revolution. Whilst I still believe that France