Chapter 9: Annette Blanchard

A warm beam of sunlight played on my face, and under its benign caress I swam slowly up from a deep sleep. For a moment I could not recall where I was, but then realised I was lying in the four-poster bed in Annette’s boudoir. It was the most comfortable bed I could ever recall being in.
The thick luxurious mattress, stuffed with eider down, was both supportive to my body and yet comforting.
I sat up. The pillow next to mine was rumpled, and on pulling back the sheet saw the unmistakable signs that a body had been lying alongside me. I also realised I was naked.
The door opened, and Annette entered carrying a tray, from which came the appetizing aroma of freshly cooked bacon. My stomach rumbled, I actually salivated at the thought of having food, for the first time in three days.
She set down the tray on a table and then came and sat on the bed. As she leaned over me her breasts, lightly encased by her black dress, pillowed my cheek, and then she kissed me, slowly and deeply.

“I feared the worst when you had not arrived by mid-day yesterday. I can hardly express how overjoyed I am to have you safe with me. I do not have to ask how you slept, as you did not stir the entire night.”
Annette pulled a chair over to the table.
“Come and eat, Jacques, you must be...” She stopped in mid-sentence. “Mon Dieu! I forgot, you are not wearing any night attire.”
She went to the wardrobe, and rummaged about before withdrawing holding a thick, dark blue robe.

“This was my husband’s robe de chambre; you are near enough to his stature and build. Please, put it on, then come and eat.”

The robe was a fair fit, and smelled of tobacco and mothballs. I sat at the table and gorged on bacon and omelettes. Annette regarded me with the same indulgent look she had employed whilst watching me eat lunch after I had been ploughing. She talked as I ate.

“When I brought the food last night you were sound asleep in the armchair. I could not rouse you, and had the girls come and help me undress you and get you into the bed.”

I shot her a look of horror. The knowledge the girls had seen me naked filled me with embarrassment. Annette laughed.

“We only undressed you down to your nether garments, so your dignity was maintained.” She gave me a bold and saucy look. “I removed those myself, —when I joined you in bed.”

The thought of being naked in bed alongside Annette Blanchard caused Mr Thomas to twitch. Annette tone became more serious.

“When it became obvious Pierre was not going to return from Waterloo, a Requiem Mass was held for him last year. Today there will be only a short ceremony for the committal of his body, which will be held in the château’s chapel. The service will start just after eleven. I know you are not of the True Faith, but I would be delighted if you would attend.”

I would have paid my respects, even if her son had been a Mohammedan, and accepted.

“It would be an honour, Annette.”

She gave me a warm kiss of gratitude, and continued.
“A jug of hot water will be sent up for your ablutions.” She paused. “I have to apologise for the sparseness of your room, it is quite unsuitable as a guest room. I have taken the liberty of having your valise and portmanteau brought into my bedroom, and I see no reason why you should not spend the rest of your stay at the château sharing this room.”
She left before I could reply, but in any case I was speechless with shock. I had been invited to share her bedroom, and I took that to include her bed.

Just before eleven. I heard the steady, stately, approaching sound of Hercules and Atlas’s hoof beats I had shaved carefully, and was wearing my best jacket, and the very fashionable buckskin breeches I had bought from Mister Montague Burton of Saville Row shortly before my departure for France.
I had some difficulty tying my cravat, but looking in the large dressing table mirror of Annette’s boudoir outside I thought I looked as elegant as any Pall Mall fop.

I joined the funeral procession, which was preceded by the Curé’s cross bearer. Next followed the coffin, borne on the shoulders of the six apprentices of Monsieur Hulot, with the Curé of St Ursula’s church walking behind, reading from the Bible.
Annette walked behind him, flanked by the three girls; all wore black, and a more becoming quartet of females would be hard to find. There followed behind them some notable dignitaries from Valenciennes—the Blanchards were an old and respected family of the area—then came a motley crowd of villagers from Wallers.
Finally at the rear, where I had joined the procession, were those workers on the estate who I had seen about the place but not in the château.
These included the peg legged fellow who acted as stable man, although I think prior to the loss of part of his leg he had been the cowman. I saw Monsieur Hulot in this assembly, and on his arm a young woman who at first sight could have been Amy Fairfax. She had the same seductive sway of her hips as she walked, and the same mass of golden curls. However, when I got closer to her I saw she had brown eyes, not the cornflower blue of Amy’s, and she was considerably younger than Amy.
I took her to be Hercule’s daughter, so you can imagine my surprise when I learned, from Françoise Truffaut, the peg legged stableman, she was Madame Brigitte Hulot, Hercule’s wife.

“Hercule Hulot was married to his sour faced wife for twenty years. He had a terrible life with her, and wore the gloomy and doleful expression of the most miserable of undertakers. She died last May, and young Brigitte arrived as a maid. Within three months she was his wife, and Hercule has been like a young man ever since.”
This explained his cheerful and jovial spirit, so far removed from the usual demeanour of an undertaker. It also explained why he would be in his bed at eight of an evening.

The service was indeed short, and conducted mainly in Latin, but I remembered enough from the school room to understand. Then the coffin, accompanied by the Curé, Annette and the girls, was taken down to the Blanchard family tomb in the crypt. A short time later they reappeared, and the service was over.
A cold collation was served in the dining room, but I decided to harness Hercules and Atlas and do some ploughing—proving to myself I had not returned to Château Blanchard just to bed Annette, although I doubted it would have convinced Woody. As I made my way towards the stairs I saw Annette and the girls giving admiring and approving looks at my modish attire. That is except for Mimi, who continued to look at me as if I was something she had stepped in.

Monsieur Hulot was as good as his word. Pierre’s uniform had been cleaned, and was placed on a stand in the hall. Everyone entering could admire the blue, tail-coated jacket, with white, plastron type lapels, and gleaming gold buttons. Epaulettes of green and gold, red cuffs on the sleeves, and red turn backs, embellished with small gold bugles, completed the impressive garment. I have to admit that the uniforms of the French were splendid and martial, and those of the Imperial Guard the most magnificent.
I went up to Annette’s room, changed into garments more suitable for work, and then made my way out, down the back stairs, to the stables. François was busy cleaning tack as I harnessed the Percherons.

“I did not think an English milord would be able to plough a field as well as you do.”He said.
I explained I was a farmer’s son and had learned to plough at eight years old.
He nodded. “Aye, you have to start young. Matilde’s father, Abel Gance, was our ploughman, and he was a good one. He and I, and Mimi and Chloe’s father, Jean Renoir, were conscripted together. Abel was killed at our first battle—Austerlitz.”

“What about Jean, I understand he died in Spain?”

“Aye, he did. He distinguished himself at the battle of Freidland, and was promoted to the Tirailleurs of the Imperial Guard. Napoleon took them to Spain, where he threw out some English general and his army. Jean had his throat cut by Spanish guerrillas, or so I heard. The fool should have stayed with the regiment. We were garrisoned in Warsaw for a year, and had the time of our lives with all those Polish girls.” He sighed, wistfully, at the memories.
Well at least I could put Woody’s mind at rest that he had not been involved in the death of Mimi’s father.

“Where did you...” I said, glancing at his wooden leg.

“Wagram, —but it spared me going to Russia. None of my regiment survived.”

“And you at least came back home safe to your wife.”

He spat. “The bitch ran off with a Westphalian hussar when she found I had lost part of my right leg. Not that she was much of a wife—I expect the hussar traded her in for a plug of tobacco — after he had finished plugging her.”
He laughed. “I do all right with the ladies. There are many widows hereabouts, and although I may be missing part of my right leg my middle leg is in excellent order. There is a red headed widow, Marie, who I keep happy several nights in the week. If I ever get enough money together I will marry her, and keep her happy every night of the week!”

I knew Annette intended sowing potatoes in a small field left fallow for a year. I set to and soon had ploughed at least half of the field by two o’clock that afternoon. The soil was lighter than the first field I had ploughed, so each furrow was ploughed that much quicker. There was also the fact I was better practised, and more familiar with the little foibles of the ploughing horses, able to anticipate some of their moves. The lesson of this experience, as applied to galloping, was not lost on me.
As I was resting the team I saw a figure making its way towards me from the château I thought it might be Annette, but as the figure drew closer I saw it was Matilde. Although all three girls were equally attractive and desirable, I preferred her above the other two. She had a saucy, impudent, air about her, which reminded me of Amy Fairfax, although Matilde was dark haired, with larger breasts than Amy.

“Where is that handsome English Milord who graced our presence this morning?” She gave an impish grin, and placed the basket of food she carried on the ground as she spoke. A provocative look, so reminiscent of Amy, crossed her face.
“We were all very much taken by him—even Mimi.”

“He was but fleeting presence–what you see before you is my normal persona.”

She laughed, and said quietly, but loud enough for me to hear.
“He will do well enough for me.”
I started on the bread and cheese she had brought with her, and drank from a flagon of beer. Even after the large breakfast I had consumed earlier in the day I was ready for more victuals.

“Tell me, M’sieu Jacques, why did you send Woody back to England and return here by yourself? Were you fearful Woody might bed Madame Annette before you did?”
I choked on my food, and had to take a draught of beer before replying.

“Nothing of the sort! Due to the exigencies of the service Woody had to return to England. I had promised to plough Madame’s fields, and returned so to do—which, as you see, I am now carrying out.”
She looked doubtful at my explanation, although I expect it was the English word ‘exigencies’ which had confused her, as it does not translate well into French.

“Well, Mimi says that you were jealous of the interest Madame Annette showed in Woody, and you sent him away so you would have uninterrupted access to her. Your lust and jealousy has deprived Mimi, Chloe, and me, of being further—entertained—by him.”
She gave me a guileless look. “However, both Chloe and I would forgive you if you found the time to entertain us!”
I was amazed at her audacity, but I had to make some reply that would both make it plain that I was not a galloper of young girls, and in a way not hurt her feelings.

“Matilde, you are a sweet girl, and any young man would cut off his arm to—err—entertain you. However I am at least ten years your senior, and it would not be seemly for such an ‘old’ man as I to attempt to entertain two such young, vivacious, and energetic girls as you and Chloe.”

“Madame Annette is nearly twenty years older than you, but I know it is in both your minds that entertaining shall take place between you both. Hercule Hulot is over twice the age of Brigitte, his wife, but he entertains her nightly, and also at frequent times during the day, or so she tells me. Anyway you are no older than Woody, and he managed well enough. Besides, I am no young girl but a woman of nearly eighteen years.”

“Well, more power to Monsieur Hulot’s—uhh—elbow. I know I could not keep pace with a young girl, although I might keep pace with an older woman.”

“If you are not capable of entertaining us then Chloe and I will have to wait until someone comes along who can. Although I think you say this to spare my feelings, and could, if you had a mind to, entertain Chloe, Mimi, me, and Madame—all at the same time—and in the same bed.”

She got up from the ground and came over and kissed me, her tongue sliding into my mouth like a flickering adder. I was taken aback, but returned the favour. How long that kiss might have continued, and if it might have developed into something more than just a kiss, we shall never know because the horses began fidgeting and stamping their hoofs. We reluctantly disengaged our lips, and she turned to go.

“If you change your mind, M’sieu Jacques, then let me know.” With a cheeky smile, and a wave of her hand, she made her way back towards the château.

It was then that an outrageous thought entered my mind. Why should I not stay at Château Blanchar? Resign my commission—put some of my capital into the running of the estate—and this was the real substance of my wild idea—take Annette, and the three girls, as my mistresses? All thoughts of Caroline Ashford, of the Bureau, of my friends and family in England vanished, as the vision of being the Master of Blanchard, and of its women, flooded into my mind, and it must be admitted, my plunger. Just as quickly as that mad thought had possessed me it went, leaving only a faint echo, which I pushed into the furthest recesses of my mind. Who did I think I was—Louis Quinze?
By the time I had finished the ploughing and returned Hercules and Atlas to the stable it was dark. François offered to see to the horses, so I bid him a good night and made my way into the château. Annette was in her sewing room, and she called out as I entered the hall.

“Jacques, I shall have hot water sent up directly. I will see you at dinner; I have much sewing to catch up on.”
I told her of the progress in the ploughing and she smiled and thanked me.
“The potatoes will not need to be sown until the beginning of next month, but it will do the field good to have the nourishment of the clover inducted into the soil.”
I said I would take her advice as to which field to plough the next day, and she said she would think on it and talk later at dinner.

Matilde served at dinner. She caught my eye several times and winked. I tried to ignore her, but as she served the dessert she breathed in my ear.

“Have you changed your mind yet?”
Annette’s head came up as she caught some part of the conversation.