A Most Beautiful Country

Chapter 2: A Most Beautiful Country

It would be quite useless to say that I found the gift of Lady de Chagny’s necklace enchanting. Although the engraving on the silver backing was no older than the summer of 1889, I was quite certain that the charm itself was almost two hundred years old. For nearly a fortnight after receiving such a wonderful gift from G.H., I spent the entirety of my research time searching for whatever scraps of information and any minor mention of the Lady de Chagny or any conspicuous relation. At the end of my search, however, I was hopelessly disappointed, as I had found no more than I had already been told by my secret correspondent.

Perhaps I had decided on my course of action from the moment I read the first missive sent to me by G.H., but it was a great stain on my will to actually take the first step on my journey beyond a pile of dusty books and rustling pages of notes. The summer was fading quickly, and the vibrant colors of autumn were appearing in minute doses upon the trees lining the streets of Paris. It was difficult to imagine how my journey would begin, as I was utterly unfamiliar with the area and would much rather have spent my time watching the golden hues of autumn seep into the trees.

So it was, on a bright, windy September morning that I prepared my luggage for the trip to the Chateau de Chagny. It was several weeks removed from the delivery of the gift from G.H. that I made my preparations to travel, and I had received a third missive from my correspondent listing a small bed and breakfast near the Chateau that would suit my needs. M. Rigalto was familiar with the proprietors of the inn, and made such arrangements with the caretaker that I was to stay for as long as needed without rent.

I was ill at ease with traveling alone away from the city, my stomach in knots and my hands uneasy with trembling as I waited in the lobby for the taxi M. Rigalto had summoned. My luggage sat on a tram by the door with a young bellboy, his dark hair blowing in the autumn breeze. Lady de Chagny’s necklace was in my purse, locked away safely in its box, and the many notes I had made of her life were bound in a leather notebook and tucked away in my luggage. I had no idea what I would find when I arrived at the chateau north of Paris, but I felt something calming in the pit of my stomach.

The driver of the taxi was a nice man from Orleans who spoke of nothing but Jean d’Arc for the entire drive. He told interesting tales about the holy warrioress and her great siege of the town. His voice was soothing, a lilting quality to it that matched the rhythmic shaking of the taxi. I relaxed against the seat, listening to the driver weave his tales and watching the outskirts of Paris fade away into a quiet countryside. It was a most beautiful country with groves of trees lining the roadway and fields of wildflowers stretching out far and away. The gold and orange hues of autumn were exploding from the uppermost branches of the trees down through the bottom. The sky was a crystal, sea blue broken by cotton ball clouds.

“Ah, mademoiselle, we have arrived.” The taxi had come to a stop in front of a large manor house bearing the name The King’s Bed on a wooden sign in the yard. The driver came around to open my door and held out his hand to help me out. My legs ached from sitting for nearly two hours, and my back felt as if it were in a vise. The driver was busy at the back loading my luggage onto a little tram as I stretched and walked up to the front door of the inn.

The door was made of sturdy oak reinforced with iron bars. There was a tiny window in the middle, the opening covered from within with a little door, sitting above an iron knocker. Taking the heavy ring in my shaking hand, I knocked twice and stood back. A stone balcony formed the overhang above the door, several urns of flowers sitting on its rails. Two small trees stood on either side of the door, sculpted into tight spirals and decorated with blue and white silk streamers. Sloping gardens stretched out to my right and left before disappearing around the back of the house. It was beautiful.

The door opened to reveal a young woman in a yellow country dress, her golden hair held back in a thick braid. She smiled, her gray eyes twinkling. “Welcome, mademoiselle, to The King’s Bed. Please come in,” she said as she stepped aside and dropped into what was unmistakably a curtsy.

I followed the young woman in, noting in passing that she could hardly be a year or more older than myself. The driver followed close behind, pushing the tram with my luggage uneasily over the rich rugs covering the polished wooden floors. Beautiful tapestries and paintings hung on the walls on each side of the entry hallway. A great window with French doors stood behind the desk at the end of the entryway. There was a grand staircase that rose to the upper floor on each side of the desk. A large portrait of King Louis XIV hung on the wall at the upper floor landing.

“Pardon me, mademoiselle,” I said, my eye caught by a portrait of a dark haired woman wearing a silver gown and hood to match. Her dark eyes were piercing, and her lips were turned upwards in a knowing smile. “ Would you know the woman in that portrait there?”

The young woman hardly glanced at the portrait, as if it were a common talking point of the guests coming in and out of the bed and breakfast. “That is Queen Anne, mademoiselle. The wife of King Henry of England,” she replied, still leading me toward the desk at the end of the entryway.

“Queen Anne?” I repeated, puzzled. “You wouldn’t be speaking of Anne Boleyn, would you, mademoiselle?”

“Oui, mademoiselle. This house was once a favorite home of Queen Anne when she was a young girl at the court of France. The Chateau de Chagny was built using the same plans as this very house.”

Copyright © 2008 The Mistress Snape