The French Chateau Escape: A gorgeous, escapist read from Gillian Harvey

By Gillian Harvey

Click buy: a French chateau. Condition: ‘may require improvement’…

It seemed like a good idea. Selling everything we owned. Just Mark and me, swapping our tiny, little, terraced London home – and the heartbreak of not being able to start a family – for an entire chateau in the middle of France… It’s everyone’s dream. And now it’s coming true for us.

As I use the rusty key to open the big, creaking wooden door of the tumbledown fairytale chateau that’s officially our new home, I wonder: what could possibly go wrong?

Little do I know that the answer is going to be… ‘everything’. I don’t speak nearly as much French as I should yet, but I feel like there’s no mistaking the villagers’ hostility. Nor the look of shock on the builder’s face when he sees the roof.

Can our marriage survive this adventure? With all the tumbling masonry, will we?

As the French sun blazes overhead, one thing’s for sure: it’s going to be a year to remember…

A gorgeously escapist read from the bestselling author of A Year at the French Farmhouse and A Month in Provence. Perfect for fans of Veronica Henry, Jo Thomas and Jennifer Bohnet.

Readers are loving The French Chateau Escape:

‘A perfect book for anyone who has a dream!’ Goodreads reviewer ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

‘A touching story about finding the strength you didn’t know you had. Warm, funny and downright wonderful. I loved it.’ Nicola Gill, author

‘If you’re planning to buy a ramshackle chateau in France and you enjoy engaging, highly readable fiction, this is the book for you. And if you have no chateau plans, you can still live the adrenalin-filled experience on every page of Gillian Harvey's latest novel!’ Sue Teddern, author of The Pre-Loved Club

‘This really is the ideal piece of escapism.’ Goodreads reviewer ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

‘A heartwarming story of a couple restoring a French chateau with plenty of surprises along the way and some laugh out loud moments – loved it!’ Catherine Cooper, Sunday Times bestselling author of The Chalet

‘An emotional and heartwarming story of love, loss, and taking charge of your life… [It] hooked me from beginning to end with rich characters that found their way into my heart.’ Goodreads reviewer ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

‘Heart and humour in rural France… Harvey knows how take her characters on a journey… The part of the story that struck me the most though is the way she writes about the relationship between Emma, her sister and father – which really made the tears flow when the heartwarming ending rolls around.’ Goodreads reviewer ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

‘I’ve read all of Harvey’s novels set in France and I think this one might be my favourite… It's definitely a “feel good” read (in the end) with a lot of very realistic scenarios depicted… You’ll finish this in one or two sittings so grab a hot chocolate, tea or a glass of wine and settle in for the ride. A great read for some armchair travel!’ Goodreads reviewer ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

‘I honestly think that this is the best book yet from Gillian Harvey. I genuinely laughed… I would challenge anyone to find a better story than this one, for pure comedy… pulls at your heartstrings too. I cannot recommend this book enough, it’s trulyfabulous.’ Goodreads reviewer ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

• Language: English
• Publisher: Boldwood Books
• Release date: Nov 8, 2023
• ISBN: 9781805499336

Gillian Harvey

Gillian Harvey is a freelance writer and bestselling author who lives in France. She writes escapist fiction set in France, including bestsellers A Year at the French Farmhouse and A Month in Provence.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

SPRING

A sudden thud and crash on the stairs sent the tiny stick clattering from Emma’s hand and across the uneven wood of the ensuite floor. There was silence, then a single cry – a sort of animal sound; something that made her nerve-endings fizz.

‘Mark?’ she called, her heart thundering. ‘Are you OK?’

It wouldn’t be the first time her husband had dropped something down the stairs, or stumbled slightly against the banister. The chateau’s open staircase with its uneven treads was beautiful and solid but, they were rapidly finding out, impractical. Two weeks ago, he’d dropped a tray holding two mugs of tea as he’d tripped on the curve of the stairway – it had made an outlandish crash that had had her leaping from under the covers with fright. Last Tuesday he’d managed to slip down three stairs, skidding noisily on his heel before staining the air with expletives.

Only this time the air remained oppressively quiet. Emma waited for his cry of ‘bollocks’ or customary shout of ‘it’s OK, I’m all right’. But nothing.

Panicking, she pulled up her pyjama bottoms and rushed to the top of the stairs. As she clicked on the light, she could just see one of Mark’s slippers on the curve of the spiral staircase. ‘Mark?’ she called again, pulling her dressing gown around her and beginning to jog down, clinging on to the handrail.

When she saw him, upside down, halfway between the upper landing and hallway, she let out a little cry. You didn’t need to be a doctor to know when someone’s leg was broken, she realised. At least not when it looked the way his did. ‘Oh my God,’ she said, rushing to his side and grabbing his hand. ‘Are you OK?’

He looked at her then and even through the clearly agonising pain she could read a slight annoyance in his eyes.

‘Sorry, course you’re not,’ she said. ‘I’ll get my phone.’ She rushed back up the stairs, as quickly as she dared, and grabbed it from the bedside table, keying in 999 before realising that number wouldn’t work in France. Instead, she pressed 15 and, phone clamped to her ear, made her way back to the prone body of her husband, who was letting out sharp, distressed breaths, his eyes closed.

‘You’ll be OK,’ she said to him, rubbing his shoulder. In reality, she wasn’t sure. Had he hit his head? Was the leg the worst of their problems or were other hidden injuries just waiting to reveal themselves: a ghastly head injury? Internal bleeding?

She felt the guilt rise up inside her as she waited for the call to connect. They’d argued only yesterday about the stairs – he thought they needed a central carpet, for safety. She’d criticised him for getting too hung-up on small details. ‘In case you haven’t noticed,’ she’d said, ‘we have a whole chateau to renovate, Mark! There’s no point worrying about soft furnishings when you’ve got walls to demolish.’

Now this. Proof that he’d been right all along. The stairs, their wood worn over the centuries by the chateau’s occupants, clearly were a hazard.

‘Oui?’ a voice said crisply on the end of the line.

It took a while to communicate their whereabouts to the operator, but just five minutes after the call ended there was a shout of ‘Madame?’ in the marbled entrance hall. ‘Thank God,’ she said, then. ‘Here!’ she called. ‘Ici!’

Mark looked paler now, the pain clearly taking its toll on the rest of his body. A film of sweat prickled on his brow. He squeezed her hand. ‘Emma?’ he said, his eyes still clamped shut.

‘Yes?’

‘Are you going to be OK?’

She nodded, holding the tears back as best she could. ‘I’ll come,’ she said. ‘I’ll follow in the car.’

‘Are you sure?’ he said, his voice thick and gravelly with pain. ‘You don’t have to.’

‘Of course I’m sure,’ she said. ‘Of course I am.’

The two men who appeared in green overalls seconds later looked familiar. She was sure that the taller, bearded one had served her in the local tabac last week. He held a lightweight stretcher under his burly arm. The other man was carrying a bag.

‘Oh la la,’ one said to the other, looking at the twisted shape of her husband’s right leg. ‘You have fallen, monsieur.’

‘Yes,’ Emma replied on Mark’s behalf, trying to keep the impatience from her voice. ‘Yes, he has fallen.’

The men exchanged a glance and grimace combination which didn’t exactly fill her with confidence. Emma knew that the local emergency services were largely made up of volunteers and, while trained, wondered if they’d ever seen a complicated leg break like this. Were you actually meant to move people? And how? And would they cause more damage if they didn’t manoeuvre him in the right way? But she didn’t have a lot of choice – she couldn’t leave Mark lying there, and she wasn’t about to try anything herself.

The men set to work and communicating in low, foreign growls, they managed to carefully lift Mark onto a stretcher which, at the bottom of the stairs, folded out into a wheeled gurney. Mark was almost silent throughout, exhaling sharply and reaching for Emma’s hand, his face contorted with pain as they finally strapped him in place.

‘You are all right, monsieur,’ the larger man said to Mark in a surprisingly soft voice. ‘Do not worry. We will help with the pain.’

In the hallway, one of them said something to Emma in rapid French and tutted when she stumbled out a reply. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I just… I’m new here. I can’t… My French isn’t…’

‘You wish to come in the ambulance?’ his colleague translated for her. ‘Or to drive yourself? It is thirty kilometres.’

‘It’s OK. I’ll drive. I can do it.’ She tried to keep the doubt from her voice. Since they’d arrived five months ago, she’d barely driven; too fearful of crossing to the wrong side of the road by mistake, letting Mark take the driver’s position each time they ventured out. But this wasn’t the time to be feeble.

Seconds later, her husband was carried through the front door, down the ornate stone steps then bundled into the back of a red ambulance, its blue lights flashing as it pulled silently away. She stood in the doorway for a moment, feeling a sense of unreality – it was seven o’clock, she was still in her pyjamas, the kettle hadn’t even been boiled. She’d only been awake for forty minutes, and what had happened seemed beyond surreal. But it wasn’t a dream.

Mark was moving steadily away from her, his leg in pieces; incapacitated in a way that seemed impossible. Her steadfast rock suddenly revealing that he was after all human and breakable.

She stifled a sob.

Outside, the world was already lighting up for the spring morning. Insects buzzed in the damp, overgrown grass of the front lawn. Beyond the iron gates, she could see the road curve away, and the flash of an occasional car as people began their usual Monday morning routine. There was nobody she could call.

She felt the yawn of the enormous hall behind her. The empty rooms stretching above her head. And she realised as if for the first time how small she was, how large the chateau was and how desperately alone she felt.

But this wasn’t the time for self-pity, she told herself, pushing the carved oak door into place and walking quickly back across the tiles. She stopped at the corner of the staircase to retrieve Mark’s slipper. It seemed so sad – like a shoe found at the road’s edge after an accident. He’d tried to walk down the stairs in the dark, probably, not realising she was already awake; not wanting to disturb her with the light.

Her fault.

Back in their bedroom, she quickly pulled on a pair of jeans, a T-shirt and a light cardigan, gathered her brown hair into a ponytail and began to throw some things into a bag for Mark. What might he need if they had to keep him overnight? A change of clothes? Pyjamas? His book, left dog-eared on the bedside table? A toothbrush and toothpaste? Grabbing them, she saw the white plastic of the ovulation test in the corner. Its tiny screen was blank. Faulty. Of course. Not that it mattered right now.

In the kitchen, she turned the tap and filled a pint glass with water, before gulping half of it down and setting it aside. She emptied today’s dose of vitamins and medication from her weekly sorter and swallowed them in one go. Then she grabbed a banana from the fruit bowl, peeled it hurriedly and took a couple of enormous bites before discarding it. Finally, she retrieved the car keys from the hook, grabbed her handbag, phone and coat and made her way to the front drive.

A sudden feeling of weakness came over her and she stopped in front of the blue Renault they’d bought from a local garage when they’d arrived, leaning slightly against the glass of the driver’s side window, taking in enormous, shuddering breaths. She wanted to feel Mark’s comforting, strong arm wrap around her back, hear him tell her it was going to be all right, that she was fine, that she’d got this. She wanted to draw the strength from him, to feel him by her side and know that no matter what he could make it all OK; the way he’d done in the past when she’d needed him to.

Shaking herself slightly, she clicked the key and opened the car door, sliding into the driver’s seat and adjusting the seat forward. She put her bag on the passenger side and took a quick look in the rear-view mirror before starting the car. She glimpsed her red-rimmed eyes and the sight of them almost set her off again. But it wouldn’t help.

Instead, she keyed the destination into the GPS, put the car into reverse and turned, feeling strange in the left-hand position and cursing herself for not driving more often, taking more time to become accustomed to the car. Then, she pulled onto the gravelled driveway and bumped slowly to the gates, left open by the departing paramedics.

1

SIX MONTHS BEFORE

‘Picture this.’ Mark removed the phone from her hand and set it on the oak coffee table. He wrapped an arm gently around her back and pulled her into him. She let herself be comforted. Outside, darkness had begun to fall and the streetlights were starting to flicker orange. The air had had a hint of cold to it when she’d got off the tube thirty minutes ago, and she’d realised that the weather had lost its summery edge; autumn was on its way. ‘Tomorrow, you go into work and hand in your notice. No wait,’ he continued as she began to object, ‘that job is not doing you any good. It’s making you ill. And Emma, it’s not worth it. It really isn’t.’

The idea was a tempting one – telling her new manager exactly where he could stick his ‘tightened procedures’ and ‘increased profit margin’ and leaving it all behind. Nothing had been the same since Terry started at the five-star central London hotel a year ago; many colleagues who had been friends for the nearly ten years Emma had been there had left, and the atmosphere had changed. Her anxiety, kept in check for years, had risen up as if it had never left in the first place, but had simply been dormant, like a virus waiting to attack the minute she got low.

She didn’t feel like herself any more. Her childhood had been plagued by illness – first a stint in the neonatal intensive care unit, then childhood leukaemia aged eleven – and it had taken her years to regain her physical and mental strength. Her twenties had been marred by health anxiety and irritable bowel syndrome that still flared from time to time. When she’d first met Mark, she’d still been a little feeble, a shadow of the woman she was now. But she’d changed in recent years, feeling stronger, more resilient. More determined. She’d finally felt as if she’d stepped into herself – the self she was meant to be – confident, calm and almost completely capable. Then Terry had arrived.

‘But what would I… what would we…?’ she said.

‘That’s the best bit. We’ll put this flat on the market – did you know, there’s one down the road that went for eight hundred thousand last week?’

‘You’re joking?’ The flat, on a busy road in Muswell Hill, was created within what had used to be a Victorian terrace. There were three in all, theirs was on the second floor. Mark had bought it thirty years ago for under two hundred thousand pounds and although they’d known it must have increased in value, that sort of money seemed ridiculous. She looked at the slightly dated décor, the worn wooden floors.

‘I know. I know. Inflation, eh,’ he said, giving her another squeeze. ‘But listen. There’s more. One of the benefits of my being an ‘old man’ as you always so politely call me, is that I can actually take early retirement. Seriously early retirement. I mean, it wouldn’t be a fortune, at fifty, but it’s possible. I spoke to John, the accountant at work. And I was already thinking of saying to you – well, why don’t we just chuck it all in and do something completely different?’

‘OK?’ She wasn’t quite sure where the conversation was heading. ‘But what about… We want to have a…’ She trailed away, not wanting to say it. They’d been trying for six months now and nothing was happening. Perhaps Mark had assumed they’d never get pregnant. That they wouldn’t need money to support a growing child.

‘If we sell the flat,’ he said, his voice so upbeat and excited that he seemed not to realise he hadn’t given her much of a clue as to what he was talking about, ‘we can take the equity – and let’s face it, I’ve had a mortgage since the dark ages, so it’s almost all equity – and just go for it.’

‘Go for it?’ she said, pulling away from him and fixing her eyes on his face. Their eyes met and she gave a watery smile. ‘Mark, you’re not making any sense. Go for what?’

He laughed. ‘Move to France, buy a chateau, live the dream of course!’

She’d never guffawed before, to her knowledge, but she let out an enormous one now. ‘Very funny.’

‘What?’

‘Can you imagine?’ she said. ‘Us?’ Her smile faded a little, looking at his serious expression. ‘Really?’

‘I’ve been thinking about it all day. We could go to France, buy a chateau, decorate it and run a wedding venue. You know, like you said that time.’

She laughed at the idea and lifted a hand to the side of his face. ‘Mark, you idiot, I know I talk about that sort of thing when we watch Escape to the Chateau. But you know I don’t really mean it, right?’

‘You don’t?’

‘Come on,’ she said, gently. ‘Can you really see us moving to France and actually taking on an enormous building like that?’ It was the sort of thing that other people did.

‘Well, why not? Think of the gardens, all that land. The fresh air. Starting a family somewhere with less stress, a better pace of life. You know… somewhere that might help your body to… reset itself properly.’

He really was serious, she realised, with a jolt.

She snorted. ‘Mark, I love you. And I love that you want that for me. But it’d never work out.’ She smiled, shaking her head sadly. ‘It’s such a lovely idea though. So kind of you to…’

‘Give me one good reason why not. Seriously.’

‘Well… um…’ Something fluttered inside. Surely it wasn’t something they could really do, was it? ‘OK, almost certain financial ruin for starters.’

‘That’s where you’re wrong.’

‘I’m wrong?’

‘Yes. For a start, we can get a chateau for less than this flat will sell for, believe it or not, if we get the right area, the right level of… dilapidation…’

‘Dilapi… What do you mean, buy a complete wreck?’

‘Well, not a complete one, but you know. Some light works…’

‘Mark, we’d be totally out of our depth.’ She shook her head, her voice firmer now.

‘You forget, my love,’ he said, his tone light, joking, ‘that I have extensive skills as a renovator.’

‘Mark, you painted the flat with emulsion ten years ago…’

‘And installed the toilet!’ he said with mock outrage.

‘OK. And installed the toilet.’

‘So…?’ He grinned.

‘Mark, you are not a builder.’

‘No.’

‘You are a man with a Homebase reward card and an inflated ego.’

He shook his head. ‘No, you’re getting it wrong. I am a master artisan waiting to happen. With the right property, with the time. With a little money and a bit of help from an expert, I reckon I could do it. Don’t forget I also helped flip those rental properties back in the day.’

‘But…?’

‘And you’re a whiz on Instagram and social media. We could make it a go-to destination. You’ve got your tourist industry expertise, I’m the ideas man, the renovator.’

‘Is that a bit like The Terminator?’ she quipped. ‘The Renovator. Coming to a chateau near you, this summer.’

‘Ha.’ He laughed. ‘I’ll be pack… ing for the move,’ he said in his best Arnold Schwarzenegger impression.

‘Not quite the same ring?’

‘No, not quite.’

They smiled at each other.

‘Are you serious though?’ she asked, looking at him, taking in his ruffled brown hair, peppered with grey, his light brown eyes. ‘You really think we could do something like that?’ She thought about them standing in the grounds of a chateau, looking up at the building with pride, sun playing on their skin. Her stomach swollen beneath a floral dress. ‘Really?’

‘Why not?’ he said. ‘We get one shot on this godforsaken planet. So why not be the ones that actually try?’

He moved a little closer to her, fixing earnest eyes on her face. ‘Look, when Jess left me, I thought I was finished. I was rattling around in this stupid flat, working, coming home. Not really doing anything with my life…’

‘I know but…’

‘But,’ he said. ‘At the ripe old age of forty-five, I suddenly met you. And everything has changed.’

‘Because of me?’ she said, incredulously.

‘Yes, because of you. Because meeting you, marrying you, having this whole new story made me realise that miracles can happen, anything is possible.’

She snorted with self-derision. ‘Or that shit happens.’

‘Well, that too.’ He grinned. ‘No, look. We’re here, we’re planning on starting a family. Things are going well at my job, but let’s face it – being an insurance broker is hardly an exciting adventure. And you’re brilliant at what you do with the marketing and PR, but the people you work with are making it impossible.’

‘But why France?’

‘Why not? It’s not too far away from home. Not far from Rachael or… or your dad. But still a completely different life. And, well, it’s affordable. Away from working, the mortgage, the daily grind… doing all the things everyone just assumes they’ll do in life.’

‘But don’t you want those things?’

‘I thought I did. But maybe I was following a path laid out for me – doing what everyone else did. I hadn’t questioned things. Hadn’t questioned if there might be ‘more’ to life. Then that bloke joined your work and you started feeling shit and I began to wonder what we were doing it all for.’

‘Oh,’ she said.

‘I had the same kind of trajectory of expectations with Jess – the home, wife, mortgage, kids, middle-age, retirement, choosing a plot in the cemetery…’

‘Mark!’ She gave him a shove. ‘That’s grim.’

‘Yes, but I wasn’t happy. And it all fell apart. And it made me realise I don’t HAVE to do things the expected way. We don’t have to settle. We can do anything we want.’

‘Like buy a chateau in France?’ she said, smiling at his enthusiasm.

‘Like, if you’re lucky enough to make a ton of money on a tiny flat, find yourself in a well-paid job and see the woman you love in a position that’s making her cry almost every night, you can make a change. And why go small? We can be the stars of our own show! Why not buy a chateau?’

‘Do you think,’ she said, slowly, a small smile raising the corners of her lips, ‘that anyone else in the history of mankind has ever said why not buy a chateau?’

‘Well, maybe not…’

‘I mean,’ she teased, ‘that’s the sort of phrase that usually ends with buy a bottle of wine? or a takeaway?.’

‘Or a second ice-cream?’ he interjected. ‘But you know, you and me kid, we’re not like everyone else.’ He squeezed her against him again and she felt her body flood with the chemicals she craved – bathing in the safety she felt in Mark’s embrace: held up by his love, just as she had when they were first together. When she’d been weaker. ‘So, I’m saying, why not?’

Emma felt for a moment as if she was falling. ‘Why not?’ she said, quietly.

‘I mean, what’s stopping us? What’s holding us back? Why don’t we just do it?’ Mark said.

He leaned forward and kissed her gently on the lips and she felt the familiar warmth rush through her. Then he gently put his hands on her shoulders and pulled away, his eyes locked on hers. ‘What do you think?’

‘Well…’

‘I honestly believe,’ he said, ‘that the two of us together. Well, there’s nothing we can’t do.’

And in that moment, when she’d smiled and lifted her lips to his again, she’d felt it too. The feeling that it was him and her against the world. That together, they were capable of almost anything. And she couldn’t fall, could she? She couldn’t fall if someone was holding her.

2

‘Close your eyes,’ he said.

‘Why?’

‘Trust me.’

‘I’m not closing my eyes if you’re not closing yours.’

It was early September, and they were driving towards Labelleville, a tiny town in Charente. Two weeks ago, she’d handed her one month’s notice in. That had felt surreal enough. Now she was here, on the cusp of autumn, about to visit the property her husband had fallen in love with.

When Mark had flown out to France a week before to house-hunt, she’d expected he’d come home either with lots of possibilities, or having shelved the whole plan. Instead, he’d appeared in