CHAPTER EIGHT
Adrienne followed Lucie down the long hallway toward her bedroom. They passed a guest room on the right. The door was ajar, and Adrienne slowed, tipped her head slightly so that she could see inside the room. Julien lay in the middle of the bed, his face almost as pale as the white linen sheets surrounding him. His eyes were closed. He didn’t appear to be breathing. Adrienne stopped for a moment in front of the door, staring at this cousin she had never met. He had the dark hair, the dark beard, she had seen in her visions. Julien began to cough, a horrid, crackling cough that wracked his entire body.
Lucie appeared in front of Adrienne and held out her hand. “Come, Adrienne. He needs to rest. You can meet him later.” Her words were barely audible in the hushed atmosphere of illness.
They entered Adrienne’s room down the hall, and Lucie began to unbutton the girl’s church dress. “Adrienne, do you know who did this? Who poisoned Julien?”
Adrienne shook her head.
“How can you be certain he was poisoned?”
“I could see him—Julien. In the church. It is very dark there. No windows. The floors are dirt.” Adrienne stood patiently while Lucie slipped a day dress over her head. “Not that one, Lucie! Can’t I wear the pink one, with the roses?”
Lucie stopped and smiled. “I suppose.” She made another trip to the wardrobe.
“Tell me, Adrienne. What you saw.”
“Well, he took the cup in his hands. The silver one that Marie took from the library, the last time she was home?”
Lucie nodded, and turned Adrienne slightly so she could tie the ribbon at the back of her dress.
“And then he raised it up, like this.” Adrienne pretended to hold a cup in her hands, and raised it above her head. Her eyes lifted to the ceiling. “He said a bunch of words I couldn’t understand . . . just like Père Henri says.”
Lucie nodded.
“And then he took a sip, like this.” Again Adrienne demonstrated. “And then his eyes got big, and he dropped the cup, and his hands came up to his throat.” She acted out each sentence. “And his eyes rolled back in his head . . . and then . . .” Adrienne let her eyes roll back, and she dropped to the floor, like a rag doll.
“Hmmm,” Lucie commented. Her lips were pressed together, as if trying to hide a smile.
A heavy silence filled the room. Adrienne opened her eyes. The roses on the rug were a deep crimson, shaded with cream and pink. And at the edge of one cabbage rose, two pointed black boots stood, black skirts swishing around them.
“That’s very amusing, Adrienne.” Marie’s voice cracked in the air.
Lucie jumped. She had not seen Marie come in. Adrienne swallowed and sat up.
“I don’t know where in the world you get these stories of yours.” Marie stood at the edge of the rug, stiff and severe. A whiff of lavender escaped from her black skirts, and Adrienne coughed.
“But there is a great difference between imagination and the actual truth.” Marie’s eyes were narrow and hard.
Adrienne felt as if she’d been stung. “But I—”
“Enough!” Marie did not shout, but her words cut the air as if she had. “There is no way for you to know what happened on the other side of the world. And I will tolerate none of these stories. Is that clear?”
Adrienne swallowed. “Yes, madame.” She met Marie’s gaze.
Adrienne sat in the middle of the rug, where she had been demonstrating the story to Lucie just a few moments before. Her lower lip pushed out; her eyes burned with rage. But she did not cry.
CHAPTER NINE
Père Henri stopped for a moment to catch his breath. He leaned against the trunk of a chestnut tree, and pulled a handkerchief from his pocket. Though it was only late May, the sun was hot on his bald head, and he mopped it down for the third time since starting his journey. It was a mile from the rectory to the gates of the Chateau de Challembelles, though it felt much longer, and it would never do for him to arrive looking nervous and sweat-drenched.
In truth, he was nervous and sweaty. It was not yet eleven, but the day was already unseasonably hot and humid. The incline on the road to the chateau was slight, but it was an incline, and for some reason it seemed much more difficult today than it had in the past. It was partially due to the effects of time: he was approaching sixty, and he was overfond of good food and fine wine and blessed with a housekeeper who kept him supplied with both.
But at least part of the difficulty lay in the visit itself. He’d been there many times, of course, as a guest of Genevieve and the comte. There’d been a dinner after baby Adrienne had been baptized, and another just a few months ago, when Pierre was home from Paris for the baptism of baby Emelie. He well remembered the marriage of Genevieve and Pierre Beauvier seven years ago. The whole affair had been quite lavishly done up, as he recalled, and the food had been excellent. He still remembered the crispy skin on the roasted duck, and the memory provoked an annoying growl from his stomach. Over the years that Père Henri had been the priest in Beaulieu, there had been several occasions to visit, but all of them had been through invitation. He could not recall another occasion when he had taken it upon himself to visit the chateau, uninvited and unannounced.
It wasn’t that Père Henri was particularly interested in the gossip of the village. But whenever his housekeeper, Madame Cezanne, served him some delicious concoction from her overflowing kitchen, she usually spiced it with some tidbit or two that she had heard while at the market. Yesterday evening, she had served him a wonderful beef roast, slightly pink and swimming in juice, just the way he liked it, and roasted new potatoes, drenched in butter and flecked with chives from the garden. He had closed his eyes and inhaled the aromas, drinking them in, savoring the feast before he had tasted a bite. Indulging her penchant for sharing the latest gossip seemed a small price to pay for having such a wonderful cook in the house. But the news that she had served with last night’s meal had been particularly interesting, since it tied directly to the outlandish story Adrienne had blurted out as the family left the church yesterday morning.
“Madame Morier is back from America,” the woman said quietly, her eyes on the potatoes that she heaped on his plate. “The cook is all in a state—seems madame came back without any prior warning. Cook is positively mortified, since madame is very particular about how things are done when she is home.”
Père Henri looked up at her, but she kept her eyes discreetly on the work of dishing up his plate. Her cheeks were red; her graying hair escaped in little vagabond curls from the bun at the nape of her neck. “And her son is with her. Cook was quite beside herself. Says she’s going to have to make two different selections for each meal. Père Julien is sick, apparently, and having quite a time keeping anything down.”
The story was particularly troubling, especially given Adrienne’s outburst after the mass. Père Henri had assumed, at the time, that Adrienne was simply demonstrating her remarkable creative abilities. He liked the little girl. She was very beautiful, for one thing, quite like her late grandmother, according to his housekeeper. She was bright, precocious even. She showed an interest in everything. And since the addition of her governess just a few years ago, Adrienne had begun to demonstrate her creative abilities in several avenues. She had played a lovely little piece on the pianoforte for Emelie’s baptism dinner. She had been most anxious to show the priest a little painting she had done of the lilacs in the back garden.
So when she’d shared that outlandish story as they left the church the day before, Père Henri had assumed that it was nothing more than her imagination, a little girl watching the priest as he performed the rites of the Eucharist, and expanding on that scene to create a story.
The father walked through the heavy iron gate that blocked the road to the Challembelles estate, and started down the lane toward the front entrance. Chestnut trees lined the path, and the temperature dropped a few degrees in their shade. His stomach danced with nervousness; his mind flittered from one prepared comment to another. He had told himself over and over again on the walk out here this morning that it was not simply curiosity that propelled him. If it were true that the younger priest had been poisoned at the chalice, then they might need him, Père Henri, to help them get through this difficult time with the ministrations and spiritual guidance that only an older priest could offer.
The maid announced him, and he was shown into the morning room, where Marie and Genevieve sat at their desks writing letters. The comte sat in a chair by the fire, burning brightly despite the heat of the day outside, reading a newspaper.
The comte stood and offered his hand, and Père Henri noticed, not for the first time, that it shook slightly. “How good of you to visit, Père Henri. Please sit down. Would you like coffee?”
“That would be lovely, thank you.” The priest shook the comte’s hand, and turned to Marie. “Madame Morier! Such a long time has passed since I last saw you. It is so good to see you again.”
“Likewise, Père Henri.” Marie allowed her hand to be swallowed by his two enormous mitts.
“Madame Beauvier.” Père Henri nodded to Genevieve.
“Please sit down.” The comte took his pipe from his teeth, and indicated the sofa in front of the fireplace. Marie and Genevieve joined them, and Père Henri felt beads of sweat gathering on his forehead as he sat down across from the fire.
The maid returned with a tray and poured and served the coffee, beginning with their guest. He took the cup, stirred the sugar, and held his nose over the steaming brown liquid. He turned to Marie. “I understand Julien is with you.”
“Yes, he is.”
“I haven’t seen him in . . . oh, years, I suppose. Not since he first left for America,” Père Henri said. “He seemed so young, to be traveling halfway around the world.” He took a sip of coffee, and placed it on the table in front of him.
“He is not so young, now, I’m afraid.” Marie smiled. “Seems to be a common malady, this growing older.”
“Yes, yes, quite so.” The priest’s eyes jumped from Marie’s face to that of the comte, sitting across from him. He reached again for his coffee cup, unsure of how to proceed. He sipped again.
“I understand Julien is unwell.”
“Yes, he is very ill, I’m afraid.” Her eyes dropped to the floor.
Père Henri waited for her to continue.
Marie swallowed and placed her cup on the table. “Julien has been in South America these past two months.”
The priest’s eyebrows went up. “Oh?”
Both Genevieve and the comte raised their eyes to look at her.
“Yes.” Marie met his gaze again, her eyes hard and flinty and totally unreadable. She folded her hands together in her lap. She leaned forward slightly. “I wouldn’t want this to get out, Father, but . . .”