Lucie stood on the terrace, picking up the books the younger children had been working on. She stopped and watched as Adrienne walked toward her. It was obvious from the basket of tools and Adrienne’s somber expression that she had been up to the cemetery again. Lucie still missed the young Adrienne, the one who had smiled and laughed and skipped after butterflies and inhaled the nectar of the flowers. That younger version had been easy and light. She lit up the room when she entered.
Now, when Lucie looked into Adrienne’s eyes, she saw only the melancholy notes of loneliness, the heavy oppression of silence. Lucie understood it now, the burden of Adrienne’s ability to see the future. Since that day at their picnic over two years ago, since that day when her friend Madeline had bled to death in childbirth, Lucie had felt the misery of Adrienne’s visions, of her differences, almost as much as the girl herself did. Adrienne had been almost as distraught at the death of the young maid as Lucie or Renault. She blamed herself; she confessed to Lucie what she had seen in her visions. Adrienne felt enormous guilt for not having spoken up. She could not stop wondering if perhaps she had spoken, if the doctor had been sent for sooner, Madeline might still be living.
Lucie sighed. “Nice walk, Adrienne?”
Adrienne nodded. Her cheeks flushed red; her hair strayed from its bun, from the exertion of her walk.
“Come. Let’s work on the Schubert piece.”
Adrienne slipped her cloak from her shoulders and dropped it on the divan. She and Lucie sat down at the pianoforte. Adrienne stretched her fingers, and they began to play. Adrienne’s fingers were clumsy and lumbering, as if frozen. She hit two keys at once, unable to stay on the appropriate note.
Lucie, too, was making mistakes. Apprehension about Marie’s visit sat on both of their shoulders like a dark cloud; it ran down their arms and into their fingers, forcing both women to stumble. Adrienne had not divulged any secrets at any of Marie’s other visits. All the whispering and speculation that had followed the girl when she was younger had quieted. But they both sensed that all the gossip and conjecture about Adrienne and her sanity had only gone underground. With a little wind, it could easily flame into a full-scale fire once again.
Antoine plopped on the sofa and held his hands over his ears. “Yecchhh! It sounds like you’re torturing the cat! Spare us, Adrienne! Spare us!”
Adrienne stopped playing and focused on her little brother. She stuck out her tongue. He grinned. Adrienne glared at him. Antoine pulled his mouth into a grimace, rolled his eyes back in his head. He pretended to fall over dead on the carpet.
The sounds of the horses’ hooves clopping on the gravel and the wheels of the carriage in the drive made everyone in the room freeze for a moment. All eyes turned toward the front hall. Antoine got up off the floor and brushed at the dust on his pants.
Her voice reached them through the open door. “Be careful with those trunks, Renault. They’ve been in the family for years—I don’t want them scratched.”
Marie swept into the castle, and servants moved quickly to take her hat and cloak, to carry her bags.
Marie turned. “Stefan? Bring tea into the parlor. And light a fire. It’s much too chilly in here.”
Lucie met Adrienne’s eyes. She watched as Adrienne tried to swallow, but her whole body had tensed with Marie’s appearance. Lucie saw Adrienne’s jaw tighten. She sensed the veil of silence that fell over Adrienne’s features, as if she were deliberately numbing herself.
Marie entered the parlor like visiting royalty, and the children dipped their heads toward her. Even Antoine had grown quiet. She examined the boy. “Antoine, tuck in that shirt. You look like a street urchin.” Marie moved toward the chair by the fire, pulling her gloves off, one finger at a time. The scent of lavender followed her like a shadow.
Antoine did as he was told. He moved more slowly than a few moments before, quiet and sedate now, and kept his eyes on the rug.
Genevieve trailed in a moment later. “Marie! How good it is to have you home again.”
Adrienne rolled her eyes at the tone in her mother’s voice.
“Are you home long?” Genevieve asked, slipping into the chair opposite Marie’s. Everyone in the room held their breath, waiting to hear the words from Marie’s mouth—like criminals, waiting to hear the sentence from the judge.
Marie smiled and held her hands toward the fire. “A few months, perhaps. Until Julien finishes building his castle in Manitou Springs. What with all the construction, it isn’t a very restful place to be right now. But, oh! When it is finished.” She sighed and smiled. “At last he is in a place that is much more fitting for who he is. A place where he is appreciated.”
Marie continued, obviously lost in her story. “Manitou Springs is so beautiful—a lot like here, in fact. Mountains, pine trees, beautiful vistas. And the people.” She moved her head from side to side. “Finally, he has been assigned to a place that is civilized. He is once again among Europeans, thank God. I thought we would never get away from all those wild heathens in New Mexico Territory.”
Dinner dragged on and on, as if every moment were stretched into ten. Adrienne kept her eyes on her plate, watching the interactions between Marie and Genevieve from under her lashes. She studied her coq au vin, and did her best not to look directly at Marie. She pushed her food around the plate. From her sideways glances, she saw that Emelie did the same.
“You should see what Julien is building,” Marie continued, and leaned back in her chair. She sipped from her wine, sparkling deep garnet in the candlelight. “The initial plan calls for forty-six rooms. And he’s designed the whole thing himself, borrowing from all the different types of architecture that he saw in the cities where we lived before his father died. Everything glorious in European design will be incorporated into that home.”
She leaned forward again and took a bite of chicken. “And all of it, nestled in the mountains, at the foot of Pikes Peak. Have you heard of Pikes Peak, Genevieve?”
Genevieve shook her head. Adrienne noticed that she, too, was not eating much.
“You, children? Have any of you heard of it?”
Emelie and Antoine shook their heads. Adrienne stayed still and kept her eyes on her plate.
“Hmmph!” Marie turned her chin up, slanted to the right. “Perhaps you need to expand their geography lessons, Lucie.”
“Oui, madame,” Lucie mumbled.
“It is breathtaking,” Marie continued, her eyes locked on some spot above their heads. “A beacon to travelers. Riding across the plains, in wagons or on the train, you can see that mountain for miles.” Marie’s shoulders rose, and she let out a long sigh. “Almost as beautiful as our own Puy-de-D?me.
“Manitou Springs is a refreshing change. And Colorado Springs is just a few miles away. Filled with Europeans. They call it Little London.” Marie beamed. It didn’t matter if anyone responded. She had a captive audience, sitting at the head of the table, expounding on her worldliness. Now, in Colorado Springs and Manitou Springs, she could be among her own class, among people with whom she felt comfortable. Many of them spoke French, and she was relieved of the need to try to decipher the horrid squawks of the English language.
“Manitou is much smaller, of course, and is built in the foothills. The town boasts several mineral springs—just like Vichy. People travel from all over the world just to sample the dry, cool air and the healing waters.”
Adrienne glanced up between her lashes. Marie held her wineglass between both hands. A smile played at the corners of her mouth.
“It is becoming a haven for tuberculosis patients. And you know Julien’s great concern for the sick. He has a special understanding of illness, I think, especially after all he’s been through himself.” Marie’s eyes shone. “He intends to give the Sisters of Mercy the home he’s living in right now, just as soon as the castle is finished. To use as a sanatorium. The number of patients going to the area is growing faster than they can possibly accommodate in their current quarters.”
“How generous of him,” Genevieve muttered. She reached for her wine and held the glass before her.
The children did not speak. Marie’s words were punctuated by the clink of silverware on the china, the occasional sip of water. Antoine burped, muttered, “Pardonnez-moi.” He smiled triumphantly, as if he’d just managed a perfect score on his math, and then tried to hide it. Genevieve shot him a look.
Marie frowned at him, and Antoine dropped his smile to his lap. “This is just so much more to Julien’s taste . . . so much more suited to his unique gifts,” Marie continued. “The people are much more like us. It finally feels as if he has found his place in the world—his place in the work of the church.”
She attacked the coq au vin with her knife and shook her head. “The people in Santa Cruz never understood Julien. Never appreciated him. But I feel certain that he will go far, now that he is in Colorado. Thank God the church finally recognized his worth. They were wasting his talents in New Mexico Territory.”
Adrienne felt her jaw go tight. She reached for her wineglass, and suddenly she was in New Mexico Territory. She could see them, the people of Santa Cruz. Shuffling on the dirt roads, their eyes down whenever Julien was near. He wouldn’t eat their food, refused it whenever he went to someone’s home. It was the worst of insults, in those poor homes—to refuse the food they so generously offered. She watched as he refused a wooden carving of the Virgin, made by one of the village men, telling the man that his work was too “primitive” for Julien’s taste. They hated him; they hated his arrogance; they hated his callous disregard for their own long traditions. She could feel their hatred thick like smoke in the clear blue air of her vision.
Adrienne stared at her wine goblet, her hand resting on its base, but did not lift the glass or take a drink. The vision swirled, like smoke, and changed. She could see the town of Manitou Springs, just as Marie described it. She could see the town clock on Manitou Avenue; she could smell the pine trees. She could see Miramont Castle, being constructed before her eyes, hugging the hillside. She watched as builders set the heavy stones of the back of the castle right into the hill.
It hit her like a bolt of lightning, a charge of electricity that made the hair on her arms stand up. Something—or someone—was buried in that hillside. She didn’t actually see a body, and Adrienne’s mind raced to make sense of what she saw, what she felt. She couldn’t say exactly what it was. But the stones of the castle were covering it up. Something that neither Julien nor Marie wanted anyone to know about. She came back to the present and found herself staring at her glass, her mouth half open in shock.
The room was completely silent; there were no sounds of forks or knives scraping against the plates, no sounds of eating and drinking and swallowing. Marie was staring. Antoine and Emelie were looking at her, and so was Genevieve. Adrienne looked back at them, covered her mouth, and pretended to cough. She lifted the wineglass to her lips and took two small swallows. She replaced her glass, picked up her knife, made an effort to eat dinner. The room slowly returned to normal. The children turned their attention back to their own plates.
Adrienne’s mind raced. At certain intervals, she surreptitiously let her gaze wander to Marie’s face. What was going on over there in Manitou Springs? And was the secret Julien’s alone, or did it belong to Marie as well? It was as if her vision had been only a small burst of sight—only a fragment of the whole story. Before now, she had seen snippets of stories, little vignettes that were easy to interpret. Easy to understand. This was not the same.
Adrienne shivered, as if she’d been touched by a ghost.