CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Marie’s trunks lined the great hall. Servants bustled about, preparing bags and boxes and trunks for the trip to the train station. Julien’s castle in Manitou Springs was completed. Marie had stripped the walls of the chateau, packing family heirlooms, paintings, a tapestry from Queen Isabella of Spain that had been in the family for generations. She had already shipped the four-poster bed that had once belonged to the empress Josephine.
Marie and Genevieve sat at the breakfast table. The children were already outside, paints and easels before them. Genevieve watched them as she sipped her coffee. It was difficult to contain the relief she felt. Marie would leave in a few hours. And maybe, with her departure, Genevieve could get past the nagging guilt, the shame, the feeling of inferiority that dogged her every time Marie turned to her with one of her stony looks.
Guilt sat on Genevieve’s shoulders, lodged in her eyes, pulled at the corners of her mouth, ever since Lucie’s departure. It snapped at her from every nook and cranny, like a snake. Adrienne’s eyes were venomous. Emelie and Antoine were stunned when she announced that Lucie had taken another position. She shrugged it away, told herself time and again that they were only children, that they couldn’t understand. She had done the right thing. She had done what was best for all of them. She had done what she had to do. But no matter how many times she repeated those phrases in her own mind, she couldn’t shake the guilt she felt when she looked at any of the children.
Genevieve sipped from her coffee cup. She consoled herself with the idea that the first thing she’d do, after Marie had gone, would be to take the children and go to Paris. Perhaps she and the girls could go shopping. New dresses would cheer Adrienne, she felt certain. They could visit Pierre. Maybe see another opera. She had heard that La Bohème, the new one by Puccini, was quite good. Antoine could spend some time at the embassy with his father. She had had far too few occasions to indulge herself or the children.
She stared into the sunlight on the terrace, watched as Antoine threatened his sister with his paintbrush.
Marie cleared her throat. She held a cup of coffee in both hands, her elbows resting on the table. “Genevieve, I’ve been thinking.” Marie raised her eyebrows. “Preparing for this trip has been quite tiring. I’m getting older. I’m not as energetic as I once was. You cannot imagine how difficult it is, a voyage of this magnitude, by oneself.”
Genevieve turned to look at her sister. She felt the bitter pinch of her own limited existence. She had never sailed on an ocean liner; all her travels were limited to a few trips to Paris.
“Now that Julien has finished the castle, there will be a lot more work than there was in New Mexico. More entertaining involved.” Marie put her cup into its saucer. Her eyes followed it.
Genevieve stared at her. Though Marie’s hair was turning gray, she seemed just as formidable as she always had. Genevieve could not imagine Marie unable to manage any household, no matter how large. “You would like one of the maids? Henriette, perhaps?”
Marie lifted her cup again and sipped, her eyes examining Genevieve over the top. “No. No, not a maid. I was thinking that perhaps I would take Adrienne.”
The words hung in the air, as heavy and dense as sleet, the atmosphere suddenly freezing.
Genevieve swallowed. She stared at her sister. “Adrienne? Why in the world would you want . . .”
Genevieve’s body flushed with heat, as if she had developed a sudden fever. She knew immediately why Marie would want to take Adrienne. Keeping the girl quiet had been one of Marie’s greatest missions. Genevieve felt it, knew it in her heart. She stared at her sister, and Marie stared back. And just as she had done her entire life, Genevieve was the first to look away, the first to give up. She pushed her forebodings aside, just as she had done countless other times, in countless other situations.
Marie continued talking, studiously oblivious to the rush of color and the sheen of sweat on Genevieve’s face. “It might be good for her. She’ll get to ride a train, see the ocean. An ocean voyage can be quite exciting. It might be just the tonic she needs to . . . to forget . . . to get past her heartbreak.” Marie let her eyes flick to those of her sister.
Genevieve’s skin prickled. Her stomach flipped. She blinked and looked outside. Her mind raced. A hundred thoughts crowded in and vied for her attention.
Adrienne had never been an easy child. The villagers had never forgotten the wild stories she had told as a child. Genevieve felt their staring eyes, the whispering gossip, every time she accompanied her daughter to church, every time she went to the village for buttons or cloth. She, like Adrienne, had become more reclusive in the years since Adrienne had first begun to tell stories.
She had never found a way to reconcile her feelings about her oldest daughter. There was so much about Adrienne that was disturbing, so much that had weighed on Genevieve. She hated the way the villagers whispered. She hated the way they looked in Genevieve’s eyes, then away, quickly, as if they felt sorry for her. She hated the way Adrienne would sometimes tilt her head, the glazed look that would lock her eyes. When it happened, everyone in the family held their breath, waiting to see if she would speak, and what she would say. She hated the way she could never meet Adrienne’s gaze, the way she never felt comfortable in the same room with her own daughter. And since Lucie’s departure, Adrienne’s looks had been hot with accusation, steaming with reproach.
Genevieve sighed. Her eyes flitted from the tablecloth, to the vase of lilacs in the center of the table, to the top of Marie’s head, to a still-life painting on the opposite wall: an apple, a creamy white pitcher, three yellow daisies. It was one of Adrienne’s paintings, and was really quite good. Genevieve moved her eyes away quickly.
“She can help me run the castle. Help me with my toilette—do my hair. That sort of thing. She does quite a wonderful job with Emelie’s hair.” Marie sipped again.
“It will do her good, Genevieve—a change of scenery. After all that’s happened it is just what the girl needs. She could see America. We’d be taking a train across the country. Really, it might be just the thing. Get her out, let her see a little of the world.”
Genevieve said nothing. She knew that those words were empty shells, designed to pull her attention away from the truth. She did not for one moment believe that Marie had Adrienne’s welfare at heart. But somehow Marie’s motivations were the least of her concerns. Relief had begun to seep into Genevieve’s consciousness even before Marie had finished speaking. For the first time in years, she would be free of the burden of her strange daughter and her humiliating stories. Genevieve’s mind raced with the possibilities. They could go to Paris. They might live with Pierre, unencumbered by the need to keep Adrienne out of sight.
Her racing thoughts hit an abrupt stop. Pierre. How would she ever explain this to Pierre? Genevieve focused on the children outside. Her stomach jolted and jumped; her heart skipped. She opened her mouth, tried to speak. And then she closed it again. Her brows pulled together. But she couldn’t force the words to her throat. “Marie . . . I . . .”
“Most young girls Adrienne’s age would jump at the chance to go abroad. Just a tour of the States, that’s all. A few months in a completely different environment. It’s exactly what she needs, after her disappointment.” Marie’s lips pursed.
“I took the liberty of writing to her father. I suggested that perhaps it would help Adrienne . . . a voyage. A diversion. Pierre agrees.” Marie put her cup down again, and let her eyes drop to the tablecloth.
Genevieve stared at Marie. A lifetime of dealing with her older sister, of the countless ways in which she had witnessed Marie’s manipulation and control, had not prepared her for what she felt at those words. Marie had certainly planned this well. Genevieve burned at the idea that Pierre had given his consent and never even approached his own wife about the situation.
“So, it’s all settled, then. I’ve asked Henriette to help her pack. Really, dear”—Marie put her hand on top of Genevieve’s limp white fingers—“this is for the best. Believe me. It will be good for everyone. We’ll be back next spring.”
Genevieve looked at her sister. Her eyes stung. A fever of guilt and shame and anger rose in her cheeks, stinging her throat. She couldn’t swallow. “Marie . . .”
Marie had risen from her chair. She pushed it in, and the legs scraped on the marble floor. Her black crepe rustled. “Yes?”
Genevieve bit her lip. She locked her eyes on her own coffee cup. Her fists clenched and unclenched in her lap; her jaw tightened. But the words were caught, somewhere deep in her throat. They couldn’t break through.
Marie watched Genevieve for a moment longer. Then she turned. Her heels click-click-clicked across the floor.
Genevieve put her elbows on the table, her forehead in her hands, her thoughts making her sick. What kind of a mother was she? She bent her head and bit her bottom lip.
Tears dropped on the white tablecloth; the dampness spread in splotchy pools. She whisked the tears from her cheeks and consoled herself with Marie’s words. It was only a diversion, a trip abroad. Adrienne would be back next spring. The tour would be good for her.