CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Adrienne stood at the railing of the ship, her eyes locked on the horizon, her arms wrapped across her chest. For the past three days, since they had boarded the ship, she had stood in this spot, transfixed. A swirl of green and blue and gray and black mixed together before her: a mesmerizing brew of sky and water. Adrienne spoke to no one. She ate nothing. She noticed none of the passengers or ship’s mates as they moved around her.
She stared at the churning water. How easy it would be, to climb over the side of the railing, balance on the edge of the ship, raise her eyes, and step off. Just one step, one long drop along the side of the ship, and all this pain would be over with. No more of the ache that tore at her sides, no more of the anger that burned her eyes and stomach, no more of the hatred toward the woman who sat behind her, pretending to read a book as she kept careful watch over her niece.
One step, one slow plunge, almost like flying, would take her into the water. She could picture her hair, long strands streaming out around her like seaweed. She could see the light of the sun, filtering through the first few feet of ocean, turning it a glassy green. She could feel her skirts, billowing up around her. Adrienne closed her eyes, felt the slow, dreamlike descent into darkness.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?”
The voice beside her pulled her back onto the deck of the ship, out of the trance of water and darkness. Adrienne opened her eyes and turned toward the sound. A young man, a ship’s mate, was winding a rope around two hooks just a few feet away from her. She looked at him. Brown eyes, brown hair, ruddy cheeks. He smiled.
“No matter how many times I’ve made the crossing, I never quite get used to it,” he continued. His eyes sought the horizon, blue sky riding on gray-blue water.
He spoke French. Adrienne followed his gaze and stared out to sea. For the first time since boarding the ship, she felt awake. She could hear the slap of the water against the ship, feel the salt spray that tingled her skin. She could smell the ocean breeze. As if his words had pulled her back from the precipice.
The young man turned toward her again and smiled. “Good day, mademoiselle.”
Adrienne met his eyes. She nodded. He walked farther, winding up a hose that had been used to wash down the deck.
Adrienne turned her gaze back to the sea. How long had they been on board? She could not remember when she first walked into their room, or how often she had lain on her own narrow bed in their cabin. She’d been lost in a fog of sadness and grief, unable to remember much of anything about the trip that took her away from her home.
The wind picked up and Adrienne pulled her cloak tight under her chin. She watched as the sun sank from the sky and perched on the edge of the horizon. The ship chased after it. Color spread over the water, like jewels of gold and copper, riches spilling out in all directions.
Adrienne stared at the water, at the feast of color before her. She straightened, her eyes locked on the golden sea. This was not the first time she had seen the ocean. The memory was vague, the edges tattered and frayed, but she closed her eyes and let her body soften into the smell, the sound, the feel of the sea.
She remembered walking on a beach at sunset, golden light spilling across the water and onto the sand. She could hear the cries of the seagulls. The waves lapped around her bare feet, and she laughed. Her grandfather held her hand, laughing with her. Adrienne smiled, filled with the warmth and the calm of that long-ago moment, filled with the overwhelming sense of protection she felt in her grandfather’s presence. She couldn’t have been more than four or five years old.
The memory faded. She opened her eyes and stared. The sky had turned to velvet. The water was black glass.
Grand-père. The thought of him brought comfort, like a warm woolen shawl around her shoulders. He had been gone for ten years now, but the memory of him filled her as if it had been only yesterday. Her grand-père. She smiled into the dark.
Never before had she thought of who he was, as a man. To her younger self, the only thing that mattered were his twinkling blue eyes, the way he winked at her when they shared a secret, the way he rushed to protect her from Marie’s wrath. But as she stood in the dark, listening to the water, it occurred to her that he was much more than that, much more than her grand-père. He was a husband, a father, a comte. He had suffered his own heartaches: the loss of his son, less than a year old. The loss of his wife a few years later. He had raised his daughters without the benefit of a mother’s love. He had spent the greatest part of his life without the woman he loved.
She began to try to fill in the details of his life, apart from the man she had known when she was small. She knew, from her studies with Lucie, of all the turbulence in French history during the comte’s lifetime. He had survived the Napoleonic Wars, negotiated the turnings and intrigues of political upheaval. He had seen friends stripped of their possessions, banished from the country. He had seen others murdered, destroyed by the upheaval around them.
He knew what it was to be brokenhearted. He knew what it felt like to be betrayed. He knew what it meant to have to survive by one’s wits. And Adrienne knew, too, that if he were here now, if he had suffered the same injustices that she had these past few months, he would not be standing here, at the railing of the ship, thinking of stepping over the edge.
She remembered the way he held his shoulders, straight and square and proud. She remembered the way the villagers were quick to greet him, the way the older ladies smiled and fluttered when he arrived at church. She remembered the way his jaw went firm and hard, the way his eyes turned to flint, when Marie was on the attack.
He had survived eighty-seven years of French politics, nine decades of ever-changing allegiances. Victor Hugo had been banished from the country for speaking his mind, but somehow, the Comte de Challembelles had managed to hold on to his lands, his title, his standing. He knew when to speak and when to stay silent. He knew when to be strong and when to ride the current.
Adrienne’s thoughts drifted to the day the comte died. She remembered the smell of his room, metallic and sour. She remembered how frail and colorless he had looked, lying against the pillows. She felt the gentle squeeze of his fingers on her hand. She heard his words, “Be careful what you say, Adrienne.”
When she heard those words at the age of seven, she thought that he meant she should stop speaking, should stay completely silent. But was that really what he intended?
Adrienne’s thoughts churned, like the foam on the water. Perhaps he had never meant for her to withdraw from everything and everyone. Perhaps he had never meant to silence her completely. Perhaps he had only tried to tell her to be careful, to be discerning about what she said—to think about whom she could trust, and when it was safe to speak. Be careful. Not “be silent.”
If he were here, now, what would he do? What would he say? How would he deal with Marie and all her schemes?
Adrienne paced the deck. She barely noticed the other passengers, dressed and heading to dinner. She watched as the stars decorated the sky. She noticed the glitter of light on the water, a scattering of tiny crystals. She felt the vastness of the ocean, the infinity of black space around her.
She chewed on every memory of him, every moment they had spent together, everything she had ever heard anyone say about him. If he were here, if this had happened to him, he would find a way to deal with it. He would not give up. He would not let Marie destroy him.
There had to be a way, somehow, to pick up the pieces, to find an answer. Adrienne stood straighter. She filled her lungs with the sea air. She squared her shoulders.
Grand-père would never let anything break him. And neither would she.