AMERICA
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Adrienne woke early. The porthole in their cabin was a misty gray, but it was not the light that had pulled her from sleep. A vibration, a hum of energy, poured through the ship, buzzing through the wood, stirring in the blood of the passengers.
Adrienne dressed quickly and left Marie, still sleeping. She hurried to the railing, her eyes scanning the early-morning mist. She could feel it, even through the blanket of gray—the promise of the New World.
Passengers began to move and shift. Marie joined Adrienne at the railing, both women gazing into the fog. And then the sun broke through, the mist evaporated. New York Harbor loomed on the horizon. The Statue of Liberty rose out of the water, her torch held high, her face ripe with promise. Hope. Opportunity. The chance for a new life. The passengers crowded the railings, their eyes locked on the sight. Excitement surged through the ship, like the pounding of a big drum, pulling them all forward.
Smaller tugs crowded the water, whistles shouting into the morning. It seemed to take forever for the ship to dock, for the gangplank to be lowered, for the slow process of unloading the ship.
The docks were bustling with people and horses and buggies. Adrienne stood on solid ground for the first time in weeks, trying to adjust her body to the lack of movement beneath her. She scanned the skyline. Buildings stretched into the clear blue sky, taller than anything she had ever seen.
Marie had one of the dockworkers hail a hansom cab, and Adrienne followed. The energy of the city was infectious. Everywhere she looked, there were people, horses, buildings, a whirlwind of activity. She turned her head, her eyes glued to a sleek black motorcar, propelled forward as if by magic. The horses’ hooves were loud on the pavement. She heard the crack of a whip, the curses of the drivers as they negotiated the swirling mass of humanity. Their own cab stopped often to let others go by. The streets were thick with milk carts, and vegetable stands, and dozens of carriages. And people. Clusters of people, everywhere Adrienne looked.
The cab rocked down Fifth Avenue, and Adrienne drank in the sight of the storefronts. They were filled with hats, bolts of satiny fabrics, sewing forms draped in the latest fashions. There were cigar stands and carts selling peanuts. Four boys in short pants and brown hats chased each other down the street, dodging people and vendors, laughing and shouting to one another.
The hansom cab swayed to a stop in front of the Waldorf Hotel, one of the few hotels that would allow a woman to stay without an escort. Marie had stopped here often on her voyages back and forth. A porter hurried to help the ladies down. He whistled at a bellboy to bring their bags. The boy, young and ruddy cheeked, stared at Adrienne for a moment. She barely noticed him. She stood on the sidewalk, staring up at the height of the hotel.
“Merci.” Marie paid the cabdriver and tipped the porter. Adrienne turned just as the coin passed from Marie’s black-gloved hand into the porter’s white one. The coin glittered. Adrienne exhaled slowly. Money. She would need money. Her thoughts whirled as she trailed Marie through the ladies’ entrance. And that would mean learning about American money. She began to make a mental list of all the things she would need to learn in this new land.
Adrienne’s gaze rose, taking in the height of the entryway, the heavy, glittering chandeliers, the marble tile on the floor, the rich burgundy velvet that covered the furnishings in the lobby. She was struck suddenly by the thrill of anticipation she had felt just a few months ago, on entering the Paris opera house. The memory pinched, mixed with the bitter losses of all that had happened since then. But the feeling, the excitement and activity, brought back the thrill of meeting Gerard.
Marie negotiated the process of checking in, made easier by the fact that the clerk spoke French. The bellboy took their bags upstairs, and Marie led Adrienne through the lobby to the Palm Room, the hotel restaurant that had attracted quite a following among European travelers to the city.
The hour was late for lunch, and the room was largely empty of people. Adrienne took in the circular space, lined with palm trees. It was light and airy, the ceiling high and rounded. The tables were draped in the finest white damask. A rose-patterned carpet stretched out before them. Marie sat down and spread her napkin on her lap.
Adrienne sat down across from her. She could not remember ever having eaten in a restaurant before. Unlike the ship, where all the first-class passengers had filled the dining hall with their conversation, this room was quiet. The late-afternoon sunlight filtered through the upper windows and turned the room into a tapestry of soft ambers.
A waiter appeared, a white towel folded over one arm, and filled their water glasses. He handed menus to Marie and Adrienne. He opened his mouth and words poured out. Adrienne stared at him, aware for the first time that she was in a foreign country. Aware that she could not speak or understand the language.
“Je ne parle pas anglais.” Marie’s clipped words cut him short. From the look on her face, it was quite clear that no one of good breeding could be expected to know anything other than French.
Adrienne stared at her aunt. She wondered how anyone could have traveled to America so often, lived here for years, and managed to remain ignorant of even the smallest smattering of English. Adrienne looked at the waiter and felt a wave of pity for the man. She watched his Adam’s apple move as he swallowed.
A few tables away, a newspaper rattled and revealed a handsome, middle-aged man sitting behind it. He was smoking a cigar and had a glass of sherry on the table in front of him. He folded the paper and rose, stopping in front of Marie. “Might I be of assistance, madame?” he asked, in perfect French. “Francois Vionnet, at your service.” He bowed to the two women. “He”—Monsieur Vionnet tipped his head toward the waiter—“was recommending the house specialty. They call it a Waldorf salad. Apples, celery, walnuts. Quite delicious, I can assure you.”
Marie smiled, and nodded at him. “Thank you, monsieur. How very kind of you.”
Adrienne watched as Monsieur Vionnet translated for the waiter and placed their orders. She looked away. She realized that if she were ever going to escape, if she had any hope of returning to France, then she would have to learn to speak English.
Marie stopped at the front desk, at a box for outgoing mail, and Adrienne turned to look out the window. She watched the buggies and coaches and cabs on the street outside, heard the noises of the horses, the cracks of whips. She saw a young couple walking past, noticed the man’s reddish mustache, his top hat. She watched the woman’s skirt sway as they hurried forward. She watched the man’s hand, pressing gently against her back. She inhaled, stung by the memory of Gerard’s hand on her own back. She turned back toward the desk, and Marie.
Marie pulled a letter from her handbag, thick white paper adorned with the Morier crest. She dropped it in the box for outgoing mail. Adrienne watched as the envelope disappeared into the slot of the mailbox.
They started up the staircase to their rooms. Adrienne followed Marie, but the world around her changed. Time and movement slowed to a crawl; her heart pounded so loudly that she was certain everyone must be able to hear it. The staircase turned and Adrienne looked back down at the mailbox. Despite the fact that she could not see the letter inside the box, Adrienne could picture the envelope. It glowed, an eerie pale blue color that completely arrested her attention.
Adrienne followed Marie’s black skirts up the stairs, turned and followed her down the hall, dark with deep coral walls and carpet, lined with dark wood doors to the rooms.
A scene flashed into her mind, and she nearly stumbled. Everyone stood at the family graveyard in France. She could see Emelie, her face red and wet; Antoine, back straight, his young face fighting away the tears. Genevieve stood in black dress, black veil, black gloves. Genevieve hated black, always said it made her look older, but there she was, swathed from head to toe. Adrienne’s gaze turned slightly to the left, and there was her father, tall and handsome, his face like stone.
The family stood around a grave, not far from Grand-père’s. Servants from the chateau surrounded them, standing a few steps behind. Adrienne could hear Père Henri’s voice as he read from the Bible. In the vision, she was just behind her mother, and Adrienne moved slightly, so that she could see over her mother’s shoulder. There was no casket at the grave in front of them. Only a granite headstone marked this as a grave, devoid of an actual body to bury. Adrienne’s eyes locked on that stone.
ADRIENNE BEAUVIER
BELOVED DAUGHTER AND SISTER
1880–1897
Marie put the key in the lock and opened the door to their suite. Adrienne moved in behind her, still heavy with the images of her own funeral ticking through her mind. She knew it, then, with a certainty she had never experienced before.
Marie turned and looked at Adrienne, standing in the middle of the room, and their eyes met. Adrienne knew now why that letter had demanded her attention. She knew why she could see the images of her own funeral, without a body to bury. That letter, written in Marie’s cramped hand and now on its way to her family in France, announced Adrienne’s death at sea. She stared at Marie, marveling, once again, at the extent of the woman’s scheming.
Marie had no intention of taking Adrienne back to France. Her family would not be waiting for her. No one would ever bother to come and look for her. Marie was hiding something, a secret so great that she had gone to unbelievable lengths to keep Adrienne from ever discovering the truth and speaking. And with the mailing of that letter, Adrienne was now totally and completely in Marie’s grasp.
It was two in the morning. Adrienne stood by the big window, looking out on the mostly darkened streets of New York. A few streetlights still glowed, globes of amber in the gray night. She heard one late buggy, the horses’ hooves clip-clopping on the street below. She could smell the smoky remains of the fire in their parlor, a faint tinge of salt from the sea.
Adrienne turned and walked to the desk. She pulled out the chair, careful not to scrape the legs or make any sound, and sat down. She reached for Waldorf Hotel stationery and dipped the quill in the ink. She had to let someone know the truth.
She pulled a sheet of paper toward her and held the quill in her hand. Who would she write to? Not her mother. Her mother would never help her. She had done nothing, all these years, to help her. She had done nothing to protect her daughter, to stand up for her, to stop Marie from taking her away. Genevieve was powerless to help herself, much less her daughter.
She thought of Lucie, her best friend in the world. But she had no idea where Lucie now lived. She had been banished from the chateau just a few days before Adrienne herself was. Adrienne sighed. Even if she knew how to find Lucie, how to get a letter to her, Lucie did not have the resources or the power to help.
Adrienne held the quill in her hand. She thought of writing to her father, telling him of Marie’s lies and schemes. But ever since the day of Lucie’s departure, ever since the discovery that Lucie’s journal was missing, Adrienne had not been able to shake the idea that the journal held evidence that Marie was using against him. She had no idea if Lucie had written about her relationship with Pierre, but there was always the chance that she had. Maybe it was her father who had sent Gerard to Brazil. Maybe he, too, was forced to acquiesce to Marie’s demands.
Her mind kept coming back to the same idea. Her only hope was Gerard. So many times she had wanted to tell him the secret of her clairvoyance. So many times she had thought of telling him about her abilities, about the way her aunt was determined to keep Adrienne silent. How she wished now that she had been brave enough to do that.
She stopped and looked up at the dying fire across the room. A few red embers remained, glowing like the eyes of some wild creature from the ash. She could hear Marie, her breathing raspy as she slept in the adjoining room.
She laid the quill on the paper. Adrienne had lived a lifetime of isolation and loneliness, a lifetime of feeling different, inadequate, flawed. All those feelings came flooding back now, threatening to sweep her away. Perhaps Marie had spoken the truth that day in the morning room, when Adrienne had received word of his transfer. Perhaps he had already heard the rumors about his fiancée. Perhaps he had stopped for a pastry, and Madame LaMott had been quick to let him know all the talk about Adrienne Beauvier de Beaulieu, the granddaughter of the comte, the pretty girl who was quite mad. Perhaps Marie herself had found a way to inform him of Adrienne’s failings.
Maybe he had asked to be transferred to Brazil. Perhaps he had chosen the easy way out—to take the assignment in Brazil and pretend that he was going against his own wishes.
Adrienne stared at the paper. Her thoughts swooped and swirled in the darkness, vampires that drank away every hope, every sweet memory of him. She hated herself in that moment. Hated what she was, hated what she could sometimes see. And now, when she needed a vision to guide her, to give her some spark of hope, to show her a way out, there was nothing. When she most needed guidance, her gift refused to cooperate.
Adrienne could count on one hand the people who cared about her, or had cared about her. Her sister, Emelie, only twelve, and just as helpless as Adrienne herself. Lucie, a servant, removed from the chateau in Beaulieu to God knew where. Her grand-père, dead for over ten years now. And Gerard. At least for a short time, it had really felt as if he cared. No matter how her doubts nagged at her, he was her only chance.
She picked up the quill and began to scribble the words.
Dearest Gerard,
I have reason to believe that my aunt Marie is trying to stop us from being together. She has taken me from my home, and we are now in America, in New York. I believe she has sent word to my family that I died at sea, but it is not true.
Tomorrow we board a train heading west, to a place called Manitou Springs, Colorado, and the home of my cousin, Julien Morier. I cannot begin to fathom her motives for these actions, but I beg you, if you get this letter, to please come for me.
Adrienne laid the quill on the desk, rubbed her hands against the sides of her face, searching for the words she needed. She had always been so careful in her previous letters to Gerard to try to strike just the right tone: intimate, but not too intimate. Her eyes focused on the candle flame for a moment. She shook her head. Tone was not important here. She was desperate.
She heard Marie in the next room, the rustle of covers, the squeak of bedsprings. Adrienne didn’t breathe for a moment. She sat silently, completely still, waiting until she was certain that Marie was asleep. Then she picked up the quill and bent over her paper.
You are my only hope. Please come for me.
Yours faithfully,
Adrienne
She folded the letter and slipped it into an envelope with the hotel crest in the corner. She did not know the address, and so wrote only his name, in care of the French embassy, Rio de Janeiro, Brazil. She hated not having more information but consoled herself with the thought that there could be only one French embassy in Rio de Janeiro. She ran her finger along the length of the stationery, wondering if Gerard would ever run his hand over the same thick paper. She put all her hope, all her love, in that touch, wanting desperately to convey all that she could not say.
She knew that Marie was watching her every move in the daylight hours, and of course she didn’t dare leave the hotel room at this hour. Adrienne folded the letter and slid it into her wrist purse, a small black bag knitted in silk. Somewhere along the way, she would find an excuse to slip off to the restroom, and drop the letter into a mailbox.
So much depended on that one brief letter—so much that was completely out of her control. It could take months to reach him, if it did at all. It could take several more months for Gerard to travel to America and try to find her. And of course there was the chance that he would not choose to come at all.
Adrienne sighed and turned toward the window. The gray of the coming daylight was just beginning to stain the night sky. All her doubts and fears and insecurities vied for attention.
Adrienne pushed those thoughts away. None of that mattered now. He was her only hope.