CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
The train was hot and dusty, and Adrienne leaned her head against the window. She had watched the horizon for hours now, watched as the mountains grew from specks of blue to towering peaks as they drew nearer. The swaying of the train, the rhythmic clicking of the wheels pulled her, dragged her down into sleep.
She felt closed in, cramped, almost claustrophobic in the small space of her dream. The space was dark, gray, and unfocused, like walking in the fog, too confined. Like a prison. In the dream, Adrienne stood, looking out a small window. She was high up: the street below her looked small and far away. There were bars on the window. She knew, without turning to look, that she was locked in. From somewhere behind her, she heard a baby cry. Its wails pierced the walls of the room.
Adrienne’s eyes shot open. A woman sat on the train seat to the left, holding her baby as it screeched, its face turning bright red with the effort. Adrienne swallowed and tipped her head to look out the window. The train was slowing. She could see the reddish stone of the station just ahead.
The train pulled into Colorado Springs, and Adrienne stood. Her legs and back felt numb, held too long in one position, and she was glad to move. She tried to get her bearings out the windows of the train, but they pulled inside the station and were swallowed by the darkness of the building. She could see very little.
Marie wove down the aisle in front of Adrienne, her body swaying from side to side, the feather of her hat bobbing and pointing, careening like a drunken bird. They stepped from the car and were immediately met by a muggy blast of station air.
Julien hurried over. Except for the collar that marked his ecclesiastical calling, he looked like many of the men in the station. His black beard was well trimmed, and he held his bowler in his hands as he moved toward them.
“Maman,” he said, kissing his mother on her wrinkled, powdery white cheek. “I trust you had a good trip?”
“Adequate, I suppose,” Marie replied. “Each time I make the journey, it seems longer and farther than the time before. But perhaps it is just my age.”
Julien turned and took Adrienne’s hand. “Adrienne! How good it is to see you! Comment allez-vous?” His eyes sparkled, and he raised her gloved hand to his lips. “You’ve grown into a lovely young woman, Adrienne. How long it has been since I saw you last. You were only a child, and now look at you.” He held both her hands and raised her arms.
Adrienne smiled, gave the smallest of curtsies, and dropped her eyes to the ground. She had only vague memories of this cousin: his illness when she was very young, a visit he made to France when she was nine or ten. Like so many of the memories from her childhood, they were hazy and indistinct. She remembered nothing about him, nothing about his personality. Her stomach began to churn. She could not allow herself to think about what kind of life awaited her here.
Julien went off to make arrangements for their bags and then led the ladies to the waiting buggy, sitting in the red dust of Bijou Street, in front of the depot.
“I borrowed this buggy from the Gillis brothers,” Julien explained as he climbed up and took the reins. “Mine isn’t large enough to hold all of us. I suppose I will need to see about buying something larger. I didn’t know you were coming, Adrienne”—he turned and looked over his shoulder at her—“until a few days ago when I got Maman’s letter. I am so thrilled that you decided to come.” He clucked to the horses, and they lurched forward. Adrienne made note of the fact that Julien had not been in on this scheme to bring her here; it was all Marie’s doing.
“The Gillises are my neighbors on Ruxton Avenue. The same ones who built the castle. Remember, Mother? I think I wrote to you about them.”
Marie nodded.
“They’ve got quite a reputation around here. Built the El Paso County Courthouse, the parish in Manitou, numerous other buildings.” He waved his hand as he spoke. “And of course, I wanted the best when I started the castle. It pays to hire the best, don’t you agree, Maman?”
Julien sat in the front seat of the carriage, Marie beside him. Adrienne sat in the seat behind. She could not remember ever having heard Julien talk so much at one time. He was animated about the castle, by the thought of showing it off to both of them.
“There were times when I thought we would never get it done,” Julien continued. “I mean—so many architectural styles combined in one building. And it’s built right into the hillside. That was a piece of work, too, I should tell you. There were old mining shafts in there that had to be covered up. Quite a structural challenge.” Adrienne stared at the back of his head. His words sparked a vague memory. Was it a dream? A vision? Something about the castle, nestled against the hillside. But she could not remember.
“But, oh, Maman! Wait ’til you see it. I know it will remind you of France.”
They turned right onto Colorado Avenue, and Adrienne gasped at the beauty spread before her. Mountains rose in front of them, purple against the blue sky, breathtaking in their size and proximity. She had read of the Rocky Mountains; she had watched from the train windows as they chugged across the prairie and the mountains drew nearer. But now, sitting right at their base in the open air, she was overwhelmed. She could see the thick green pines, red rock formations jutting through the trees, reaching into the sky.
“That mountain is Pikes Peak,” Julien continued. “Discovered almost a century ago. Stunning, isn’t it? Over fourteen thousand feet tall. And the castle is right at the base of it.”
Adrienne could understand why Julien had wanted to build here. The mountains and pine trees and rock outcroppings were so much like the area around Beaulieu. It was beautiful. Her heart hammered; she fought the storm of pain that threatened to overtake her at the thought of home.
They drove through Colorado City, a few miles from the train station. “This area is a little rough,” Julien said. “Lots of saloons, and miners, and . . . Well, not exactly the same caliber as Colorado Springs, I can tell you. General Palmer has been very careful to keep the Springs genteel, refined. He works hard to keep the rabble outside. Do you remember him, Maman? You met him when we were working on bringing the railroad into Santa Cruz.”
Adrienne watched as the doors to a saloon flew open and a man came sailing out into the street. He sprawled in the mud facedown. She turned her head to watch as he dragged himself up. She could hear music spilling out of the dance hall after him. The buggy moved through the hubbub of Colorado City, and the road curved. A vista of red rocks towered in the near distance—every shade of scarlet and rose and apricot and sienna. Ponderosa pines stretched their feathery limbs around the rocks, and scrub oak covered the areas with any soil. The scene looked like a tapestry, like the finest work of a Persian master weaver.
Julien stopped the buggy, obviously pleased by Adrienne’s appreciation. “Quite a sight, isn’t it? The Indians consider it sacred ground. A while back a German man who lived here started calling it the Garden of the Gods. The name has stuck. Fitting, don’t you think?”
“It’s beautiful,” Adrienne murmured. “I can see why you wanted to build here.” The air was clear and crisp. The smell of pine trees was thick. The scenery lifted her spirits. She heard the call of a red-tailed hawk, and she shaded her eyes with a gloved hand, watching it glide through the sky.
Julien clucked to the horses, and they hurried forward, anxious and quick now that they were getting close to home. As they moved into the hills, the glimpse of Pikes Peak was lost, obscured by the hills and canyons of Manitou. Gray clouds piled up behind the mountains and spilled down into the town. The wind kicked up. Adrienne shivered.
They traveled the last half mile of Manitou Avenue at a trot, trying to beat the rain. The buildings, the red brick of the Presbyterian church, the town clock, the library, all blurred together in a jumble of stone and slanting rain. Adrienne hunched in her seat, her eyes blinking against the spattering of raindrops that hit her face. Julien turned left, up Ruxton Avenue. The street rose sharply and the horses slowed.
They turned right. The horses clipped over the bridge on Ruxton Creek, and despite all Julien’s talk, she was still awed by the immensity of Miramont. The castle rose before them, four stories of wood and stone. The hill climbed sharply behind it, as if the castle had been carved from the mountain itself. Adrienne looked at the key-shaped windows on the third floor, at the glass conservatory below them, filled with greenery. She had seen it in visions, but in person, the building had a commanding presence.
Wind gusted. Lightning flashed in the dark skies overhead. Thunder bellowed. Rain beat the pavement in plate-sized splatters. An icy finger of wind raced across her shoulders and down her arms, and Adrienne shuddered. Julien pulled the carriage beneath the portico and jumped down, quick to help the women out of the rain. There were no servants to greet them.
Julien turned the key and pushed open the wooden door. The women stepped inside, shaking off the moisture from their skirts and shawls. Marie removed her hat, and drops splashed on the floor, the formerly proud plume now looking like a shipwrecked sailor. A wooden staircase rose to their right, and Julien led them up.
“I ordered the wallpaper from Paris,” he said. “I wanted to bring France here—to make this place feel more like home.”
Adrienne trailed behind Julien and Marie. She took in the pale blue, sage, and cream of the wallpaper. Her hands trailed over the honey-gold wood railing on the stairs. At the top of the staircase, to the left, was the parlor. The walls were deep sienna, almost the color of the red rocks and soil they had just passed through. Thick carpets and mahogany furnishings filled the room. Julien bent down and struck a match to the wood and kindling already set in the fireplace, a huge stone affair that covered one entire wall.
“You may recognize the secretary, Maman. From the Orleans family. The crystal is from that set that we had in Beaulieu . . . remember the one from Queen Isabella?”
Marie nodded and smiled her approval. “Julien, this is wonderful! The design is so original.” She turned slowly, her eyes taking in every corner, every detail of the molding and pressed ceiling.
He led them down the hall to the right, past the dining room and kitchen. “The kitchen is unnecessary, really.” Julien swept his hand up, indicating the dark wood cabinets. “We don’t have any servants here, for doing our own cooking. But I put in a kitchen anyway. And I’ve made arrangements with the Sisters of Mercy to provide our meals.” He beamed at his mother.
“I gave them that property on the hill, just above the castle. They’re going to use it for a sanitarium. Word is out, it seems. Every tuberculosis patient in the world is coming to Colorado Springs and Manitou. Something about the dry mountain air has been very effective for many patients.”
Julien moved around the room, his hand brushing over the countertops. “The only thing I asked in return for the property is that they provide us with our meals. Ingenious, don’t you think? They’ll be cooking for all the sisters and their patients, so it really won’t take much extra to bring the three of us some of that food.” He opened a cupboard, showing them the dishes and crystal that filled them. “But just in case we want to have someone in for tea, I went ahead and stocked the kitchen.”
He opened a small door at the back of the kitchen. Marie and then Adrienne poked their heads into the small, narrow space. A staircase rose sharply along the back wall of the castle. Adrienne touched the stones lining the outside wall. They were cold, slightly damp. The air was close. She shivered, trying to shake the dark foreboding that inched its way along her back and neck.
“They can use this staircase. It connects to a tunnel that goes into the mountain and up into Montcalme. See, Maman.” Julien smiled, obviously proud of his own foresight and planning. “They don’t even have to go out in the weather to bring us our meals.”
Marie smiled and laid her hand on Julien’s forearm. “Wonderful, Julien. This is very well thought out.”
They followed Julien to the third floor. The staircase opened onto a long, narrow room. The ceiling was made of pressed gold panels; the wallpaper was flecked with gold. The key-shaped windows they had observed from the street lined one wall of the room. Julien had already hung the tapestry from Queen Isabella, the paintings that Marie had shipped. Adrienne turned slowly on the wooden floor. The room was exactly as she had seen it in her vision a few months before. She heard, once again, the orchestra at one end, watched as the costumed ball-goers danced.
Julien led them to a large bedchamber and balcony. The four-poster bed of the empress Josephine towered in one corner. Julien turned to his mother, his teeth gleaming from the center of his dark beard. “It arrived last week, Maman. I had some men from town put it together for you. It took eight men to get that bed upstairs.”
He moved quickly to a little bathroom, next to Marie’s dressing room. He sat on the edge of the tub and turned on the faucet. Water poured into the heavy bathtub. “And I put in all the latest amenities. Running water. Electricity. Radiators for heat. You’ll see such a difference when winter gets here.” Julien’s voice was rapturous, as if he himself had invented steam heat.
The tour continued, Julien stopping and pointing and talking. His face glowed; his eyes sparkled. Adrienne did not remember this Julien, excited and talkative and proud. She remembered his pale coloring, his wracking cough, when he had come to France, ill from the poisoning. She had never seen him this animated.
They stopped in front of a small room, corners and nooks making it very different from the others. There was a small fireplace, surrounded with tile.
“The guest bedchamber,” Julien explained.
“It’s charming,” Adrienne murmured, speaking for the first time since entering the castle. She turned a slow-motion circle in the center of the room. The twists and turns and corners gave the room sixteen sides. The fireplace, the dresser, reminded her in some small way of her own room in Beaulieu. A little like home. She sighed and followed Julien and Marie as the tour continued.
They turned, and Julien opened another door at the back of another hallway. Adrienne poked her head into another set of those dark, narrow stairs that laced the back of the castle, like a spider’s web in their intricacy—the servants’ stairs, despite the fact that there were no servants. Adrienne had never paid attention to the servants’ stairs back home in Beaulieu. She only knew that except for a few high-placed servants, she rarely saw their comings and goings.
The group wandered back toward the long hall, filled with artwork. Adrienne’s eyes traveled over the paintings and tapestries, so many of which she recognized from home. And there, at the end of the long, narrow room, was one more staircase, leading upward.
“Well. You ladies make yourselves at home. I’m going to see to the horses and buggy before they decide to go home on their own.” Julien bowed, sweeping his arm out wide. Adrienne listened to his footsteps as he made his way back downstairs.
Adrienne turned and started back down the hall, back to the little bedchamber that felt so much like home. She had seen Marie’s room, and Julien’s. But he had made no mention of where she was to sleep. Perhaps . . . perhaps she would be allowed to have this little room, with its odd corners and marble fireplace. She stopped at the door and leaned against the doorjamb. She waited for some other bit of information, some other fragment of a vision.
Marie had followed her down the hall, and now stood just behind Adrienne’s shoulder. Thunder roared, and Adrienne heard raindrops smashing against the roof and walls and windows.
“This room is for company, Adrienne. Julien often has church officials, visiting priests, sometimes even a bishop, as his guests.” Marie’s words were quiet. Adrienne shivered. There was a note in Marie’s voice, slightly ominous, like the notes of a minor chord. “And we must have something nice for them. I’m sure you understand that.”
Adrienne turned toward her aunt. “Where am I to sleep?”
Marie’s gaze bore into Adrienne. Her eyes glimmered with some secret satisfaction. “Come. I’ll show you.”
Marie turned and led the way back through the long hall. She started up the steps—the ones leading to the fourth floor—as if she had already been here. As if she knew exactly where she was going.
Adrienne picked up her skirts and started up the steps behind Marie. She watched a flash of lightning electrify the walls; she heard the roar of thunder, close and loud as they reached the top of the stairs. Adrienne began to shake, her hands trembling, her stomach leaping. This place felt familiar, as if she had already spent countless hours here.
Marie led the way down a narrow hallway on the fourth floor and stopped in front of a small door. Adrienne moved to it. The room was narrow, cramped, and tiny. There was one small window, one narrow bed against the wall, barely enough space for her to walk next to the bed. Adrienne turned to Marie, her eyes wide, disbelief flaming like blue fire. This was a servant’s bedroom.
She shook her head. Just as she had in her dreams, she wanted to scream, to shout, but there was nothing inside her to make the noise. Adrienne thought of the letter she had watched Marie mail. She remembered the vision of her “funeral” back home in France. She looked down at her black skirt and lifted it in her hand. She fingered the material, black and plain, like servants wore. Moments from the trip began to rise up and haunt her. Marie had not introduced her, anywhere. Not on board ship, not in the dining room, not at any of their stops along the way. She remembered the waiter at the Waldorf Hotel. He had never even looked at her. He assumed she was a servant. She was dressed like a servant. She was silent, like a servant.
She raised her eyes to Marie’s. She shook her head. “You cannot do this,” she whispered. “You cannot mean . . .”
Marie stood in the doorway, watching Adrienne turn slowly toward her.
Adrienne continued to shake her head. “How could you . . .” She searched for words, searched for some way to give voice to this latest form of her aunt’s torture.
“You are really quite a clever girl. But you are no match for me. I may not have your gift, shall we say? But I have survived far more difficult circumstances than a niece who believes she is clairvoyant, and her governess, who faithfully records it all. Never think that you can outwit me.” Marie fell silent for a moment, looking into Adrienne’s eyes. “I survived all the political upheaval in France through my own wits. I can certainly manage a storyteller like you.
“My niece, Adrienne, died at sea of some mysterious fever. Her family has been notified, and quite likely, by this late date, have already conducted a funeral. I imagine she was honored in the family cemetery, despite not having an actual body to bury.” Marie’s lips met in a thin, determined line. “You are Henriette, my maid. Brought from France to help with my personal needs.”
Adrienne stared. Despite all her experience with Marie’s scheming, despite her own clairvoyance, she had not seen this coming. She had expected danger. She had wondered if Marie would try to kill her. But this? Life as a servant? In all her fears and visions, this had never occurred to her.
“Oh, and Henriette?” Marie stood by the door, looking back at Adrienne. “There is no one who will listen to any story you attempt to tell. I informed the Reverend Mother at Montcalme that I was bringing my maid, who is excellent except for her tendency to invent very colorful stories. All the sisters have been warned. They will pay no attention to anything you tell them.”
Adrienne continued to shake her head. “But . . .” She could find no words. Marie stepped backward, pulling the door closed as she did so. She turned the key in the lock.
Adrienne heard the click as the bolt slid into place. She heard Marie’s footsteps as she walked down the hall, the sound growing fainter as she descended the steps.
Adrienne slid to the floor, her bones turned to water. She collapsed, numb with fatigue and disbelief at this latest injustice, piled on top of all the others. She stared into the gray gloom of the small room. Her mind flooded with memories. Holding Grand-père’s hand, walking to the village. The way the men tipped their hats, the way the women curtsied when they saw the comte. “Bonjour, Comte.” She remembered the servants at home, Renault reaching to help her down from the carriage, Henriette serving every course, at every meal, in stoic silence. She remembered the night of the opera, all the eyes that had followed Pierre Beauvier and his wife, daughter of the Comte de Challembelles, and their three beautiful children. She remembered Armand Devereux, bending low to her; Gerard, his mustache twitching, as he kissed her gloved hand.
Adrienne turned her head, numb with disbelief, to stare at the locked door.