CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Adrienne heard the key turn in the lock; she heard the bolt slide back and the door creak open. It was morning. The small window over the bed leaked a colorless gray light into the room.
Still completely clothed, Adrienne lay on top of the thin mattress, on her side. She stared vacantly at the wall across from her and did not look up at the sound of the key. She did not move. She did not even blink when the door swung open.
She felt weight at the foot of the bed. Julien sat down, let out a long whoosh of air. “I’m so sorry about all this, Adrienne.” He looked around the room, waved his hand. Adrienne continued to stare at the wall.
“I tried to talk to her . . . to convince her that we could handle this some other way. But you know my mother. Once she makes up her mind, well . . .” Julien shrugged. “She can be tenacious.” He glanced at the girl.
“I tried, when I was younger, to fight her. Just like you have. After a while, I realized that it isn’t worth it—it didn’t get me anywhere. The more I fought, the fiercer she became. She is a warrior, Adrienne. Tougher than anyone I’ve ever known. She never backs down. Never.” Julien’s voice betrayed no emotion. “You can never succeed by fighting her.”
Adrienne did not move. Even her eyes stayed motionless.
“She’s had to be tough. It was the only way to survive, what with everything that has happened in France in her lifetime.” Julien looked down at his hands. “She’s developed a keen sense of what needs to be done, of what to say, what to do . . . to protect herself. To protect me. To protect her family.” He put his long, slender fingers together, tip to tip. “You know, we both know . . .” Julien sighed. His smile slipped away, and he turned to look at Adrienne. “We all know how dangerous it can be to be different. To have people start talking.” His words hung between them.
Adrienne swallowed. “You think I’m dangerous?”
Julien exhaled a sharp huff. “No, that’s not what I think. It’s not you, Adrienne. It’s the way you can . . . see things. Know things. It scares people. And when people are scared, when they don’t understand, they talk. That’s what is dangerous, Adrienne. Gossip. One can never tell where it might lead.” Julien waited, as if expecting Adrienne to respond. She did not.
“And Maman has believed for a long time that your mother is ill-equipped to deal with the situation. So she took matters into her own hands.”
Adrienne felt one tear filling her eye. She did not want to sniffle, did not want to dab her eye. She did not want Julien to see the tear hit the blanket beneath her. She swallowed.
“Adrienne, perhaps you should . . . play along.” He looked down at his hands again, tapped the ends of his fingers together. “Let her think that she’s in charge. Let her think . . . let her think what she wants to think. Let her think that she won, that you are willing to do what she says. If she sees that you aren’t fighting her anymore, things will be much easier for you, believe me.”
Julien stared at the wall across from the bed. “I fought her, too, when I was your age. I hated the way she always had to have the last word—always had to control everything.” He let out a slow stream of air. “But I finally got smart. I let her think she’s right. I nod my head; I go along. Just let her think you agree. You can think whatever you want, on the inside. Just don’t say it. That’s the trick.”
He stood. His boots clicked on the floor as he walked to the door. He stopped, turned back, his voice soft. “I’ll leave the door unlocked. Come down when you’re ready. The sisters have been here. Your breakfast tray is in the kitchen.”
Adrienne opened the door and stuck her head out. To the left was the hallway that led to the main set of stairs, the ones she and Marie had climbed the day before. Those stairs, she knew, led down to the third floor, close to Marie’s bedchamber. She could not, at this moment, stomach the thought of seeing Marie. To her right, another set of steep steps descended to the castle below: the servants’ steps. They were sandwiched between the castle proper and the hillside it was built against. The outer wall was stone. She could feel the chill of the mountain seeping through the stones, the frigid air of that unlit, narrow space. She moved into the shadows, her hand trailing along the cold stones, her feet searching tentatively for each step. She waited for her eyes to adjust to the gloom.
At the bottom of the first staircase, a wooden door stood partially opened. Adrienne pushed it with one finger. The door creaked, and swung back slowly. Adrienne squinted and raised a hand to shade her eyes. The light of the morning was bright and harsh after the murky depths of the staircase.
She stepped into a large hallway and craned her neck, trying to get her bearings. Marie’s suite of rooms was off to the right. Adrienne turned to the left. She opened the door to the little guest room that she had admired the day before.
She inched forward into the room and moved to the bed, twice as large as the one upstairs. She ran her fingers over the embroidered white linen, the silk quilt. She turned and ran her fingers along the edge of the dresser. A crystal vase, its arms overflowing with bachelor’s buttons and pink roses, sat in the center, its bright beauty doubled by the mirror behind it. A picture of the morning room in Beaulieu flashed into her mind. She saw that same vase, sitting on the table behind the settee. A wisp of a smile brushed her face, the memory a flutter like a butterfly’s wings.
Adrienne turned, ran her hand along the mantel of the fireplace. Silver candlesticks held long tapers of cream-colored wax. She turned again. On the wall, in one corner, was a painting. Adrienne moved toward it, her head tipped to one side as she took it all in. It was the Madonna, but not like any she’d ever seen before. This woman was surrounded by rays of light. There were roses streaming out around her, a snake under her feet. Her skin was a deep bronze.
“Lovely, isn’t she?”
Adrienne jumped. Julien was standing just behind her shoulder. She had not heard him come into the room.
“That’s the Indian version of the Madonna—the North American version. She’s called Our Lady of Guadalupe.”
“Her skin is so brown,” Adrienne whispered, her eyes locked on the ebony eyes of the woman in the painting.
“Yes. Similar to the Black Madonna, in that respect. It is said that Our Lady appeared in Mexico. The roses—the ones all around her—were her way of proving to the bishop that it was really she.”
They both stood quietly, observing the work. Adrienne stepped closer, looked in the dark eyes and dark skin of the Virgin Mother. She could see flakes of paint peeling away, revealing the smooth wood beneath. It drew her, pulled her closer. She could smell it, a type of cedar. With that one whiff of wood, she was suddenly standing in the church in Santa Cruz. The painting had hung at the front of the church, a poor adobe building with dirt floors. The walls were mud. The furnishings were crude. Adrienne recognized the surroundings. It was the same church where Julien had been poisoned—the same church she had seen in her vision so many years before. He had been standing in front of this painting when it happened.
“My parishioners gave it to me, when I left Santa Cruz,” Julien said. “I didn’t want to take it—it was really the only fine piece of artwork that they had.” He turned and caught Adrienne’s eye. “But they insisted. I’d been there almost twelve years. I started the school. I taught many of their children personally. I guess they wanted to show their appreciation.”
Adrienne turned to look at him. A shard of sunlight, bounced and reflected from the mirror across the room, shot into her eye as she turned. She blinked.
“Bonjour, Henriette.”
Both Adrienne and Julien jumped at the sound of Marie’s voice. She stood in the doorway and ran her eyes up and down Adrienne’s wrinkled dress. “I’m glad to see you are up. Perhaps, if you are not otherwise engaged, you could help me with my toilette.” Marie’s eyes were stones.
Adrienne glanced at Julien. He looked at her, his eyes pushing her, encouraging her. He raised his hand and his fingers grazed her elbow.
She swallowed. She looked at Marie, who had already turned and started down the hall, as if there were no doubt that Adrienne would do as she was told. Adrienne turned her eyes to Julien. Silently, she pleaded with him, begged him for help. Anything but this. Anything but this stripping of her identity, this sudden plunge into servitude, this horrible sinking that left her without any semblance of her former self.
Julien met her gaze. “Pretend,” he whispered. “Just pretend. Like an actress in a play.” He nodded his head.
Adrienne turned slowly and started down the hall. Each step echoed on the wood floor, pounded in her mind. A maid. A maid. How was this possible? Her mind wheeled and spun, crashing through every possible escape she could imagine. She wanted to run, wanted to scream. She pictured turning, running down the stairs and out the front door. But then what? Then where would she go?
Perhaps Julien was right. Every time she had fought her aunt, every time she had spoken up, Marie had only increased the pressure, as if gripping the girl in a vise, tightening the screws. Adrienne could think of nothing she could say, nothing she could do at this moment that would make things any better. Her steps carried her forward, down the hall, as if her feet knew what needed to be done, even if Adrienne herself did not.
She followed Marie into her dressing room and stood behind her as Marie sat down at her dressing table. Their eyes met in the mirror. There was hatred on both sides, and neither woman looked away. Marie reached for a comb, raised it up, holding it for Adrienne to take. Adrienne felt the fire in Marie’s glare, bouncing back at her from the mirror in front of them. She took the comb, dropped her eyes, and began to arrange the gray curls.
Her jaw clenched. She wanted to yank Marie’s hair, wanted to pull her head back and snap it. She imagined Marie’s voice, crying out in pain; she imagined the look of surprise and horror in her eyes.
Adrienne combed. With every pull through the gray curls, she stood a little taller, a little straighter. Why should she do what she was told? Why should she give up, play along, lose herself in this woman’s power? Perhaps there was another way.
Anger churned inside her, made her yank harder than she intended. She thought of ways to hurt Marie, to make her feel the pain that Adrienne had endured. She pictured holding a pillow over the woman’s face, smothering her. She pictured Marie’s body going limp and lifeless from the lack of air. The thought brought the tiniest sliver of a smile to her eyes. Marie caught her gaze in the mirror. Her eyes were small and hard, tiny black beads of hatred.
Adrienne looked back down at the curls, careful not to let a smile lift the corners of her mouth. A pillow. That would close those beady little eyes, silence that annoying whine in Marie’s voice. She pictured it, standing over Marie’s bed, her body silent and still, the dark of night pressed around both of them.
Adrienne moved slightly and caught the sight of the thick cord on the drapes behind her, flashing in the mirror. It was a deep blue, solid and sturdy. She pictured wrapping it around Marie’s neck, pulling and twisting it, as tight as she could get it. She pictured Marie’s eyes growing large and desperate. She saw the frantic movement of Marie’s hands trying to tear the cord away. She pictured Marie’s face blooming with color, like an exotic flower: red, then purple, and finally the quiet blue of death. She breathed slowly, enjoying this unexpected feeling of elation, the sense of power that filled her.
Adrienne combed. She felt Marie’s glare, and looked up. Marie held pins in her hand. Adrienne laid the comb on the table, took the pins, fixed the gray curls in place. The scent of lavender wafted up from Marie’s gown, and Adrienne swallowed. Lavender had always been the scent associated with Marie, the aroma of control. It was the one flower that Adrienne did not like, the one that made her want to retch.
“You may hang my nightclothes in the wardrobe,” Marie ordered, never turning from her spot.
Adrienne moved slowly. She was suddenly completely calm, completely detached from this new role of ladies’ maid. She picked up the heavy flannel gown, the wool dressing robe, and moved to the wardrobe. She could see Marie, still sitting at the dresser, her eyes locked on Adrienne’s every movement in the glass before her. Adrienne turned her back and hung up the clothes. She pushed the wardrobe door shut. Their eyes met once again, Adrienne’s reflection in the wardrobe mirror meeting Marie’s reflection in the dressing mirror.
Marie turned around and faced her. “Your breakfast tray is in the kitchen. When you finish eating, you can start with the dusting.” She stood and left the room, the scent of lavender lingering like a ghost.
Adrienne watched her walk away. She smiled. She felt better than she had in weeks. The thought of Marie, dead and quiet, unable to exert her iron will, brought with it a feeling of peace, a feeling as if all the clouds had lifted.
Maybe Julien was right. Perhaps if she pretended to go along, if she kept her face unreadable and her voice quiet, things would improve. She had to wait, had to bide her time. She had to give her letter the time it needed to reach Brazil. She had to give Gerard the time he needed to make arrangements, to make the trip, to find her here in Colorado. How long would it take? How long would she have to wait? How long would she have to do as Julien suggested, and pretend?
Adrienne moved to the window and looked out at the street below. She raised her hand to the drapes and let her fingers slide over the long silky cord. The traces of a smile moved the corners of her mouth. Yes, she would wait. And if, during this time of waiting, she sometimes imagined the ways in which Marie might die, what harm could there be in that? If it made Adrienne feel better, if it gave her the strength to keep going? Images of murder seemed an innocent consolation for all that she suffered at the hands of that woman.