CHAPTER THIRTY
Adrienne followed Marie up the steps, just as she had the evening before. Her legs ached. She struggled to make the climb.
Marie stood in the doorway, key in hand. Her eyes followed Adrienne as she stepped into the room, into the small prison that was hers. Marie pulled the door closed. The key turned in the lock.
Adrienne collapsed on the narrow cot and stared at the ceiling. She did not light a candle. Complete darkness was a better fit for her thoughts. She was exhausted. “Acting,” as Julien had called it, was draining. Every muscle in her body, every fiber of her being, felt strained and taut.
For years, she had spent most of her time alone, or with Lucie. Sometimes she painted, or played the piano with Emelie. The most stressful hours of her life had come on Sunday, when the family went to church and Adrienne was forced to endure the stares of the villagers.
Marie’s visits to Beaulieu were distressing—she had to be constantly on her guard—but they never lasted more than a few months. Even when Marie was home in France, Adrienne had her own room with her own things, waiting for her at the end of the day. She had been allowed to wander the grounds, to paint, to read. And there had been long periods, sometimes a year or more, when Marie did not come home to France at all. Never, in all that time, had Adrienne faced the unrelenting prospect of day after day, hour after hour, in Marie’s presence. Never, in all that time, had she faced the sheer stress of the past fifteen hours. Never before had she been faced with the incessant repetition of the same set of duties. Marie’s eyes focused on every one of her movements, every one of her expressions.
Adrienne turned on her side and let out a sigh. Such effort, to hide her emotions, to swallow the burning anger that rose from her stomach. Several times, she had to remind herself to look away, to drop her gaze, when Marie would look up and see Adrienne staring. The humiliation, the degradation, of wielding a feather duster, of being consigned to take orders, only caused her hatred to burn more brightly, like blowing on the red coals of a dying fire. She was certain that her anger flared in her cheeks, caused her eyes to glint like steel.
She would not give in. She would not allow Marie to strip her of her birthright. There had to be something she could do, some way to extricate herself from this mess. As she had so many times in the past days, Adrienne allowed herself to imagine Marie gone, dead, erased from being. It was like tonic water, like a cool breeze. She closed her eyes and smiled. Marie—dead and gone. Out of her life. What a relief it would be! Such freedom. Adrienne could pick up the pieces. She could find Gerard. They could begin again. She might have a chance at an actual life.
She did not imagine how this might be accomplished; she only allowed herself to feel the sweet release of never having to deal with the woman again. Never having to face those eyes of flint, focused on Adrienne as if they could burn holes in the girl. Never having to face the incredible ways in which Marie had conspired to keep Adrienne under control.
It had started as a game, really, just a way to find consolation. It gave her a sense of power, picturing the ways in which Marie might die. Suffocation. Strangulation. An accidental fall down the stairs. Adrienne had begun to pay particular attention to the inventory of pillows in the parlor. She had allowed herself to look at every curtain cord, in every room she entered.
She gauged the steepness and curve of each set of steps, took note of the steps that Marie used most often. She could picture it: Marie slipping at the top of the stairs, tumbling all the way to the bottom. Marie standing on the balcony outside her third-floor dressing rooms. She could see her, tumbling over the side of the railing. She could hear the thump of her body as it hit the street below, her arms and legs splayed out like those of a rag doll.
Adrienne held her hands out in front of her and examined them carefully: the long, slender fingers, the palms uncalloused, and until recently, completely free from work. Could she do it? Could she, Adrienne Beauvier de Beaulieu, commit murder? Could she silence forever that hateful poison that seeped from her own aunt, her own flesh and blood? She could imagine Marie gone, could imagine her dead and silent. But somehow, she could not actually see herself being the instrument that caused that fall, that caused her aunt’s death.
Adrienne stood and walked to the small window. Her thoughts swooped around her, relentless birds of torture. Murder. She shook her head at the word. What horrible twists of fate had put her in a position where she could actually contemplate murder?
She shook her head, turned away from the window, and began to unbutton her plain black dress. The dress felt stiff with dirt. She had not changed in days, she realized. Not since their stay at the Waldorf Hotel in New York had she bothered to change into a nightgown. Adrienne slipped her arms from the dress and let it drop to the floor. She moved to her tapestry bag, the one small bag that Marie had allowed her to bring when they left France. She reached in and pulled out another plain black dress. She threw it across the end of the bed. Underneath it was her nightgown, a white flannel with tiny blue roses on the bodice. Adrienne pulled it out of the bag and dropped it over her head. She moved wearily toward the bed.
She stopped and turned, reached for the traveling bag. She sat down on the bed and pulled the bag to her lap. She searched desperately until her hand wrapped around the soft watery caress of velvet and silk. Smiling, Adrienne pulled the dress from the bag. She had forgotten all about it. Marie had insisted, in that final, frantic hour before their departure, that Adrienne needed nothing but plain black dresses for the trip. “Traveling is a dusty, dirty business,” she explained.
She had insisted that once they reached America, she would take Adrienne shopping in New York and buy her a few new frocks. “The fashions are quite different in America, you’ll see,” she insisted. “They aren’t nearly as sophisticated as Paris, but then, you want to fit in, don’t you?”
Adrienne shook her head, remembering her own na?veté at Marie’s explanations. But as soon as Marie had left the room, she had reached for one gown, her favorite dress. It was blue, the deep blue of dusk. Tiny rows of ruffles lined the bodice, fitted with pintucks and lace. The skirt was the same deep blue. Twin rows of velvet ruffles decorated the hem. Adrienne pulled it from the bag and held it to her chest. She buried her nose in the fabric, searching for the smell of France, a whiff of home. She held the fabric against her cheek, lost in the soft caress of her dream.
She pictured escaping, leaving the castle in her blue dress. She pictured Gerard at her side. She pictured them making their way back to France—riding the train across the country, staying in New York. She could see herself standing next to him on board ship, her gloved hand locked in his. She pictured a home in Paris, her sister coming to visit. For a few moments, all her pain and fatigue vanished. She was lost in the dream of living a normal, happy life, a dream she had begun to imagine the first time Gerard had come to Beaulieu.
“I will wait,” she whispered to the dark. “I will pretend, just as Julien suggested. I will keep my head down and learn everything I can. I will give Gerard time to find me.” She stared at the dark mound of material in her hand.
Adrienne stood, held the dress to her chest, and paced up and down the narrow room. And when he did find her, she would be ready. She would learn all she could about the castle, about the secret staircases and the doors and balconies. She would try to learn a few words of English. She would watch the sisters at Montcalme, on the hill just above them, and try to learn their habits. She would study Julien and Marie, observing the patterns in their days.
Adrienne hid the dress in the bottom of the bag. She lay down on the bed and pulled up the thin, scratchy gray blanket. She exhaled her fatigue into the dark air. Julien was right. Acting, that was the way to go. She would pretend to acquiesce. In the meantime, she would learn all she could about her surroundings. She would be ready when Gerard appeared. She would prepare for their escape.
Adrienne held her hands up in front of her again. For now, she would put away the thought of murder. For now, she would not worry about whether or not she was strong enough to silence Marie. For now, she would focus on some other way to escape from the clutches of her aunt’s web.