CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
She did everything Marie asked of her, and she did it without uttering a word. She combed Marie’s hair every morning, met those dark eyes in the mirror. But her heart was veiled. She did not allow a flicker of emotion to cross her face. She hung Marie’s clothes, straightened the dressing room, her face a perfect blank. When Marie called, asked her to make tea or hang clothing, Adrienne complied. She did not speak. She curtsied, a mere wisp of a curtsy, a parody of a curtsy, dropped her eyes for a moment, and then looked Marie full in the eye once more.
And she used every opportunity, moving around that castle, feather duster in hand, to look for solutions. She used that feather duster as her excuse to examine every room in the building. She took note of every window, every door. She walked past the balcony doors on the third floor, stared at the wrought-iron railing that surrounded the small space. She calculated the chances of being able to climb over the railing, slide down the roof of the portico, and make it to the ground without injury.
She walked the back staircases, learned where each one ended, which door led to which room. She watched the clock, timing the appearance of the sisters with their meal trays. She watched Julien, trying to discern a pattern to when he left the castle and when he returned. He took the dogs for a walk every afternoon, close to four. Marie usually lay down for a nap while he was gone. She watched the windows, trying to see which direction he took when he left.
The afternoon sunlight slanted across the floor of the parlor. Marie sat by the fireplace, stitching. Adrienne stood by the bookcase, a cloth in her hand. She took down each book, wiped the spine and the tops of the pages where the dust gathered. She looked at each title. Her hand reached for the next volume, red with gold lettering. It was a dictionary, a French-English dictionary. Adrienne stole a glance in Marie’s direction. The book was too large, too heavy, to slip into her skirt. Adrienne wiped the book slowly, thoroughly, trying to determine a way to sneak the book upstairs, to her prison in the attic.
She put it back on the shelf, reached for the next volume, a slim little work in black cloth. This was also a French-English dictionary, of the type that a person would use when traveling. Adrienne glanced up at Marie. She turned her body between the shelf and Marie, pulled another volume off the shelf, and held it up to dust it. She slipped the smaller dictionary into the pocket of her dress and prayed that it would not bulge and give her away.
The loud clopping of horses’ hooves on the paving stones below caused both women to look up at the same time. Pounding fists thudded on the front door below them. No one had visited since Adrienne and Marie had first arrived. Adrienne wasn’t sure what to do. She looked at Marie.
Marie held her stitching, arrested in midair. She met Adrienne’s gaze. “Henriette, answer the door.”
Adrienne put her dust rag on the table and hurried down the stairs. She pulled the heavy door inward. A man with a mustache stood on the step. He twisted his hat in his hands.
Adrienne curtsied.
“Hello. I mean . . . bonjour. Is the father at home?” he asked her.
Adrienne stood, looking into the man’s eyes. “Je ne comprends pas,” she murmured.
“The priest?” The man looked troubled. He twisted his hat again. “Père Julien?”
Adrienne nodded. “Ahh . . . Oui, monsieur.”
She led the man up the stairs, through the parlor, and into the conservatory, where Julien was repotting a palm. Adrienne stopped at the glass doors and told Julien, in French, that a gentleman was here to see him.
Julien brushed the dirt from his hands. “Angus, how good to see you!” Julien held out his hand, and Angus Gillis stepped forward and took it. Adrienne curtsied and moved back into the parlor, pulling the double glass doors to the conservatory closed behind her. She moved back to the bookcase and took up her dust rag again.
She stood, working on books, not far from the two men in the next room, and strained her ears toward the sounds of the conversation. She almost smiled, thinking of the servants at home. The family had often forgotten they were in the room, and Adrienne realized now how perfectly suited servitude was to the game of spying. The voices of the two men drifted through the glass. She desperately wanted to be able to speak, to understand, English. Her fingers brushed the dictionary on the shelf.
Adrienne moved her body slightly, trying to watch the two men from under her lashes. Marie kept her head down on her stitching, but her body, too, was tense and taut, obviously strained toward any word she might understand. Adrienne shot a quick glance at Marie. The woman must certainly understand a lot more English than she let on. She had traveled back and forth so often over the years.
It was obvious that this was not a social call, despite the fact that Julien and Angus had been friends for some time. Adrienne could feel it in the air, even through her inability to understand the words that were spoken. The tension between the two men was palpable. Mr. Gillis reached inside his suit pocket and brought out a document, folded carefully. He held it out to Julien.
Julien’s eyes narrowed; he waited several tense seconds before he reached for the document in Angus’s outstretched hand. Their voices dropped, and Julien sank into a chair and unfolded the document, his face torqued with anger and with something that looked a lot like fear.
Adrienne almost forgot to use her duster, she was so intent on the energy of the exchange between Julien and this man who had built the castle. Angus muttered something and turned to leave, charging through the glass doors and coming straight at her. Adrienne looked up and saw his face, clouded with emotion. He held his hand up to her, a clear signal that he didn’t need her to show him out, muttered something in English, and charged past her and down the steps. She heard the door close after him, the sound of the horses and buggy as they clip-clopped down the hill.
Marie put her stitching on the chair and moved quickly into the room that Angus Gillis had just vacated. She closed the doors behind her, but Adrienne could hear them, and this time she understood clearly what was being said. Marie asked him what was going on, what were those papers from Mr. Gillis. Why hadn’t he stayed for tea?
Julien slouched in his chair; he did not look up at his mother. “A lawsuit. He’s filed a lawsuit.”
“A lawsuit? For what reason?” Marie’s voice was overloud, and Adrienne stepped back slightly, hoping they would forget she was just outside the door.
“He says I haven’t made a payment for over a year,” Julien continued. “He went into a whole tirade about how he and his brother advanced the money for all of this.” Julien waved his arm to indicate the castle. He shook his head, as if impatient and bored with the whole subject.
“But Julien, I sent you the money for the last payment over a year ago. What happened to those funds?” Marie’s eyes were narrow and piercing.
“And I gave them some,” Julien responded. He turned his eyes away from his mother. “But I used some of the money for a few other debts. A priest doesn’t make a great deal of money, Maman.”
The shouting continued, and Adrienne moved away from the conservatory. She had never heard the two of them argue, but this was obviously a topic that had come up more than once.
The glass doors opened, and Marie left the room, color glowing in her cheeks. She cast one stinging look at Adrienne and stormed through the parlor and up the stairs.
A crash erupted from the conservatory. Adrienne turned and saw that Julien had kicked over a huge potted palm. Dirt spilled across the floor; the palm splayed outward like the fingers of a hand. Julien kicked the half-empty pot again, and it skidded across the conservatory and crashed into the brick wall, pieces shattering across the floor.
Adrienne tensed. Her eyes took in the violence and anger smeared across the floor. She had never seen Julien like this. He’d always stayed calm, controlled, his voice always perfectly modulated. She stared at the broken pot and twisted palm, her stomach jumping. Her eyes rose and met his. His eyes were on fire, his jaw hard and set.
“What are you staring at?” Julien hissed at her. He strode from the room, the papers rolled tightly in his hand.
Adrienne watched him go. She took it all in—Marie’s angry words, the raised voices, the broken pot. She turned back to the mess of dirt and plant all over the floor in the conservatory. She had never stopped to consider it before, but now she had to wonder where Julien had come up with the money to build this place. This castle, with its forty-six rooms and fancy wallpaper and pressed ceiling, had to have cost a fortune.
Was that the secret that Marie did not want known? Was this the information that she had schemed and lied and manipulated to protect? Was that the reason why she had brought Adrienne here? So that no one would learn of his financial mismanagement?
Adrienne turned slightly, and from the corner of her eye, she could see Marie, standing at the window on the landing of the staircase, staring out into the streets where her son had disappeared.
Adrienne could see how brittle and old Marie was becoming. She seemed smaller, somehow. For one brief moment, Adrienne almost felt sorry for her. Then Marie turned, and their eyes met. There was nothing fragile in Marie’s look.