CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Julien and Marie sat in the parlor. It was midmorning, but November’s chill had permeated every inch of the castle, and a fire blazed in the fireplace. Marie stitched. Julien sat on the divan, his feet up under a blanket. He held a book in front of him. He coughed and the sound crackled in the air and made Adrienne’s throat hurt when she heard it. Marie glanced up at him.
“Would you like more tea, Julien?”
He continued to cough, held his hand up in a gesture of denial, and shook his head. The coughing stopped, and he lay back against the cushions, exhausted.
Adrienne dusted by the bookcase. She ran her feather duster over the volumes, over the edge of shelf that protruded from the spines of the books. She tipped her head to the side, her eyes caught on the French-English dictionary. She remembered the dictionary upstairs and mentally started practicing the words she’d been teaching herself. I need help. I need help.
Her head jolted up at the sound of pounding on the front door. Marie looked up at her. Adrienne put her duster down and hurried down the stairs.
A young man stood outside, his cheeks flushed red from the cold. He wore the collar of a priest, a black overcoat to protect against the cold. He held his hat in his hands. “Is the father at home?” he asked, looking past Adrienne’s shoulder. “Monsieur Morier?”
“Oui, monsieur,” she answered, standing to the side while he entered.
She led him up the steps to the parlor. Julien hurried to lower his feet to the floor, to toss aside the blanket he’d been wrapped in. He slipped his feet into his slippers and stood, holding his hand out. “Father Michael. This is a surprise. Come in, please.” The young priest stepped into the room. “This is my mother, Madame Morier,” Julien said, his hand sweeping to indicate Marie in the wing chair.
“Nice to meet you, madame.” Father Michael bowed and held Marie’s hand for a moment.
“Enchanté,” Marie replied.
“Uh . . . Father Morier.” The young man seemed to stumble on his own words. He twisted his hat in his hand. “Might I have a word with you?” He glanced at Marie. “Privately?”
Julien raised his eyebrows. “Certainly. Pardonnez-moi, Maman.” He bowed to his mother and started down the hall, to an office at the other end of the castle.
Adrienne curtsied as the men walked past her, and said to Julien in French, “Shall I bring tea?”
“Yes, please, Henriette. We’ll be in my office.”
She walked to the kitchen, just behind Julien’s office, and began preparing a tray. She could hear their voices, rising and falling.
“I’m sorry you’ve not been well,” Father Michael began, as soon as he and Julien were seated in the office.
“This cough seems to haunt me, I’m afraid,” Julien replied. “Ever since that trip to South America, so many years ago. I haven’t been the same since.” As if to emphasize his point, he began to cough. It took him a few minutes to recover. “And these cold temperatures only make it worse.”
The younger man nodded. “Unfortunate. I understand you were in the service of your country when this started.”
“Quite so,” Julien said, putting his hands together, fingertip to fingertip. “But . . . I could hardly refuse the French government, now could I?”
“I suppose not,” Father Michael replied.
Adrienne entered with the tray. She placed it on the desk, poured tea into the cups. She turned to face the young priest. “Crème? Sucre?” she asked.
“Sugar, please,” he replied.
She fixed his cup, handed it to him. She poured Julien’s and placed it on the desk beside him. She walked to the door, curtsied, and went back to the kitchen.
Julien watched her leave. He waited a moment before turning back to the young priest before him.
The younger man’s eyes darted nervously. “Father, I . . . I have received a letter from the archbishop. He’s very concerned about your health. He worries that . . .” The young priest was breathless, almost panting. “He worries that . . . Well, that this may be too much for you—the rigors of maintaining a parish.”
“Nonsense.” Julien waved his hand. As if to contradict him, his cough began again.
Father Michael waited patiently for the cough to stop, his face full of emotion. He placed his teacup on the desk, reached into the pocket of his coat, and pulled out an envelope, the crest of the archbishop glowing in the corner. “He’s asked me to bring you this.” Father Michael laid the envelope on the desk between them. His hands trembled.
Julien stared at it. He put the tips of his fingers together again, steepled, and leaned back in his chair.
The younger priest swallowed. “He . . . the archbishop . . . does not want to see your health get any worse.” Father Michael swallowed again. His leg shook, almost rattling as it vibrated, as he sat stiff and straight in his chair. “He thinks it might be better if . . . well . . . if you . . . if you were relieved of your parish duties.” The young man’s eyes jumped.
Julien took a deep breath. He eyed the young priest, held his fingers pressed together, just under his chin. “I see.” He turned his gaze to the window on his left and summoned every ounce of calm he could find. He searched for the right way to respond. After a moment, he sighed heavily. “Well, he may be right. It has been rather difficult, these past few months.” Julien glanced at the face of the younger priest. “I certainly haven’t had the energy that I would like.”
Father Michael nodded, his face flooded with relief.
Julien coughed again and reached for his handkerchief. As if substituting for words, the cough went on and on.
Father Michael sat on the edge of his chair, waiting for a moment of respite. He twisted his hat again. The cough subsided, and Julien leaned back in his chair with his handkerchief pressed to his lips. The younger man stood. “Well, I guess I’d better be going.” He extended his hand.
Julien looked at it, and turned away, his gaze seeking the window.
Father Michael brushed his hand, damp with sweat, against his pant leg. “I’ll see myself out,” he finished. He strode to the door, and stopped, his hand on the door handle. “Good luck to you, Father.” He walked away, his footsteps clicking down the hall, down the steps. The front door opened and closed.
Julien waited another heartbeat. Then he swept his arm against the tea tray, anger giving him strength that he didn’t normally possess. Cups and sugar and cream smashed against the wall in his office, china shattering in a million pieces across the floor.