CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Adrienne stood behind Marie at the dressing table. Marie’s eyes were locked on her; they followed Adrienne’s every move in the glass. Adrienne combed the gray curls, trying to look absorbed in her work, trying to avoid Marie’s dark eyes in the mirror.
Adrienne’s skin crawled, as if there were tiny spiders let loose on her back and shoulders and arms, creeping through her hair. Everything had changed in the few days since the visit of the younger priest. The air in the castle was different, brittle, as if all the secrets that each of them carried were shards of glass, suddenly spilled all over the floor. All three did their best to avoid stepping on anything that held the stab of truth. All three were doing their best to ignore the shattered remains of Julien’s life.
Julien had told them that he had decided to give up the parish, that his health would not allow him to continue, and he had coughed almost incessantly ever since, as if the cough could convince them all that what he said was true. Adrienne knew differently. She may not have been able to understand the words of that conversation, but there was no question that throwing a tea tray at the wall did not reflect Julien’s version of events. Adrienne did not know what Marie had heard, but she suspected that Marie, too, knew that Julien was lying.
Last night, Adrienne had bolted awake, early in the morning hours. She’d been dreaming again, a dream that she had not had since before she left France. It was so familiar, following Marie down the long, dark hallway. She watched as Marie stuffed a notebook full of papers into her valise. She watched, the dreamer already knowing what was coming, watching as Marie turned, her dress splattered with blood.
The dream shook her. For the first time in months, Adrienne thought more about her own situation than she did about what Julien was doing and what Marie knew. For the first time, she began to wonder how all of this would end. These were thoughts that she had not allowed herself before; she knew Marie wanted her quiet, wanted to keep her from spreading stories about Julien. But until now, her only thought of the future had been her rescue when Gerard showed up and took her away.
All her life, Marie had managed to stay one step ahead of her. She had come up with her plans and schemes before Adrienne had even had a chance to think about it. This time, Adrienne was determined to stay one step ahead of her aunt.
She thought of the times that she pictured Marie dead and gone. She thought of the times she had pictured holding a pillow over the woman’s face, or wrapping the curtain cord around her neck. She thought of Marie slipping on the top step and tumbling to the bottom. She thought of her own horror at committing murder. And now she couldn’t help but wonder if Marie was thinking the same kinds of things, if she had already concocted some way to rid herself of her niece once and for all. Which of them was strong enough, mentally and physically, to get rid of the other?
Marie held up the hairpins in her left hand. Her eyes continued to follow Adrienne in the mirror, searching the girl’s face and eyes for evidence of what she knew.
Adrienne glanced at her aunt. The woman must have had suspicions about Julien. How could she not suspect that something was wrong? He had been poisoned at the chalice, after all, and it was only Marie’s quick thinking that had saved his life.
Adrienne laid the comb on the dresser and reached for the pins. Her fingers fumbled and the hairpins dropped to the floor. “Pardonnez-moi,” she murmured, and stooped to retrieve them. She used that moment, kneeling on the floor, reaching for the pins, to calm her breathing, to arrange her face. How long had Marie suspected her son? Since the poisoning in Santa Cruz? Or even longer?
Adrienne’s fear had grown sharper with each passing day. Danger crackled in the air, seeped from the walls. She could see it in the drawn face of her cousin; she smelled it in the brandy that was often on his breath. It jumped off of Marie’s skin and hair and eyes, like sparks from the fire.
Marie was truly worried now. It was not the same as when Adrienne was younger and Marie was only interested in making sure that Adrienne’s stories were not allowed to get out. This was different. She might not know exactly what her son had done, but she knew that something was dreadfully wrong, something much more substantial than a failure to pay his debts. The feeling made Marie even more determined, more formidable than Adrienne had ever before known. More dangerous.
Adrienne’s eyes darted from the staring face in the mirror before her to the gray curls. Her hands shook as she pressed in the pins. She patted the curls in place.
Marie gazed at Adrienne’s reflection in the mirror, and stood. She walked away from the dressing room, never turning to face the girl directly. The scent of lavender lingered, wafting toward Adrienne’s nose, wrapping itself in the curtains.
Adrienne leaned against the wall after she had gone. Her breath escaped in a long, slow sigh. Her hands trembled. She held them to her chest, willed herself to breathe. Breathe. Slowly. Normally. She leaned her forehead against the glass of the window.
Where was Gerard? It had been over a year now since she dropped that letter in a mailbox when they had changed trains in St. Louis. That should have been plenty of time for the letter to reach him. It should have been plenty of time for him to come for her.
She turned and began to straighten the items on Marie’s dressing table. The letter caught her eye, a beacon from her former life. The paper was thick and creamy, the gold crest of the Challembelles family across the top, tendrils of gold trailing down the sides of the page. How many times had she seen that stationery sitting on her mother’s desk in Beaulieu? Adrienne almost couldn’t breathe with the thought. A letter. A letter from home.
Her heart felt as if it might stop; her entire mind filled with longing, with memories of the chateau and the grounds and the lake. All the places she had walked, all the things and people she had lived with for most of her life, came swimming back, and she blinked rapidly to keep the tears at bay.
She let her fingers drop to the thick paper, and for a moment, she allowed herself to touch her former life. The letter was folded into thirds and had been tossed carelessly on top of the dressing table. Adrienne lifted it in her fingers, her hands shaking, her stomach tossing. Home. A letter from home. She opened it slowly, sinking to the low stool in front of the mirror. Her mother’s handwriting, all its loops and flourishes, filled the page. Adrienne read slowly, drinking in every word.
The children are doing well, although it is probably not appropriate to call them children any longer. Emelie has become quite a beautiful young woman. It seemed as if it happened overnight. She has finished her studies at the convent school. Antoine has grown taller, and his voice is beginning to find the lower registers. He takes after his father a great deal.
Adrienne stared at the page, her eyes filling with images of her brother and sister. She swallowed, trying to keep from sobbing at the thought of them.
We’ve had some very sad news. Do you remember Gerard Devereux, the young man who worked at the embassy with Pierre? He and his grandfather came here to visit a few times. It seems that he did not adjust well after his transfer to Brazil. He requested leave from the embassy, quite suddenly it seems, and took passage on a freighting vessel, bound for New York. Whatever it was that upset him so, he could not wait for the next passenger ship, and left with a small freighter and crew, apparently determined to get to America. The ship went down, somewhere off the coast of Florida. All aboard were lost. Pierre is quite worried for Gerard’s grandfather. He had a hard time adjusting to Gerard’s transfer, and Pierre fears that this news will be the death of him.
Adrienne read the words again, as if they had been written in a language she did not understand. She dropped the letter on the dressing table; her hand covered her mouth. She couldn’t breathe; her vision clouded as if she were going to faint. No, it couldn’t be true. No. Her mind screamed, unable to accept this. Gerard, dead. Gerard, lost somewhere in the dark depths of the ocean. He had received her letter. He had tried to come for her. Her mind raced, careening from one ugly thought to another. Gerard. No. No. It could not be. Dead, because of her.
Adrienne slipped into the chair in front of the dressing table. She read the letter again and raised her eyes to the mirror. Not half an hour before, Marie had sat at this very table, looking into this very mirror, watching Adrienne’s every move.
She was stunned, shocked to her core, her mind refusing the information in front of her. Marie knew. Marie knew that Gerard had been on his way to America. She must know that Adrienne had tried to contact him. Had she left this letter here, on purpose, for Adrienne to find? Marie had a desk, in her bedroom, where she managed most of her correspondence.
Adrienne looked at her reflection in the mirror, the face looking back at her a montage of shock and fear and the slow dawning of understanding. Marie knew. Adrienne swallowed. Time was up. She had to get out of here, and quickly.
Adrienne’s thoughts found focus. She stopped waiting, knowing that Gerard would not be coming for her. She stopped concentrating on Julien, on what he had done to her and what he might now be doing to other little girls. She stopped wondering what Marie knew about all of it. If she allowed it, the overwhelming pain of Gerard’s death would surge up at her, threatening to pull her under its dark depths. She pushed it away. Later, she would let herself grieve. Right now, she had to focus; she had to gather all her resources to get out of there.
She moved around the castle, dust rag in hand, and found a plan clicking into place. In her mind, she practiced the phrases from the little English dictionary. My name is Adrienne Beauvier. I need your help. She conjured her escape, imagined every phase of the plan. She had rehearsed it a thousand times. Tonight, when they locked her in her room, she would pack her tapestry bag. Her one good dress, her one nightgown, the cloak from France that she wore when they went to church. She would find some opportunity, during her daily rounds of dusting tomorrow, to move that bag into the dark, damp staircase that laced the back of the castle, the servants’ stairs. She had the dictionary packed inside, along with the coins she had managed to steal from Julien’s dresser over the past months.
She sat in the kitchen, her plate of scrambled eggs in front of her. On the counter nearby was the tray that the nuns brought down, without fail, three times a day. Adrienne had seen the nun who delivered their meals. Her name was Hortense and she was very young, probably close to Adrienne’s own age. If Adrienne or Marie were in the room when she came down, she always smiled and whispered “Good morning.” Adrienne had never once been alone with her. Marie always hovered near the kitchen when it was time for the trays to arrive.
Adrienne stared at that tray. She turned and looked at the door in the kitchen, the one leading to the servants’ stairs that laced the back of the castle. She remembered Julien telling them how one particular staircase entered a tunnel, an old mine shaft, that went up to Montcalme, to the sanitarium on the hill. Tomorrow, she would take that tapestry bag, sneak through that door and into the tunnel. She would need a candle for that time in the tunnel, and she had already planned to take the one that was in her bedroom on the fourth floor. She could picture walking into the kitchen at Montcalme. She could picture the surprise on the faces of the nuns when she walked through.
Adrienne stood and took her dishes to the sink. She began to wash, as she did every morning, her own plates and those of Marie and Julien. She dried them, stacked them neatly in the cupboard. Plates and cups and silverware stayed here in the kitchen, along with the things needed to make tea or coffee. The nuns brought only covered serving dishes, filled with food. Adrienne looked again at that tray. The nuns must have several. They carried one down, heaped with food, and another back up, piled high with the serving dishes from the meal before.
Adrienne dried her hands, hung the dish towel over the edge of the sink, and smoothed the front of her skirt. She leaned to one side, searching for signs of Marie in the adjoining dining room. Marie had finished her coffee and left the dishes at her place at the table. Sunlight flooded the table and chairs and the heavy wool rug beneath them. The table cast a glare into Adrienne’s eyes.
Adrienne moved quietly to the door of the back staircase. She pulled it open, softly, just a few inches, and peeked inside. She knew there was more than one staircase; they went to every floor of the castle. She had no idea which one might lead to the tunnel, but it had to be somewhere off of the staircase that led here, into the kitchen.
“You can attend to my cup and saucer, since you have finished everything else.” Marie stood in the doorway to the kitchen.
Adrienne jumped, and turned to her aunt. “Of course,” she muttered.
“And I believe my bedroom needs dusting,” Marie continued. Her eyes were locked on her niece.
“As you wish.” Adrienne let her eyes drop to the floor between them, not trusting her face or her eyes. She felt certain that they would betray her if she looked directly at Marie.
All day, she watched. She watched the clock, waiting to see when Marie would go for her nap. Marie was very structured in her day and had become even more so as Julien’s life fell apart in front of her. At three, Marie stood and placed her stitching on the chair behind her. “I’m going to lie down for a bit,” she murmured.
Adrienne nodded, without looking up, trying to keep her eyes focused on her own stitching, trying to keep her face calm and serene. She heard Marie’s shoes as they clicked up the stairs and across the floor overhead. Adrienne continued to stitch. She stabbed herself with the needle and drew her finger away to suck on the blood.
The door to Julien’s study opened, and she heard him call the dogs. They whined; they pranced around the hall, anxious to go out. She heard Julien walking down the stairs, heard the crashing and bumping and boisterousness of the dogs, heard the click of the front door and the sudden quiet after the dogs went out. It was three thirty. Julien was usually gone for thirty or forty minutes.
Adrienne heard the ticking of the clock. If she was careful, if she timed it exactly right, she would have about half an hour between the time Julien left and Marie woke up from her nap. She prayed that it would be enough time to grab her bag, find the door to the tunnel, escape to the nuns, and somehow convince them to protect her should Julien appear at Montcalme looking for her.
One more day. Twenty-four more hours. Adrienne forced herself to breathe. She forced herself to keep stitching. Just one more day.