At first, he thought that what he noticed might be jealousy. Marguerite possessed the kind of beauty that made everyone uncomfortable: women were envious; men were dumbstruck. She had a natural reticence in company. Her reserve had sometimes made her seem distant and haughty.
Gradually, though, he began to notice a pattern. He would enter rooms to find servants staring, struggling to avert their eyes from the face of the comtesse. Sometimes he would walk into a shop in town, and everyone would stop talking. It was disconcerting, this feeling that they were being watched, that their lives were subject to such scrutiny.
They tried so hard to keep her visions a secret, to make sure that no one found out. It was impossible. Stories leaked out, just a trickle at first: servants in the next room who might have overheard; people in the village who had reasons for latching on to any bit of gossip that made its way from the chateau. The talk had never completely disappeared. Even now, thirty years after her death, he knew that the stories were still alive, still brought out and shared, like a family keepsake. He could still feel it, now and then, walking into a shop in town, and sensing the hush that fell over the room.
Grand-père glanced at Adrienne; he assessed the faces of everyone around the table.
He could tell by looking that Lucie already knew the secret of Adrienne’s visions. Genevieve seemed completely surprised by Adrienne’s story. He had no idea if she knew about her own mother; it was not a subject that he had ever felt the need to discuss with her. Marie’s eyes met his across the length of the table. She knew about the comtesse, but he could not be certain just how much she remembered about those visions.
Adrienne continued. “I could see the town . . . the streets . . . the ’dobe houses . . .” Her voice dropped off, as if she were no longer sitting at a table in France, but had been magically transported to the scene of her story.
The comte held his breath. Marie had not used the word “adobe.” She’d called them mud houses. He was amazed that Adrienne had come up with the word.
“And then I saw the little chapel.” Adrienne’s voice was a soft whisper, and everyone strained forward to hear her. “I saw the man ride up on his mule. I could see him build the staircase.”
Marie’s voice turned to ice. “Perhaps your mother told you about this. I distinctly remember writing to her about the chapel. Perhaps she read the letter to you.” Marie’s features were completely devoid of emotion, her body stiff.
Adrienne’s eyes went back to this stranger at the dinner table. “No. I saw it . . . just now.” Adrienne sat back in her chair, her blue eyes defiant.
Genevieve was immobile. The servants, though appearing to stare straight ahead, intent on their work, were hanging on every word.
“Well, that’s quite an imagination, Adrienne,” Marie hissed.
“It’s not ’magination,” Adrienne declared. “I saw it. Just now. When I looked at my glass.” She crossed her arms in front of her.
At the other end of the table, the comte felt Marie’s gaze. Their eyes met in a tightrope of tension.
He cleared his throat and pushed his chair back. It scraped along the marble floor. “Adrienne, it’s getting late. Perhaps we should skip prayers this evening and get to bed.” He walked to Adrienne’s chair and stood, holding his hand out to her. She looked up at him, her adoration suddenly eclipsing everything else.
She climbed down off her chair and took his hand, a child once again. Lucie stood and laid her napkin on the table.
The comte tipped his head to Marie and then to Genevieve. “Bonne nuit, ladies.”
Adrienne slipped from the comte’s grasp and ran around to her mother. She stood on tiptoe to kiss her mother’s cheek. “Bonne nuit, Maman,” she whispered. She turned slowly and looked at her aunt Marie once more. Marie did not return her gaze. “Bonne nuit, Tante Marie.”
CHAPTER THREE
In the cool light of morning, the dining room had lost all of its charm. Gone were the dancing flames of candlelight, the shadows that softened the corners of the room, the warmth of dinner. Despite the bright sunlight streaming through the terrace doors, the room was harsh, hard, and glaring. The marble of the floor reflected blinding rays of sunlight. The chairs were lined up around the table, stiff and formal like soldiers at attention. The ceiling soaked up every attempt at conversation, the feeble words disappearing in the height of the room.
Marie presided over the breakfast table like a general, perfectly at ease in the strict formality. The comte was not at his seat.
Adrienne slipped into her chair, her soft “Bonjour” barely audible in the cool air.
Silverware clinked against the china plates. The clock ticked. China coffee cups hit their saucers with a ringing sound. Adrienne swallowed one bite of scrambled egg. She laid her fork down.
“Maman?” Her voice came out rough and coarse. Adrienne stared at her mother across the table. “May I be excused?”
Genevieve’s eyes left her plate, flitted over to her daughter’s face. She was lost in her own thoughts, and had not noticed her daughter. Nothing seemed to register, in her eyes or her voice. “Hmmm?”
“Adrienne, you’ve barely touched your breakfast,” Marie observed.
“I’m not very hungry this morning,” Adrienne whispered. “Maman? May I go?”
Genevieve’s eyes were back on her plate again. “Yes. Fine. You’re excused.”
Adrienne slipped off her chair, and she and Lucie went outside for a stroll in the morning sunshine.
Marie cleared her throat. She held her coffee cup before her, both hands wrapped around it, and gazed at the door to the terrace. Adrienne and her governess were walking in the distance. “Genevieve, I’m not sure you understand the severity of this situation,” she began.
Genevieve sighed, wishing she could escape from her sister. “What do you mean?”
Marie took her time answering. “It’s obvious that Adrienne has a very active imagination. But the way you and Papa coddle her, she has begun to think her imagination is real.” Marie raised her delicate china cup and sipped from her coffee, her gray eyes locked on her sister. “You must not encourage such behavior—all these stories and fantasies and imaginings.”
Genevieve’s hands rested in her lap; her fingers toyed with her linen napkin. Coffee and juice sat before her, untouched. “But Marie, the story she told was true.”
“Of course it is.” Marie sipped from her coffee cup, her elbows resting on the table. “I wrote to you about the chapel. I distinctly remember that. You and Papa may have discussed it. Perhaps you even read the letter out loud.”
Genevieve searched her memory. She did have a vague recollection of such a letter. She never cared much for what Marie had to say, and would often let letters from her sister sit for days without opening them. It seemed that her sister had two main themes in any of her communications. They always centered on the perfection of her son, or on what Genevieve was doing wrong. Genevieve had long ago grown weary of both topics. But the comte was fascinated with the New World. He read everything Marie sent. He purchased every publication he could find about Indians, or the Wild West, or life on the American frontier. He probably had read the letter out loud.
“She’s young; she’s sensitive to everything she hears. She seems bright enough. Perhaps she has heard the whole story, from that letter I sent, and remembers much more than most children her age.” The prim set of Marie’s lips left no room for argument.
“Perhaps,” Genevieve conceded. She looked at the terrace doors, at the bright sunlight washing over the flowers outside, and felt relief at such a simple solution. Genevieve did not have the energy to figure out what was going on with her daughter; and Marie’s idea made so much more sense than the idea that Adrienne might actually have seen the events she described.
But there was another part of Genevieve that did not want to agree with her older sister. She did not want Marie to be right; she did not want Marie to have all the answers. She could well remember all the years of Marie telling her what to do, what to think, how to behave. She remembered coming downstairs, at the age of fifteen, in a silk dress the color of spring leaves. Genevieve loved the color; she felt so grown-up and beautiful that evening. She had walked into the parlor, and Marie had turned from her place by the fire, her face contorted in an expression of horror.
“Genevieve, darling, hasn’t anyone ever told you that blondes should not wear green? You look as if you might be ill.” Genevieve’s pleasure crashed to the floor and shattered like glass. She suddenly felt ugly and stupid and completely inept. She fought hard to keep herself from crying, and for the rest of the evening she barely spoke, never raised her eyes from her plate.
In the years that Marie had been home, living here at the chateau, Genevieve had never been strong enough to disagree with her. Any time she had come remotely close to rebellion, Marie would make a veiled comment about their mother, and Genevieve would be plunged back into a sea of guilt. She was the one, after all, who had taken their mother’s life, and it seemed to her that Marie would never forgive her for that negligence.
“I’d be very careful how you respond to these stories of hers,” Marie continued. She laid her napkin next to her plate and pushed her chair back. “She mustn’t be encouraged to think that she actually sees these things. We cannot allow the servants—” At that Marie glanced up at the maid who was removing dishes from the sideboard. She lowered her voice to a whisper. “We cannot allow anyone to talk about her. We don’t want these fantasies of hers to . . .” Marie stared out into the sunlight. Her eyes flicked back to Genevieve.
“You may not remember this, Genevieve, but Papa and I have seen some major upheavals in France in the past thirty years. Something like this . . . if it got out . . . I hate to even think how people might respond. You must be very strict with her on this. I know you don’t want the family to be the subject of idle gossip.” Marie’s eyes narrowed. She stood and pushed in her chair, the legs scraping with a screech. “We both know how devastating gossip can be.”
Genevieve looked up at her sister, searching her face for information, for evidence of some knowledge that Marie had and Genevieve did not. Their eyes locked. The corners of Marie’s mouth lifted slightly, and she turned and strode from the room, her heels clicking on the marble floor.
Genevieve watched her leave. Her stomach did a flip, as it often did these days when the subject of gossip was raised. She felt sick. She put one hand on the mound of the baby she carried, and stroked it absently. Gossip had followed her for as long as she could remember, and lately she had to wonder if the talk was about Pierre. Why was it that he found so many excuses to stay in Paris? He rarely came home anymore. Adrienne was growing up without a father; Genevieve was left alone far too often. She wanted to live in Paris with him. She wanted all that the city had to offer. But somehow, the time was never right. Pierre always seemed to have some reason why moving his family couldn’t possibly work right now.
She raised her eyes to find the sunlight and flowers of the terrace once again. Adrienne walked in the grass, her governess close behind her. She carried her doll and began running and laughing in the bright sun. She seemed so much happier, so much more at ease with her governess. Genevieve frowned, her brow knotted with the weight of Marie’s warning.