CHAPTER FORTY
Morning light seeped through the window and spread through the room, but Adrienne was only dimly aware of it. Marie unlocked the door and pushed it open. Adrienne lay on her side on the bed, curled into a ball. She did not turn to look at her aunt; she did not acknowledge the woman’s presence.
“Are you ill?” Marie asked.
Adrienne did not respond.
Marie took another step into the room. “Adrienne? Are you ill?” she asked again.
Adrienne said nothing. She did not shift on the bed.
Marie took another slow step forward. Adrienne heard her swallow, heard her turn and leave the room. The door closed with a soft click.
Adrienne curled tighter, put her hands between her knees. Pain gripped her, flashes of red light behind her eyelids. Her jaw hurt where he had pinched it; her neck and shoulders ached from the pressure of his arms on her. The lower part of her body burned. She knew there was blood trickling between her legs, drying on the sheets, but she did not want to move, did not want to look at the evidence of what had happened.
Worse, though, than the physical pain was the swirl of emotions in her mind. She had been living in a dream world, waiting for rescue, waiting for escape. She had managed, somehow, to banish all the loss, all the pain, that she had sustained in the last few years. Like dolls on a shelf, she had neatly put away the thoughts of Lucie, Gerard, Emelie, and Antoine, her home in Beaulieu, her former life. She had foolishly believed that some day, she would see them all again. Now the wreckage of her life came crashing down on her, crushing her lungs, stealing her breath. Tears trickled from the corners of her eyes. Her losses were enormous. And now this final act of robbery.
Adrienne knew little about the act of love. Certainly she knew none of the details. But when Gerard had touched the small of her back as they walked on the castle grounds, when she felt his eyes on her as she moved about the drawing room, she had imagined. She had imagined kissing him, holding him, spending every night in his arms.
Adrienne cringed and drew her body closer, tighter, as if she could curl into a ball that no horror could ever penetrate. It was not supposed to be like this. It was not supposed to have happened like this. Again, yet again, the things that were most precious to her had been stolen, ripped away, like spring blossoms in a terrifying wind.
She had no one to turn to, no shoulder to cry on. Loneliness had followed her since she was little, always at her side. Now it took on a force like a hurricane, a wide swath of destruction left in its wake. It was too much. Grand-père—gone. Lucie—gone. Her family—gone. Gerard—gone. Marie, filling her glass with some slow-acting poison. And now this.
Adrienne turned onto her back and stared up at the ceiling. All thought of escape had fled. She no longer cared if she lived or died. If it were true that Gerard was dead, then there was no reason to go on. And if it were not true, if he were still alive, still somewhere waiting for her, she knew she could never go to him. Not like this. Not damaged and soiled and shamed as she was.
Adrienne raised her hand to her mouth and bit her finger. Tears rolled down her cheeks. No. No. She could never tell anyone about this. She could not go to the sisters on the hill. Shame washed through her, and her hands trembled at the thought of the way they would look at her. Questioning the truth of what she said. Judging her. Condemning her. Just like the villagers in Beaulieu had done when she was a child. No matter what awful things Julien might have done, Adrienne knew that it was she who would bear the heavy burden of shame.
She had not asked for it, not for this; he was wrong about that. But she had been watching him, for some time now. There had been moments in the evenings, before prayers, when she had caught herself staring at him. Trying to see inside his soul, trying to figure out who he really was and what he might be up to.
She turned on her side again and stifled a small sob. She knew far more about him than she wanted to. She wished, now that it was too late, that she had never started spying on him, had never attempted to learn the truth.
Hatred surged up from the core of her being. “I want him dead,” she whispered to her quiet room. She wanted both of them dead. She wanted him to twist and writhe in pain, to burn with shame and humiliation. She wanted them to suffer, both of them, for what they had done to her.
But more than anything else, she just wanted to be left alone.