CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
Julien sat at his desk. His beard was unkempt; his eyes looked like those of a wild animal. His hair stood in spikes on his head, uncombed. He brushed his hand through it and rested his head in his hands.
In the weeks since his mother had left, he had barely slept. Every time he lay down, he pictured Adrienne’s body, lifeless and bloody, as he carried her to his private chapel and buried her in the tunnel. And every time he did manage to drift off for a few moments, his mind fought its way back to consciousness, listening as the music carried toward his room. The first time it happened, he got out of bed, walked down the hall, his ear cocked toward the sound. Someone was playing the piano in the great hall. Notes of the night serenade drifted into the room, like a dream. He would walk to the edge of the hall, keeping his feet hushed. But no matter how quiet he was, the minute he stood there, his hand on the switch for the light, the music suddenly stopped. He turned, more and more often, to the bottle of brandy he kept by his bed.
The pounding on the front door made him jump. Julien shot up, walked to the window, and pulled the curtain aside, trying to see to the street below. The angle of the roof was wrong; he could see nothing but the top of the portico. The banging on the door sounded again.
Julien ran his hands through his hair, swallowed. He took a deep breath. He straightened his clothes. He noticed how disheveled, how wrinkled and dirty he looked. He stopped, thought about not answering the door.
The pounding sounded again, more insistent. “Father?” a woman’s voice called.
Julien swallowed again. He clenched his jaw and went downstairs, pulled the door open. Mother Mary Meyers, the superior for the Sisters of Mercy at the sanitarium, stood on the stoop, the skirts of her white habit billowing out around her.
“Good morning,” she barked. Her eyes were hard and cold, and she took in his unkempt appearance. “Might I have a word with you?” She stepped through the door without waiting for his reply.
Julien ground his teeth. “I’m rather busy this morning, Mother.”
“Yes. Well.” She ran her eyes over his beard, over the hair on his head standing up in tufts. She could probably smell the alcohol on his breath. “This won’t take long.”
Julien turned to walk up the stairs and waved his hand for her to follow.
He led her to the parlor. She moved in, her stride swift and strong.
“Please have a seat,” he snapped, annoyed with the interruption. He was too exhausted to deal with her today and wished only to get this encounter over with as quickly as possible.
“No,” she bellowed. “As I said, this won’t take long.” She watched him as he walked to the edge of the room and dropped into a wing chair.
She straightened her back, held her hands folded in front of her, rough and red against her white habit. “I’ll be frank, Father,” she stated.
Julien moved his eyes to the window across the room.
“There have been reports . . .” She stopped. Her hands fidgeted. “I have received reports that . . . There are allegations . . .”
Julien moved his eyes to her face. “What allegations?” He glared at her.
“Allegations that . . . that you have been touching the children.”
Julien’s jaw clamped shut, his face flushed with anger. His eyes burned into her. “Is that so?”
She did not wither at his look. “Yes, Father. Several of the sisters have come to me. It seems that some of the children have told them . . .” She took another breath, threw her shoulders back. “The children are telling some very alarming stories.”
“And you believe them?” Julien ground his teeth. His fists clenched and unclenched at his sides. “Children are well known for making up stories.”
“I didn’t . . . not at first. But I have spoken to some of the children myself. Their stories are . . .” She raised her eyebrows. “Convincing. Far too detailed to be childish imagination. I felt I must confront the situation.”
Julien rose from his chair. They stood facing each other, locked in a battle of wills.
“Have you been touching . . .” she began.
Julien slammed his hand on the table. A paperweight jumped and wobbled. “Don’t you dare speak to me like that!” His words were clipped and slow, low and heavy, like thunder. He slammed his hand down again.
Mother Meyers jumped at the sound, but she did not drop her eyes.
“I won’t have it! Do you hear?” He started to move around the table, staring at the woman before him, wanting to put his hands around her neck. “You will not come into my home and speak to me like this!”
“I didn’t believe it,” she said quietly. “Not at first. Even as I walked over here today, I didn’t quite believe it.”
Julien’s jaw was hard. Color flamed in his neck.
“Now . . .” She tipped her head, just slightly. “Seems like a rather strong reaction, from a man who has done nothing.”
Julien took another step toward her, his arms taut, like violin strings pulled too tight, ready to snap.
He stopped, two feet from her face, and stared at her. “You’ll be dead within a year,” he hissed.
“Are you threatening me?” She pulled her shoulders up and stared right back at him.
His breathing was ragged. The sour smell of brandy filled the air.
She met his gaze. Then she turned sharply on her heel. Her shoes snapped and clicked across the floor and down the steps.
Julien heard the door slam. He paced to the window, pulled the curtain aside, watched as she strode away, her white habit sailing out behind her. He stood watching, long after she had disappeared.
He turned and went to the bar, poured another brandy, despite the early-morning hour. He returned to the window, sipping, and stared out at the street. His mind reeled with her accusations. Who spoke? Which children? Who dared to tell such stories? He wanted to march into town, grab children by their collars, shout into their small, frightened faces. “Was it you? Or you?” He imagined their fright, tears popping into their eyes.
Anger pounded in his face, in his ears, in his neck. He was furious. He paced back and forth in the parlor. And then he heard it, once again: the swish of wood, the door brushing along the floor. He turned slowly. Sunlight washed across the conservatory. Potted palms lifted their arms to the light. The door to his chapel moved slowly, as if some invisible force was pushing it open.