CHAPTER FOUR
Bonjour, madame,” the woman at the patisserie greeted Genevieve. Madame LaMott radiated cordiality; it glowed in her cheeks and sparkled in her brown eyes. Her graying curls burst from the bun at the nape of her neck. That sunny disposition had proven very useful, drawing the gossip of the little village to her like a magnet. She and monsieur had been operating the patisserie for as long as Genevieve could remember, and madame had her nose in all the secrets of the village.
“Bonjour, Madame LaMott,” Genevieve answered. Lucie and Adrienne followed her through the carved wooden door.
The patisserie was located in the lower portions of the LaMotts’ home, and a brick fireplace dominated one wall. Warmth glowed in the soft amber walls, and wafted through the air on the smells of fresh pastry. Wooden tables were scattered around the room, chairs perched in total disarray, as if they’d had a wild night of drinking. Light from the huge window shimmered in the lace curtains and spread soft, undulating patterns across the brick floor. A glass case of pastries stood near the back of the room, and Adrienne dropped Lucie’s hand and ran to examine the contents, her eyes wide with the wonders of the cakes and napoleons and tiny fruit tarts.
Genevieve and Lucie sank into chairs at a table by the window, and Genevieve began pulling off her gray kid gloves, one finger at a time. Madame LaMott brought a small pot of tea and china cups to their table, and began pouring.
“Maman, may I have a strawberry tart?” Adrienne ran to her mother, glowing with excitement.
“Of course, my sweet.” Genevieve pulled out a chair for Adrienne and held her arm as she climbed up. Genevieve’s eyes burned with fatigue; her shoulders slumped with weariness.
Lucie leaned over to Adrienne and began unbuttoning her little sweater.
“I’ll have a piece of that chocolate cake,” Genevieve murmured.
“And you, mademoiselle?” Madame LaMott turned to Lucie.
“A strawberry tart also, madame.”
Genevieve dropped a lump of sugar in her tea and fell back in her chair. She stared out the big picture window, studying the street. A few women were out shopping. Several children ran past, chasing each other and laughing.
Madame LaMott returned, bearing a tray with their pastries. Adrienne’s eyes lit up as her tart was placed in front of her. She stared at the ruby color of the strawberries, ran her finger around the tiny pink flowers on the edge of the plate.
“And how is monsieur?” Madame LaMott asked in a friendly tone.
Genevieve looked up at her. “He’s been working very hard, as usual.”
“Yes, I’m sure the consul keeps him busy. It must be difficult to have him so far away.” Madame LaMott placed forks and napkins on the table beside the pastries. “Will he be home soon?”
“We expect him this weekend, actually.” Genevieve smiled.
Adrienne looked up at her mother, but she sat perfectly still. “Not this weekend, Maman,” she stated with certainty.
The air grew heavy with the sudden silence.
Madame LaMott placed the now-empty tray at her side and looked down at the little girl with the auburn curls.
The eyes of the three waiting women locked on Adrienne. There were certain times, and this was one of them, when Genevieve could see traces of her handsome husband in Adrienne’s face. The girl had certainly inherited the best traits of both sides of the family.
“He can’t come home this weekend. He is staying with his other family,” Adrienne said firmly. “The little boy is sick.”
Genevieve felt her face flush, embarrassment flooding every pore of her being. It didn’t take a genius to see the way Madame LaMott blushed, to notice the way Lucie was suddenly absorbed with her plate. The suspicion had been gnawing at Genevieve for some time now. Pierre Beauvier was an incredibly handsome man. Though he had hurried home from his work in Paris when he and Genevieve were first married, his visits had become much less frequent in the past year. Genevieve suspected there was more to the story than the demands of his job, and she felt confirmation of her fears in the faces of the two women. She looked at Madame LaMott, wondering just how much the woman might know. The feeling tore at Genevieve—the idea that everyone knew more about her husband’s behavior than she did, including her four-year-old daughter. She forced herself to swallow the lump in her throat.
The feeling was one she’d known her whole life, even before Pierre. For as long as Genevieve could remember, she had been the object of too many staring eyes, had walked into too many rooms to find conversation completely stopped and all eyes on her. It was as if the whole village, and all the servants at the castle, knew things that she did not. She had asked her father about it once, when she was seven or eight, and she remembered clearly the way he had replied. “They are only jealous of your beauty, darling. Do not let it trouble you.” Even then, though, the words had rung false. It felt as if everyone in her life had conspired to keep her in the dark, to keep her from having to face the truth.
Genevieve’s eyes flashed, a dart of anger shooting at Adrienne. Tension filled the room, and Adrienne sat back in her chair. She blinked rapidly, fighting tears.
Genevieve crossed her arms over her body, rubbing them as if she were cold, as if she were trying to protect herself from the sting of the words. She had known that something was amiss, had felt it deep in the pit of her stomach. She had fought her growing suspicions as his excuses for staying in Paris became more frequent. But she couldn’t allow herself to think about it. Of course he’s busy, she told herself again and again. Her hand went unconsciously to the baby she now carried. Perhaps, if I give him a son . . . she thought, not for the first time. Genevieve rested her hand on the mound of the baby she carried. She looked up to see Adrienne staring at her.
Adrienne twisted in her seat and turned toward Madame LaMott. “Did you know I’m going to have a baby sister? She has yellow hair, like Maman’s.” Adrienne took a huge bite of her tart, struggling to capture the whole strawberry at one time.
Genevieve’s jaw clenched. She wanted to reach out and slap Adrienne, to tell her to keep her thoughts to herself. Instead, Genevieve forced herself to breathe, turned a watered-down smile toward Madame LaMott. “Adrienne has quite an imagination, as you can see.”
“But, Maman, I saw her,” Adrienne insisted. “The baby is a girl.”
“Finish your tart, Adrienne.” Genevieve’s words were clipped and short, forced through clenched teeth.
Adrienne stared at her, but said nothing else.
Madame LaMott stood silently for a moment. “Well, I’m sure it will be a beautiful baby,” she said in a too-loud voice. “Boy or girl.” She turned and headed to the back room.
Adrienne took up her fork once more, and started playing with her tart.
“Aren’t you going to eat your cake, Maman?” Adrienne asked after several silent moments.
For a moment, Genevieve forgot her daughter; her mind was focused on Pierre. Adrienne’s question brought her back. Genevieve swallowed hard and murmured, “No. I guess I’m not feeling well. Perhaps we should go home now.”
“Of course, madame.” Lucie began helping Adrienne with her sweater. They stood and Genevieve reached to put coins on the table, not wanting to face Madame LaMott again.
Madame LaMott emerged from the kitchen just as the three made their way to the door. “Good day to you, madame,” she called. “Good day, Adrienne, mademoiselle.”
Adrienne turned and waved her hand gaily. “Au revoir, Madame LaMott. My tart was delicious!” she added with childish exuberance. Lucie took Adrienne’s small hand and followed Genevieve out. No one spoke on the walk home. Genevieve climbed the hill to the chateau in silence, slightly behind the others, as if trying to distance herself from the cause of her unease. Adrienne ran and skipped on the road, bending down to examine a beetle, picking up a rock with flecks of shiny mica in it.
When they reached the front hall, the maid rushed to take Genevieve’s wrap. Genevieve turned and her eyes brushed lightly over her daughter’s face. “Lucie, please take Adrienne for her nap.” She turned on her heel without waiting for a response.
“But Maman. I’m not tired,” Adrienne insisted to her mother’s back. “I’m too big for a nap.”
Genevieve stopped, but she did not turn. “You need a nap, Adrienne.” Her words cut through the air, sharp with impatience. Genevieve strode quickly away from them, through the parlor and into the morning room. She sat down at her desk, leaned on her elbows, and rested her head between her hands. She rubbed her temples, listening to Adrienne’s chatter as she and Lucie climbed the stairs.
Genevieve sighed. Fatigue filled every fiber of her being: the strain of carrying this baby, of dealing with Marie being home, full of judgment and criticism. Her uneasy feeling about Pierre had been gnawing at her for months. She was agitated enough without Adrienne’s embarrassing behavior and distressing stories. Where did the girl come up with these ideas?
She opened her tired eyes to find the envelope staring up at her—delivered while she was out. Her own name blazed at her, written in his dark, slanted hand, and she felt bile rise in her throat.
Her hands shook as she picked up the thick, creamy paper, and slit the top. She pulled the note from inside, and opened the single fold.
“My dearest Genevieve.” His handwriting was so bold, so sure and certain, like the man himself.
I’m sorry, dear, but I find that business is too pressing for me to take the time to come home this weekend. We are meeting with the consul from Guatemala, and I will be unable to leave. Give my little darling a kiss, and pat the baby for me. I’ll be home as soon as things slow down a bit.
All my love, Pierre
Genevieve’s eyes burned. She swallowed, trying to fight back her anger. Bitterness flooded her bloodstream—waves of anger at Pierre, at her situation, at Marie. But just as troubling was this bizarre behavior that Adrienne had been demonstrating lately. How did Adrienne know? And why couldn’t she just keep the information to herself?