The bank had said that Lili had sold the house from France without even coming to see it, because she was in ill health. She had inherited it from her mother and disposed of it. Michael Stanton of the Berkeley Psychic Institute had said that Lili probably wasn’t alive when he visited the house. She would have been a hundred and one years old now, and if Samuel was still alive, he would be seventy-three. For the first time, Sybil felt a duty to try to contact him and share his family history with him. Maybe he never knew anything about them, since Lili had no real bond to the house, and in everything Bettina had written in her lifetime, she had admitted that she and Lili had never been close. She blamed herself for it, and Lili’s ties were all in France, and she would have had none of the Butterfield history to pass on to her son.
Suddenly Sybil knew what her mission was and what she owed them, and wanted to give them. She wanted to reach out to Samuel and tell him about the Butterfield Mansion and the wonderful family who had lived there, and were his heritage too. It was a gift she could give to him, and to Bert and Gwyneth. Samuel Saint Martin was the last link in the chain. She and Blake were the guardians of their history, but Samuel was the rightful heir to it and their stories, their victories and their broken dreams. He had a right to know the truth about all of it, and even to meet them, since the strange phenomenon that existed in the house would allow him to, if he wanted to and was willing. And if they were. He could meet Augusta, his great-great-grandmother, and his great-uncle Magnus, his great-great-uncle Angus, and Bert and Gwyneth, his great-grandparents, and Sybil knew she had to pass it on to him. She could be the bridge between the Butterfields she knew and their last descendant. All she had to do was find him, if she could. And then he had to believe it was possible for him to meet them, and not that she was some lunatic who had imagined it, or was lying to make herself interesting. She wasn’t sure how to convince him, if she found him, but she wanted to try. She had a strong sense that when Bettina had bought the house back after Louis’s death, she had lived with her family around her in the same spiritual dimension where they existed now, and where Sybil saw them every day. They had probably populated Bettina’s final years in the same way until she died. So she was never alone or lonely in her final years, and had returned to the comfort of her youth.
And somewhere in the world was Lili’s son, who had a rich history he probably knew nothing about, but deserved to at least learn as the Butterfields’ final blood relative. She felt powerfully that Bert and Gwyneth and even his grandmother Bettina would have wanted that. Sybil was the only one who could give him that now, or at least offer it to him. She not only knew their history, she had lived it with them. They had entrusted it to her by being so open with her and her family, and she wanted to share it with Samuel now.
Chapter 17
With a feeling of trepidation, and after thinking all night about it and whether it was the right thing to do, Sybil started searching for Samuel Saint Martin the next day. All she knew about him was the minor mention of him in Bettina’s book, as Lili’s son.
His father, Raphael, had been a doctor, and if he and Lili had other children, Bettina didn’t mention them in the book.
Sybil didn’t know what was pushing her to look for him, and she didn’t tell anyone about it. It might be a dead end, anyway. He might have died. Or the Butterfields could refuse to meet him. Lili hadn’t been part of their lives once Bettina moved to France and she was a baby then. Her seventy-three-year-old son might just seem too remote to them. They lived within the confines of the house and the grounds and the world they had known, with the family members they had lived with for more than a century. Samuel might not seem part of the family to them. But Sybil could feel something beckoning her as she began her search.
She found him on Facebook in less than an hour, if it was the right person. It had been startlingly easy, and his age matched up. She had nothing else to go on. His Facebook page said that he was a history professor at the Sorbonne, he lived in the fifth arrondissement on the Left Bank in Paris, which wasn’t far from Saint-Germain, and Sybil was desperately curious about him and wanted to know more. She had a burning sense that this was important without knowing why.
She was composing an email to him on her computer that afternoon when Gwyneth walked into the room. She had come to finish a drawing she had started.
“What are you doing?” She was bored and missed Bettina, and hadn’t had a letter from her in a week. Bettina was busy reorganizing her new home and enjoying their busy social life. She had written that she loved being married and having a home of her own, and not just living with her parents.
“Looking for your great-grandson,” Sybil said seriously, looking distracted.
“Very funny.” Gwyneth thought it was a joke.
“No, really. I know that makes no sense, but it’s one of those time-dimension things I can’t explain, it just is.”
Gwyneth nodded. She knew it happened to them, but it confused her, so she tried not to think about it, about who was dead and who wasn’t, and who wasn’t really the age that they seemed, who was past and who was future. It was much easier to take it at face value. And Sybil was more interested in it than she was. Bert didn’t like her to talk about it, and had forbidden her to tell anyone.
“So I have a great-grandson?” she asked, looking uncomfortable. Bert wouldn’t have liked her asking questions about the future, even if Sybil knew the answers, particularly if she did.
“Yes, you do. Lili’s son,” Sybil said. It seemed harmless to tell her, as long as she didn’t warn her of the tragedies that would come and no one could alter.
“Shouldn’t you be working on your book?” Gwyneth said to change the subject.
“Don’t remind me. I’m taking a break.” Sybil smiled at her. “I’m almost finished.”
“Do you know where he is? My great-grandson, I mean.” Gwyneth was curious about it, even if she knew she shouldn’t be. They both knew it was dangerous to pry into the future, and they were usually careful not to and respectful of the privilege they had.
“Sort of. If he’s the right one, he’s a history professor at the Sorbonne. That’s all I really know. The rest is guesswork. And maybe he won’t give a damn about any of you or your history if I find him, but I figured that you or Bettina or someone, maybe your mother, would want me to reach out to him, to tell him about all of you, so you could meet him if you want to.” And he’d have to be willing to come to San Francisco if so. It was all a long shot for now.
“I think that would be nice,” Gwyneth said, smiling at her. “We’re all still here. He might as well know about us.” And then she looked shyly at Sybil. “Sometimes I think we’re here because of you. Maybe without you, if you and Blake hadn’t bought the house, we wouldn’t be in our home anymore.” It was one of those rare times when one of them admitted that the way they all existed, including her and Blake, wasn’t entirely normal, and had defied what was possible for other people.
“I don’t think that’s true. I think you’d be here anyway. I think you’re all so attached to the house and your life together, you’ll never leave,” Sybil said honestly. “You were all here when we arrived. We just found you. We didn’t bring you back.” Sybil took no credit for it, and what she said was true. She smiled warmly at Gwyneth. The two women had a powerful tie of love and friendship and had been through a lot together.