The curtains were closed against the cold and only a thin sliver of moonlight darted through the folds, but it was enough to see by. She sat up in bed with the blanket clutched to her throat, wishing she had checked the walls for hidden entrances. The cold air stimulated her senses and she leapt up, angry with herself. Swiftly she walked to the window and threw back the heavy curtains, scanning the lawn for signs of someone causing mischief, but the moonlit acres were empty. Trying to visualize what was above and below her room she heard a noise, a slow thump, thump right outside her door. She crossed the room in five long steps and flung the door open. The marquise stood in the middle of the corridor, her expression severe. She hesitated slightly when she saw Agnes.
“I wanted to check the fire in Mimi’s room. There’s always danger with a fire at night.”
Agnes wanted to add, yes but it keeps you warm. There certainly wasn’t a fire lit in her room.
“She has a Kachelofen.”
Agnes nearly smiled. She had forgotten the marquise’s ability to read minds. She had seen a few of the ceramic stoves over the years. Tall structures, wonderfully warm by all accounts. And not dangerous to leave lit unattended. She started to ask the marquise if she knew anything of Arsov’s past when the other woman spoke.
“Does Mademoiselle Cowell have any siblings?”
“None that her fiancé knew of. Or Nick Graves.”
“The American student,” the marquise said, the tone in her voice causing Agnes to believe what Julien Vallotton said about the woman not meeting anyone new, ever. “This evening Julien told me that Mademoiselle Cowell had another name.”
“Courtney Cowell, we believe,” said Agnes.
The marquise stood as silent as a statue, so still she didn’t appear to breathe. “Interesting to keep a surname but change the Christian name.”
“Easier to get new paperwork, you can call yourself by almost any nickname you want and make it semi-official, but a surname is harder to fix.”
“Unless you are adopted or married.”
“She’s a bit old for adoption, but she could have formally petitioned to change her name if she’d wanted. Maybe she had.”
“Is Monsieur Estanguet still here? I do not know that name. He is not from the village, is he?”
“We’re all still here, I’m afraid. Impossible for anyone to be evacuated. And Monsieur Estanguet is from Estavayer-le-Lac. He’s got the farthest to go. Probably wishes he’d not bothered to help us down the hill now.”
The marquise glanced toward Mimi’s room.
“She’s handling this well. Better than some adults might,” Agnes said, thinking about Estanguet.
“The mind of a child is difficult to understand,” said the marquise. “Their fears. Their concerns. Adults lie, conceal, pretend, but they do it for reasons that can be deduced through logic. Children have imaginations that cannot separate fantasy from reality. To them a fairy story is real. Just as real as a story about something that happened outside their door. They lose that as they mature, but for a time their mind is open. As adults we close ours.”
“Perhaps that’s why Mimi isn’t traumatized.”
“You are very concrete, whereas I was speaking in larger terms.” Without another word the marquise walked silently toward the stairs.
A bit affronted, Agnes stepped back into her room. She settled in bed and listened. Nothing. She glanced at the walls and wondered if there was a concealed door, trying to summon the will to search. She closed her eyes, too tired to get up. Unbidden, an image crept into her consciousness: Carnet and George. She shuddered slightly then she laughed, a sound tinged with hysteria. Their relationship defied imagination, and if it weren’t for the naked emotion she had seen on Carnet’s face, she would have believed it more likely to be a story he concocted to alleviate her self-blame. The idea that George had fallen in love with Carnet, enough in love that he couldn’t live without him, would have sounded ridiculous only a few hours earlier, but in the depths of the night, after exhausting herself of any other emotion, she knew that it was possible. And that she could accept it. Her husband had not died because of her, but because of himself. She took a deep breath. When did the sequence of events start or stop? Did it start with that fateful day at the shooting match? She had cajoled George into going, even though he had promised to take their youngest son fishing. Was this sequence of events punishment for her selfishness? What would have changed if he hadn’t met Carnet? Would it have been merely another man on another day? And what if Carnet hadn’t cared who was hurt by their actions: she and George would have divorced, their boys and his parents not understanding. Her parents-in-law were too much a part of the old customs of their village and way of life to have accepted homosexuality, even if the law did. Their instinct would have been to cut George from their lives, and then what of her, of the boys? Reminders. Still to blame, surely.
Rubbing her eyes to stop the tears, Agnes understood that at some deep level she was thankful that George had chosen to die because of what he couldn’t have, and not because of what she couldn’t give him. Now she could see the impossible situation he faced. He knew what his parents would think if they found out about Carnet, but to have found love and lost it was equally heart-wrenching. He must have felt that he was in a dark hole with no way out. The Lüthis would never have accepted that their son was gay. And he had already lost the man he loved. Imperceptibly a burden lifted from her heart. She rolled over, wrapping herself in the down cover, embracing the weight of sleep.
DAY THREE