Miramont's Ghost (18 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

A
drienne stood at the railing of the ship, her eyes locked on the horizon, her arms wrapped across her chest. For the past three days, since they had boarded the ship, she had stood in this spot, transfixed. A swirl of green and blue and gray and black mixed together before her: a mesmerizing brew of sky and water. Adrienne spoke to no one. She ate nothing. She noticed none of the passengers or ship’s mates as they moved around her.

She stared at the churning water. How easy it would be, to climb over the side of the railing, balance on the edge of the ship, raise her eyes, and step off. Just one step, one long drop along the side of the ship, and all this pain would be over with. No more of the ache that tore at her sides, no more of the anger that burned her eyes and stomach, no more of the hatred toward the woman who sat behind her, pretending to read a book as she kept careful watch over her niece.

One step, one slow plunge, almost like flying, would take her into the water. She could picture her hair, long strands streaming out around her like seaweed. She could see the light of the sun, filtering through the first few feet of ocean, turning it a glassy green. She could feel her skirts, billowing up around her. Adrienne closed her eyes, felt the slow, dreamlike descent into darkness.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?”

The voice beside her pulled her back onto the deck of the ship, out of the trance of water and darkness. Adrienne opened her eyes and turned toward the sound. A young man, a ship’s mate, was winding a rope around two hooks just a few feet away from her. She looked at him. Brown eyes, brown hair, ruddy cheeks. He smiled.

“No matter how many times I’ve made the crossing, I never quite get used to it,” he continued. His eyes sought the horizon, blue sky riding on gray-blue water.

He spoke French. Adrienne followed his gaze and stared out to sea. For the first time since boarding the ship, she felt awake. She could hear the slap of the water against the ship, feel the salt spray that tingled her skin. She could smell the ocean breeze. As if his words had pulled her back from the precipice.

The young man turned toward her again and smiled. “Good day, mademoiselle.”

Adrienne met his eyes. She nodded. He walked farther, winding up a hose that had been used to wash down the deck.

Adrienne turned her gaze back to the sea. How long had they been on board? She could not remember when she first walked into their room, or how often she had lain on her own narrow bed in their cabin. She’d been lost in a fog of sadness and grief, unable to remember much of anything about the trip that took her away from her home.

The wind picked up and Adrienne pulled her cloak tight under her chin. She watched as the sun sank from the sky and perched on the edge of the horizon. The ship chased after it. Color spread over the water, like jewels of gold and copper, riches spilling out in all directions.

Adrienne stared at the water, at the feast of color before her. She straightened, her eyes locked on the golden sea. This was not the first time she had seen the ocean. The memory was vague, the edges tattered and frayed, but she closed her eyes and let her body soften into the smell, the sound, the feel of the sea.

She remembered walking on a beach at sunset, golden light spilling across the water and onto the sand. She could hear the cries of the seagulls. The waves lapped around her bare feet, and she laughed. Her grandfather held her hand, laughing with her. Adrienne smiled, filled with the warmth and the calm of that long-ago moment, filled with the overwhelming sense of protection she felt in her grandfather’s presence. She couldn’t have been more than four or five years old.

The memory faded. She opened her eyes and stared. The sky had turned to velvet. The water was black glass.

Grand-père. The thought of him brought comfort, like a warm woolen shawl around her shoulders. He had been gone for ten years now, but the memory of him filled her as if it had been only yesterday. Her grand-père. She smiled into the dark.

Never before had she thought of who he was, as a man. To her younger self, the only thing that mattered were his twinkling blue eyes, the way he winked at her when they shared a secret, the way he rushed to protect her from Marie’s wrath. But as she stood in the dark, listening to the water, it occurred to her that he was much more than that, much more than her grand-père. He was a husband, a father, a comte. He had suffered his own heartaches: the loss of his son, less than a year old. The loss of his wife a few years later. He had raised his daughters without the benefit of a mother’s love. He had spent the greatest part of his life without the woman he loved.

She began to try to fill in the details of his life, apart from the man she had known when she was small. She knew, from her studies with Lucie, of all the turbulence in French history during the comte’s lifetime. He had survived the Napoleonic Wars, negotiated the turnings and intrigues of political upheaval. He had seen friends stripped of their possessions, banished from the country. He had seen others murdered, destroyed by the upheaval around them.

He knew what it was to be brokenhearted. He knew what it felt like to be betrayed. He knew what it meant to have to survive by one’s wits. And Adrienne knew, too, that if he were here now, if he had suffered the same injustices that she had these past few months, he would not be standing here, at the railing of the ship, thinking of stepping over the edge.

She remembered the way he held his shoulders, straight and square and proud. She remembered the way the villagers were quick to greet him, the way the older ladies smiled and fluttered when he arrived at church. She remembered the way his jaw went firm and hard, the way his eyes turned to flint, when Marie was on the attack.

He had survived eighty-seven years of French politics, nine decades of ever-changing allegiances. Victor Hugo had been banished from the country for speaking his mind, but somehow, the Comte de Challembelles had managed to hold on to his lands, his title, his standing. He knew when to speak and when to stay silent. He knew when to be strong and when to ride the current.

Adrienne’s thoughts drifted to the day the comte died. She remembered the smell of his room, metallic and sour. She remembered how frail and colorless he had looked, lying against the pillows. She felt the gentle squeeze of his fingers on her hand. She heard his words, “Be careful what you say, Adrienne.”

When she heard those words at the age of seven, she thought that he meant she should stop speaking, should stay completely silent. But was that really what he intended?

Adrienne’s thoughts churned, like the foam on the water. Perhaps he had never meant for her to withdraw from everything and everyone. Perhaps he had never meant to silence her completely. Perhaps he had only tried to tell her to be careful, to be discerning about what she said—to think about whom she could trust, and when it was safe to speak. Be careful. Not “be silent.”

If he were here, now, what would he do? What would he say? How would he deal with Marie and all her schemes?

Adrienne paced the deck. She barely noticed the other passengers, dressed and heading to dinner. She watched as the stars decorated the sky. She noticed the glitter of light on the water, a scattering of tiny crystals. She felt the vastness of the ocean, the infinity of black space around her.

She chewed on every memory of him, every moment they had spent together, everything she had ever heard anyone say about him. If he were here, if this had happened to him, he would find a way to deal with it. He would not give up. He would not let Marie destroy him.

There had to be a way, somehow, to pick up the pieces, to find an answer. Adrienne stood straighter. She filled her lungs with the sea air. She squared her shoulders.

Grand-père would never let anything break him. And neither would she.

AMERICA

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

A
drienne woke early. The porthole in their cabin was a misty gray, but it was not the light that had pulled her from sleep. A vibration, a hum of energy, poured through the ship, buzzing through the wood, stirring in the blood of the passengers.

Adrienne dressed quickly and left Marie, still sleeping. She hurried to the railing, her eyes scanning the early-morning mist. She could feel it, even through the blanket of gray—the promise of the New World.

Passengers began to move and shift. Marie joined Adrienne at the railing, both women gazing into the fog. And then the sun broke through, the mist evaporated. New York Harbor loomed on the horizon. The Statue of Liberty rose out of the water, her torch held high, her face ripe with promise. Hope. Opportunity. The chance for a new life. The passengers crowded the railings, their eyes locked on the sight. Excitement surged through the ship, like the pounding of a big drum, pulling them all forward.

Smaller tugs crowded the water, whistles shouting into the morning. It seemed to take forever for the ship to dock, for the gangplank to be lowered, for the slow process of unloading the ship.

The docks were bustling with people and horses and buggies. Adrienne stood on solid ground for the first time in weeks, trying to adjust her body to the lack of movement beneath her. She scanned the skyline. Buildings stretched into the clear blue sky, taller than anything she had ever seen.

Marie had one of the dockworkers hail a hansom cab, and Adrienne followed. The energy of the city was infectious. Everywhere she looked, there were people, horses, buildings, a whirlwind of activity. She turned her head, her eyes glued to a sleek black motorcar, propelled forward as if by magic. The horses’ hooves were loud on the pavement. She heard the crack of a whip, the curses of the drivers as they negotiated the swirling mass of humanity. Their own cab stopped often to let others go by. The streets were thick with milk carts, and vegetable stands, and dozens of carriages. And people. Clusters of people, everywhere Adrienne looked.

The cab rocked down Fifth Avenue, and Adrienne drank in the sight of the storefronts. They were filled with hats, bolts of satiny fabrics, sewing forms draped in the latest fashions. There were cigar stands and carts selling peanuts. Four boys in short pants and brown hats chased each other down the street, dodging people and vendors, laughing and shouting to one another.

The hansom cab swayed to a stop in front of the Waldorf Hotel, one of the few hotels that would allow a woman to stay without an escort. Marie had stopped here often on her voyages back and forth. A porter hurried to help the ladies down. He whistled at a bellboy to bring their bags. The boy, young and ruddy cheeked, stared at Adrienne for a moment. She barely noticed him. She stood on the sidewalk, staring up at the height of the hotel.

“Merci.”
Marie paid the cabdriver and tipped the porter. Adrienne turned just as the coin passed from Marie’s black-gloved hand into the porter’s white one. The coin glittered. Adrienne exhaled slowly. Money. She would need money. Her thoughts whirled as she trailed Marie through the ladies’ entrance. And that would mean learning about American money. She began to make a mental list of all the things she would need to learn in this new land.

Adrienne’s gaze rose, taking in the height of the entryway, the heavy, glittering chandeliers, the marble tile on the floor, the rich burgundy velvet that covered the furnishings in the lobby. She was struck suddenly by the thrill of anticipation she had felt just a few months ago, on entering the Paris opera house. The memory pinched, mixed with the bitter losses of all that had happened since then. But the feeling, the excitement and activity, brought back the thrill of meeting Gerard.

Marie negotiated the process of checking in, made easier by the fact that the clerk spoke French. The bellboy took their bags upstairs, and Marie led Adrienne through the lobby to the Palm Room, the hotel restaurant that had attracted quite a following among European travelers to the city.

The hour was late for lunch, and the room was largely empty of people. Adrienne took in the circular space, lined with palm trees. It was light and airy, the ceiling high and rounded. The tables were draped in the finest white damask. A rose-patterned carpet stretched out before them. Marie sat down and spread her napkin on her lap.

Adrienne sat down across from her. She could not remember ever having eaten in a restaurant before. Unlike the ship, where all the first-class passengers had filled the dining hall with their conversation, this room was quiet. The late-afternoon sunlight filtered through the upper windows and turned the room into a tapestry of soft ambers.

A waiter appeared, a white towel folded over one arm, and filled their water glasses. He handed menus to Marie and Adrienne. He opened his mouth and words poured out. Adrienne stared at him, aware for the first time that she was in a
foreign
country. Aware that she could not speak or understand the language.

“Je ne parle pas anglais
.”
Marie’s clipped words cut him short. From the look on her face, it was quite clear that no one of good breeding could be expected to know anything other than French.

Adrienne stared at her aunt. She wondered how anyone could have traveled to America so often, lived here for years, and managed to remain ignorant of even the smallest smattering of English. Adrienne looked at the waiter and felt a wave of pity for the man. She watched his Adam’s apple move as he swallowed.

A few tables away, a newspaper rattled and revealed a handsome, middle-aged man sitting behind it. He was smoking a cigar and had a glass of sherry on the table in front of him. He folded the paper and rose, stopping in front of Marie. “Might I be of assistance, madame?” he asked, in perfect French. “Francois Vionnet, at your service.” He bowed to the two women. “He”—Monsieur Vionnet tipped his head toward the waiter—“was recommending the house specialty. They call it a Waldorf salad. Apples, celery, walnuts. Quite delicious, I can assure you.”

Marie smiled, and nodded at him. “Thank you, monsieur. How very kind of you.”

Adrienne watched as Monsieur Vionnet translated for the waiter and placed their orders. She looked away. She realized that if she were ever going to escape, if she had any hope of returning to France, then she would have to learn to speak English.

Marie stopped at the front desk, at a box for outgoing mail, and Adrienne turned to look out the window. She watched the buggies and coaches and cabs on the street outside, heard the noises of the horses, the cracks of whips. She saw a young couple walking past, noticed the man’s reddish mustache, his top hat. She watched the woman’s skirt sway as they hurried forward. She watched the man’s hand, pressing gently against her back. She inhaled, stung by the memory of Gerard’s hand on her own back. She turned back toward the desk, and Marie.

Marie pulled a letter from her handbag, thick white paper adorned with the Morier crest. She dropped it in the box for outgoing mail. Adrienne watched as the envelope disappeared into the slot of the mailbox.

They started up the staircase to their rooms. Adrienne followed Marie, but the world around her changed. Time and movement slowed to a crawl; her heart pounded so loudly that she was certain everyone must be able to hear it. The staircase turned and Adrienne looked back down at the mailbox. Despite the fact that she could not see the letter inside the box, Adrienne could picture the envelope. It glowed, an eerie pale blue color that completely arrested her attention.

Adrienne followed Marie’s black skirts up the stairs, turned and followed her down the hall, dark with deep coral walls and carpet, lined with dark wood doors to the rooms.

A scene flashed into her mind, and she nearly stumbled. Everyone stood at the family graveyard in France. She could see Emelie, her face red and wet; Antoine, back straight, his young face fighting away the tears. Genevieve stood in black dress, black veil, black gloves. Genevieve hated black, always said it made her look older, but there she was, swathed from head to toe. Adrienne’s gaze turned slightly to the left, and there was her father, tall and handsome, his face like stone.

The family stood around a grave, not far from Grand-père’s. Servants from the château surrounded them, standing a few steps behind. Adrienne could hear Père Henri’s voice as he read from the Bible. In the vision, she was just behind her mother, and Adrienne moved slightly, so that she could see over her mother’s shoulder. There was no casket at the grave in front of them. Only a granite headstone marked this as a grave, devoid of an actual body to bury. Adrienne’s eyes locked on that stone.

ADRIENNE BEAUVIER

BELOVED
DAUGHTER AND SISTER

1880–1897

Marie put the key in the lock and opened the door to their suite. Adrienne moved in behind her, still heavy with the images of her own funeral ticking through her mind. She knew it, then, with a certainty she had never experienced before.

Marie turned and looked at Adrienne, standing in the middle of the room, and their eyes met. Adrienne knew now why that letter had demanded her attention. She knew why she could see the images of her own funeral, without a body to bury. That letter, written in Marie’s cramped hand and now on its way to her family in France, announced Adrienne’s death at sea. She stared at Marie, marveling, once again, at the extent of the woman’s scheming.

Marie had no intention of taking Adrienne back to France. Her family would not be waiting for her. No one would ever bother to come and look for her. Marie was hiding something, a secret so great that she had gone to unbelievable lengths to keep Adrienne from ever discovering the truth and speaking. And with the mailing of that letter, Adrienne was now totally and completely in Marie’s grasp.

It was two in the morning. Adrienne stood by the big window, looking out on the mostly darkened streets of New York. A few streetlights still glowed, globes of amber in the gray night. She heard one late buggy, the horses’ hooves clip-clopping on the street below. She could smell the smoky remains of the fire in their parlor, a faint tinge of salt from the sea.

Adrienne turned and walked to the desk. She pulled out the chair, careful not to scrape the legs or make any sound, and sat down. She reached for Waldorf Hotel stationery and dipped the quill in the ink. She had to let someone know the truth.

She pulled a sheet of paper toward her and held the quill in her hand. Who would she write to? Not her mother. Her mother would never help her. She had done nothing, all these years, to help her. She had done nothing to protect her daughter, to stand up for her, to stop Marie from taking her away. Genevieve was powerless to help herself, much less her daughter.

She thought of Lucie, her best friend in the world. But she had no idea where Lucie now lived. She had been banished from the château just a few days before Adrienne herself was. Adrienne sighed. Even if she knew how to find Lucie, how to get a letter to her, Lucie did not have the resources or the power to help.

Adrienne held the quill in her hand. She thought of writing to her father, telling him of Marie’s lies and schemes. But ever since the day of Lucie’s departure, ever since the discovery that Lucie’s journal was missing, Adrienne had not been able to shake the idea that the journal held evidence that Marie was using against him. She had no idea if Lucie had written about her relationship with Pierre, but there was always the chance that she had. Maybe it was her father who had sent Gerard to Brazil. Maybe he, too, was forced to acquiesce to Marie’s demands.

Her mind kept coming back to the same idea. Her only hope was Gerard. So many times she had wanted to tell him the secret of her clairvoyance. So many times she had thought of telling him about her abilities, about the way her aunt was determined to keep Adrienne silent. How she wished now that she had been brave enough to do that.

She stopped and looked up at the dying fire across the room. A few red embers remained, glowing like the eyes of some wild creature from the ash. She could hear Marie, her breathing raspy as she slept in the adjoining room.