Miramont's Ghost (20 page)

They turned, and Julien opened another door at the back of another hallway. Adrienne poked her head into another set of those dark, narrow stairs that laced the back of the castle, like a spider’s web in their intricacy—the servants’ stairs, despite the fact that there were no servants. Adrienne had never paid attention to the servants’ stairs back home in Beaulieu. She only knew that except for a few high-placed servants, she rarely saw their comings and goings.

The group wandered back toward the long hall, filled with artwork. Adrienne’s eyes traveled over the paintings and tapestries, so many of which she recognized from home. And there, at the end of the long, narrow room, was one more staircase, leading upward.

“Well. You ladies make yourselves at home. I’m going to see to the horses and buggy before they decide to go home on their own.” Julien bowed, sweeping his arm out wide. Adrienne listened to his footsteps as he made his way back downstairs.

Adrienne turned and started back down the hall, back to the little bedchamber that felt so much like home. She had seen Marie’s room, and Julien’s. But he had made no mention of where she was to sleep. Perhaps . . . perhaps she would be allowed to have this little room, with its odd corners and marble fireplace. She stopped at the door and leaned against the doorjamb. She waited for some other bit of information, some other fragment of a vision.

Marie had followed her down the hall, and now stood just behind Adrienne’s shoulder. Thunder roared, and Adrienne heard raindrops smashing against the roof and walls and windows.

“This room is for company, Adrienne. Julien often has church officials, visiting priests, sometimes even a bishop, as his guests.” Marie’s words were quiet. Adrienne shivered. There was a note in Marie’s voice, slightly ominous, like the notes of a minor chord. “And we must have something nice for them. I’m sure you understand that.”

Adrienne turned toward her aunt. “Where am I to sleep?”

Marie’s gaze bore into Adrienne. Her eyes glimmered with some secret satisfaction. “Come. I’ll show you.”

Marie turned and led the way back through the long hall. She started up the steps—the ones leading to the fourth floor—as if she had already been here. As if she knew exactly where she was going.

Adrienne picked up her skirts and started up the steps behind Marie. She watched a flash of lightning electrify the walls; she heard the roar of thunder, close and loud as they reached the top of the stairs. Adrienne began to shake, her hands trembling, her stomach leaping. This place felt familiar, as if she had already spent countless hours here.

Marie led the way down a narrow hallway on the fourth floor and stopped in front of a small door. Adrienne moved to it. The room was narrow, cramped, and tiny. There was one small window, one narrow bed against the wall, barely enough space for her to walk next to the bed. Adrienne turned to Marie, her eyes wide, disbelief flaming like blue fire. This was a servant’s bedroom.

She shook her head. Just as she had in her dreams, she wanted to scream, to shout, but there was nothing inside her to make the noise. Adrienne thought of the letter she had watched Marie mail. She remembered the vision of her “funeral” back home in France. She looked down at her black skirt and lifted it in her hand. She fingered the material, black and plain, like servants wore. Moments from the trip began to rise up and haunt her. Marie had not introduced her, anywhere. Not on board ship, not in the dining room, not at any of their stops along the way. She remembered the waiter at the Waldorf Hotel. He had never even looked at her. He assumed she was a servant. She was dressed like a servant. She was silent, like a servant.

She raised her eyes to Marie’s. She shook her head. “You cannot do this,” she whispered. “You cannot mean . . .”

Marie stood in the doorway, watching Adrienne turn slowly toward her.

Adrienne continued to shake her head. “How could you . . .” She searched for words, searched for some way to give voice to this latest form of her aunt’s torture.

“You are really quite a clever girl. But you are no match for me. I may not have your
gift
,
shall we say? But I have survived far more difficult circumstances than a niece who believes she is clairvoyant, and her governess, who faithfully records it all. Never think that you can outwit me.” Marie fell silent for a moment, looking into Adrienne’s eyes. “I survived all the political upheaval in France through my own wits. I can certainly manage a storyteller like you.

“My niece, Adrienne, died at sea of some mysterious fever. Her family has been notified, and quite likely, by this late date, have already conducted a funeral. I imagine she was honored in the family cemetery, despite not having an actual body to bury.” Marie’s lips met in a thin, determined line.
“
You
are Henriette, my maid. Brought from France to help with my personal needs.”

Adrienne stared. Despite all her experience with Marie’s scheming, despite her own clairvoyance, she had not seen this coming. She had expected danger. She had wondered if Marie would try to kill her. But this? Life as a servant? In all her fears and visions, this had never occurred to her.

“Oh, and Henriette?” Marie stood by the door, looking back at Adrienne. “There is no one who will listen to any story you attempt to tell. I informed the Reverend Mother at Montcalme that I was bringing my maid, who is excellent except for her tendency to invent very colorful stories. All the sisters have been warned. They will pay no attention to anything you tell them.”

Adrienne continued to shake her head. “But . . .” She could find no words. Marie stepped backward, pulling the door closed as she did so. She turned the key in the lock.

Adrienne heard the click as the bolt slid into place. She heard Marie’s footsteps as she walked down the hall, the sound growing fainter as she descended the steps.

Adrienne slid to the floor, her bones turned to water. She collapsed, numb with fatigue and disbelief at this latest injustice, piled on top of all the others. She stared into the gray gloom of the small room. Her mind flooded with memories. Holding Grand-père’s hand, walking to the village. The way the men tipped their hats, the way the women curtsied when they saw the comte.
“
Bonjour
, Comte.” She remembered the servants at home, Renault reaching to help her down from the carriage, Henriette serving every course, at every meal, in stoic silence. She remembered the night of the opera, all the eyes that had followed Pierre Beauvier and his wife, daughter of the Comte de Challembelles, and their three beautiful children. She remembered Armand Devereux, bending low to her; Gerard, his mustache twitching, as he kissed her gloved hand.

Adrienne turned her head, numb with disbelief, to stare at the locked door.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

A
drienne heard the key turn in the lock; she heard the bolt slide back and the door creak open. It was morning. The small window over the bed leaked a colorless gray light into the room.

Still completely clothed, Adrienne lay on top of the thin mattress, on her side. She stared vacantly at the wall across from her and did not look up at the sound of the key. She did not move. She did not even blink when the door swung open.

She felt weight at the foot of the bed. Julien sat down, let out a long whoosh of air. “I’m so sorry about all this, Adrienne.” He looked around the room, waved his hand. Adrienne continued to stare at the wall.

“I tried to talk to her . . . to convince her that we could handle this some other way. But you know my mother. Once she makes up her mind, well . . .” Julien shrugged. “She can be tenacious.” He glanced at the girl.

“I tried, when I was younger, to fight her. Just like you have. After a while, I realized that it isn’t worth it—it didn’t get me anywhere. The more I fought, the fiercer she became. She is a warrior, Adrienne. Tougher than anyone I’ve ever known. She never backs down. Never.” Julien’s voice betrayed no emotion. “You can never succeed by fighting her.”

Adrienne did not move. Even her eyes stayed motionless.

“She’s had to be tough. It was the only way to survive, what with everything that has happened in France in her lifetime.” Julien looked down at his hands. “She’s developed a keen sense of what needs to be done, of what to say, what to do . . . to protect herself. To protect me. To protect her family.” He put his long, slender fingers together, tip to tip. “You know, we both know . . .” Julien sighed. His smile slipped away, and he turned to look at Adrienne. “We all know how dangerous it can be to be different. To have people start talking.” His words hung between them.

Adrienne swallowed. “You think I’m dangerous?”

Julien exhaled a sharp huff. “No, that’s not what I think. It’s not you, Adrienne. It’s the way you can . . . see things. Know things. It scares people. And when people are scared, when they don’t understand, they talk. That’s what is dangerous, Adrienne. Gossip. One can never tell where it might lead.” Julien waited, as if expecting Adrienne to respond. She did not.

“And Maman has believed for a long time that your mother is ill-equipped to deal with the situation. So she took matters into her own hands.”

Adrienne felt one tear filling her eye. She did not want to sniffle, did not want to dab her eye. She did not want Julien to see the tear hit the blanket beneath her. She swallowed.

“Adrienne, perhaps you should . . . play along.” He looked down at his hands again, tapped the ends of his fingers together. “Let her think that she’s in charge. Let her think . . . let her think what she wants to think. Let her think that she won, that you are willing to do what she says. If she sees that you aren’t fighting her anymore, things will be much easier for you, believe me.”

Julien stared at the wall across from the bed. “I fought her, too, when I was your age. I hated the way she always had to have the last word—always had to control everything.” He let out a slow stream of air. “But I finally got smart. I let her think she’s right. I nod my head; I go along. Just let her think you agree. You can think whatever you want, on the inside. Just don’t say it. That’s the trick.”

He stood. His boots clicked on the floor as he walked to the door. He stopped, turned back, his voice soft. “I’ll leave the door unlocked. Come down when you’re ready. The sisters have been here. Your breakfast tray is in the kitchen.”

Adrienne opened the door and stuck her head out. To the left was the hallway that led to the main set of stairs, the ones she and Marie had climbed the day before. Those stairs, she knew, led down to the third floor, close to Marie’s bedchamber. She could not, at this moment, stomach the thought of seeing Marie. To her right, another set of steep steps descended to the castle below: the servants’ steps. They were sandwiched between the castle proper and the hillside it was built against. The outer wall was stone. She could feel the chill of the mountain seeping through the stones, the frigid air of that unlit, narrow space. She moved into the shadows, her hand trailing along the cold stones, her feet searching tentatively for each step. She waited for her eyes to adjust to the gloom.

At the bottom of the first staircase, a wooden door stood partially opened. Adrienne pushed it with one finger. The door creaked, and swung back slowly. Adrienne squinted and raised a hand to shade her eyes. The light of the morning was bright and harsh after the murky depths of the staircase.

She stepped into a large hallway and craned her neck, trying to get her bearings. Marie’s suite of rooms was off to the right. Adrienne turned to the left. She opened the door to the little guest room that she had admired the day before.

She inched forward into the room and moved to the bed, twice as large as the one upstairs. She ran her fingers over the embroidered white linen, the silk quilt. She turned and ran her fingers along the edge of the dresser. A crystal vase, its arms overflowing with bachelor’s buttons and pink roses, sat in the center, its bright beauty doubled by the mirror behind it. A picture of the morning room in Beaulieu flashed into her mind. She saw that same vase, sitting on the table behind the settee. A wisp of a smile brushed her face, the memory a flutter like a butterfly’s wings.

Adrienne turned, ran her hand along the mantel of the fireplace. Silver candlesticks held long tapers of cream-colored wax. She turned again. On the wall, in one corner, was a painting. Adrienne moved toward it, her head tipped to one side as she took it all in. It was the Madonna, but not like any she’d ever seen before. This woman was surrounded by rays of light. There were roses streaming out around her, a snake under her feet. Her skin was a deep bronze.

“Lovely, isn’t she?”

Adrienne jumped. Julien was standing just behind her shoulder. She had not heard him come into the room.

“That’s the Indian version of the Madonna—the North American
version. She’s called Our Lady of Guadalupe.”

“Her skin is so brown,” Adrienne whispered, her eyes locked on the ebony eyes of the woman in the painting.

“Yes. Similar to the Black Madonna, in that respect. It is said that Our Lady appeared in Mexico. The roses—the ones all around her—were her way of proving to the bishop that it was really she.”

They both stood quietly, observing the work. Adrienne stepped closer, looked in the dark eyes and dark skin of the Virgin Mother. She could see flakes of paint peeling away, revealing the smooth wood beneath. It drew her, pulled her closer. She could smell it, a type of cedar. With that one whiff of wood, she was suddenly standing in the church in Santa Cruz. The painting had hung at the front of the church, a poor adobe building with dirt floors. The walls were mud. The furnishings were crude. Adrienne recognized the surroundings. It was the same church where Julien had been poisoned—the same church she had seen in her vision so many years before. He had been standing in front of this painting when it happened.

“My parishioners gave it to me, when I left Santa Cruz,” Julien said. “I didn’t want to take it—it was really the only fine piece of artwork that they had.” He turned and caught Adrienne’s eye. “But they insisted. I’d been there almost twelve years. I started the school. I taught many of their children personally. I guess they wanted to show their appreciation.”

Adrienne turned to look at him. A shard of sunlight, bounced and reflected from the mirror across the room, shot into her eye as she turned. She blinked.

“
Bonjour
, Henriette.”

Both Adrienne and Julien jumped at the sound of Marie’s voice. She stood in the doorway and ran her eyes up and down Adrienne’s wrinkled dress. “I’m glad to see you are up. Perhaps, if you are not otherwise engaged, you could help me with my toilette.” Marie’s eyes were stones.

Adrienne glanced at Julien. He looked at her, his eyes pushing her, encouraging her. He raised his hand and his fingers grazed her elbow.

She swallowed. She looked at Marie, who had already turned and started down the hall, as if there were no doubt that Adrienne would do as she was told. Adrienne turned her eyes to Julien. Silently, she pleaded with him, begged him for help. Anything but this. Anything but this stripping of her identity, this sudden plunge into servitude, this horrible sinking that left her without any semblance of her former self.

Julien met her gaze. “Pretend,” he whispered. “Just pretend. Like an actress in a play.” He nodded his head.

Adrienne turned slowly and started down the hall. Each step echoed on the wood floor, pounded in her mind. A maid. A maid. How was this possible? Her mind wheeled and spun, crashing through every possible escape she could imagine. She wanted to run, wanted to scream. She pictured turning, running down the stairs and out the front door. But then what? Then where would she go?

Perhaps Julien was right. Every time she had fought her aunt, every time she had spoken up, Marie had only increased the pressure, as if gripping the girl in a vise, tightening the screws. Adrienne could think of nothing she could say, nothing she could do at this moment that would make things any better. Her steps carried her forward, down the hall, as if her feet knew what needed to be done, even if Adrienne herself did not.

She followed Marie into her dressing room and stood behind her as Marie sat down at her dressing table. Their eyes met in the mirror. There was hatred on both sides, and neither woman looked away. Marie reached for a comb, raised it up, holding it for Adrienne to take. Adrienne felt the fire in Marie’s glare, bouncing back at her from the mirror in front of them. She took the comb, dropped her eyes, and began to arrange the gray curls.

Her jaw clenched. She wanted to yank Marie’s hair, wanted to pull her head back and snap it. She imagined Marie’s voice, crying out in pain; she imagined the look of surprise and horror in her eyes.

Adrienne combed. With every pull through the gray curls, she stood a little taller, a little straighter. Why should she do what she was told? Why should she give up, play along, lose herself in this woman’s power? Perhaps there was another way.

Anger churned inside her, made her yank harder than she intended. She thought of ways to hurt Marie, to make her feel the pain that Adrienne had endured. She pictured holding a pillow over the woman’s face, smothering her. She pictured Marie’s body going limp and lifeless from the lack of air. The thought brought the tiniest sliver of a smile to her eyes. Marie caught her gaze in the mirror. Her eyes were small and hard, tiny black beads of hatred.

Adrienne looked back down at the curls, careful not to let a smile lift the corners of her mouth. A pillow. That would close those beady little eyes, silence that annoying whine in Marie’s voice. She pictured it, standing over Marie’s bed, her body silent and still, the dark of night pressed around both of them.

Adrienne moved slightly and caught the sight of the thick cord on the drapes behind her, flashing in the mirror. It was a deep blue, solid and sturdy. She pictured wrapping it around Marie’s neck, pulling and twisting it, as tight as she could get it. She pictured Marie’s eyes growing large and desperate. She saw the frantic movement of Marie’s hands trying to tear the cord away. She pictured Marie’s face blooming with color, like an exotic flower: red, then purple, and finally the quiet blue of death. She breathed slowly, enjoying this unexpected feeling of elation, the sense of power that filled her.

Adrienne combed. She felt Marie’s glare, and looked up. Marie held pins in her hand. Adrienne laid the comb on the table, took the pins, fixed the gray curls in place. The scent of lavender wafted up from Marie’s gown, and Adrienne swallowed. Lavender had always been the scent associated with Marie, the aroma of control. It was the one flower that Adrienne did not like, the one that made her want to retch.

“You may hang my nightclothes in the wardrobe,” Marie ordered, never turning from her spot.

Adrienne moved slowly. She was suddenly completely calm, completely detached from this new role of ladies’ maid. She picked up the heavy flannel gown, the wool dressing robe, and moved to the wardrobe. She could see Marie, still sitting at the dresser, her eyes locked on Adrienne’s every movement in the glass before her. Adrienne turned her back and hung up the clothes. She pushed the wardrobe door shut. Their eyes met once again, Adrienne’s reflection in the wardrobe mirror meeting Marie’s reflection in the dressing mirror.

Marie turned around and faced her. “Your breakfast tray is in the kitchen. When you finish eating, you can start with the dusting.” She stood and left the room, the scent of lavender lingering like a ghost.

Adrienne watched her walk away. She smiled. She felt better than she had in weeks. The thought of Marie, dead and quiet, unable to exert her iron will, brought with it a feeling of peace, a feeling as if all the clouds had lifted.

Maybe Julien was right. Perhaps if she pretended to go along, if she kept her face unreadable and her voice quiet, things would improve. She had to wait, had to bide her time. She had to give her letter the time it needed to reach Brazil. She had to give Gerard the time he needed to make arrangements, to make the trip, to find her here in Colorado. How long would it take? How long would she have to wait? How long would she have to do as Julien suggested, and
preten
d
?