Authors: Elizabeth Hall
“Too quickly, I’m afraid,” Marie continued. “They forgot to put in the staircase. And then when they realized their mistake, there wasn’t enough room for a proper staircase.” Marie looked up at her audience.
“Yes. That’s the one!” Adrienne said. She turned to her aunt, her own spell broken, but the story fresh and exciting in her consciousness. “And they prayed to God for help. And then one day, this man rode up on his mule. He is old, like Grand-père. And he built the staircase. He made it round. And then he rode away, before they could pay him. So now they call it the Miracle Staircase.” Adrienne beamed, enthralled by the scene that had just played out before her eyes.
Marie’s gaze narrowed. “Just how do you know so much about the staircase, Adrienne?”
Adrienne almost glowed with the fairy tale story she had just witnessed. She bounced in her chair with excitement. “I saw it! Just now. It is so beautiful. The colors in the window. The round staircase with the dark wood. And that old man was so nice. He had white hair . . . like Grand-père.” Her gaze shifted to her favorite man, sitting at the other end of the table.
The room grew very quiet; even the servants stopped moving. Everyone stared at Adrienne. Genevieve’s eyes grew large. She swallowed without chewing her food. Lucie’s mouth hung slightly open, breathless.
The comte could feel it in the air, as if the ghost of the comtesse had just flown in through an open window. He was flooded with memories of those months right after they married, and he brought her here to live with him. It had started slowly, just a feeling he had, like a finger running down his spine. Unlike many other men of his class, he had learned to pay attention to those feelings. They had served him well during his years in the army, making him hypervigilant of his surroundings, of the threats that he could neither see nor hear. As a young lieutenant, he had learned very quickly that the soldiers who survived were the ones who followed their own visceral sense of the situation.
At first, he thought that what he noticed might be jealousy. Marguerite possessed the kind of beauty that made everyone uncomfortable: women were envious; men were dumbstruck. She had a natural reticence in company. Her reserve had sometimes made her seem distant and haughty.
Gradually, though, he began to notice a pattern. He would enter rooms to find servants staring, struggling to avert their eyes from the face of the comtesse. Sometimes he would walk into a shop in town, and everyone would stop talking. It was disconcerting, this feeling that they were being watched, that their lives were subject to such scrutiny.
They tried so hard to keep her visions a secret, to make sure that no one found out. It was impossible. Stories leaked out, just a trickle at first: servants in the next room who might have overheard; people in the village who had reasons for latching on to any bit of gossip that made its way from the château. The talk had never completely disappeared. Even now, thirty years after her death, he knew that the stories were still alive, still brought out and shared, like a family keepsake. He could still feel it, now and then, walking into a shop in town, and sensing the hush that fell over the room.
Grand-père glanced at Adrienne; he assessed the faces of everyone around the table.
He could tell by looking that Lucie already knew the secret of Adrienne’s visions. Genevieve seemed completely surprised by Adrienne’s story. He had no idea if she knew about her own mother; it was not a subject that he had ever felt the need to discuss with her. Marie’s eyes met his across the length of the table. She knew about the comtesse, but he could not be certain just how much she remembered about those visions.
Adrienne continued. “I could see the town . . . the streets . . . the ’dobe houses . . .” Her voice dropped off, as if she were no longer sitting at a table in France, but had been magically transported to the scene of her story.
The comte held his breath. Marie had not used the word “adobe.” She’d called them mud houses. He was amazed that Adrienne had come up with the word.
“And then I saw the little chapel.” Adrienne’s voice was a soft whisper, and everyone strained forward to hear her. “I saw the man ride up on his mule. I could see him build the staircase.”
Marie’s voice turned to ice. “Perhaps your mother told you about this. I distinctly remember writing to her about the chapel. Perhaps she read the letter to you.” Marie’s features were completely devoid of emotion, her body stiff.
Adrienne’s eyes went back to this stranger at the dinner table. “No. I saw it . . . just now.” Adrienne sat back in her chair, her blue eyes defiant.
Genevieve was immobile. The servants, though appearing to stare straight ahead, intent on their work, were hanging on every word.
“Well, that’s quite an imagination, Adrienne,” Marie hissed.
“It’s not ’magination,” Adrienne declared. “I saw it. Just now. When I looked at my glass.” She crossed her arms in front of her.
At the other end of the table, the comte felt Marie’s gaze. Their eyes met in a tightrope of tension.
He cleared his throat and pushed his chair back. It scraped along the marble floor. “Adrienne, it’s getting late. Perhaps we should skip prayers this evening and get to bed.” He walked to Adrienne’s chair and stood, holding his hand out to her. She looked up at him, her adoration suddenly eclipsing everything else.
She climbed down off her chair and took his hand, a child once again. Lucie stood and laid her napkin on the table.
The comte tipped his head to Marie and then to Genevieve.
“
Bonne nuit
, ladies.”
Adrienne slipped from the comte’s grasp and ran around to her mother. She stood on tiptoe to kiss her mother’s cheek.
“
Bonne nuit
, Maman,” she whispered. She turned slowly and looked at her aunt Marie once more. Marie did not return her gaze.
“
Bonne nuit
, Tante Marie.”
CHAPTER THREE
I
n the coo
l light of morning, the dining room had lost all of its charm. Gone were the dancing flames of candlelight, the shadows that softened the corners of the room, the warmth of dinner. Despite the bright sunlight streaming through the terrace doors, the room was harsh, hard, and glaring. The marble of the floor reflected blinding rays of sunlight. The chairs were lined up around the table, stiff and formal like soldiers at attention. The ceiling soaked up every attempt at conversation, the feeble words disappearing in the height of the room.
Marie presided over the breakfast table like a general, perfectly at ease in the strict formality. The comte was not at his seat.
Adrienne slipped into her chair, her soft
“Bonjour”
barely audible in the cool air.
Silverware clinked against the china plates. The clock ticked. China coffee cups hit their saucers with a ringing sound. Adrienne swallowed one bite of s
crambled egg. She laid her fork down.
“Maman?” Her voice came out rough and coarse. Adrienne stared at her mother across the table. “May I be excused?”
Genevieve’s eyes left her plate, flitted over to her daughter’s face. She was lost in her own thoughts, and had not noticed her daughter. Nothing seemed to register, in her eyes or her voice. “Hmmm?”
“Adrienne, you’ve barely touched your breakfast,” Marie observed.
“I’m not very hungry this morning,” Adrienne whispered. “Maman? May I go?”
Genevieve’s eyes were back on her plate again. “Yes. Fine. You’re excused.”
Adrienne slipped off her chair, and she and Lucie went outside for a stroll in the morning sunshine.
Marie cleared her throat. She held her coffee cup before her, both hands wrapped around it, and gazed at the door to the terrace. Adrienne and her governess were walking in the distance. “Genevieve, I’m not sure you understand the severity of this situation,” she began.
Genevieve sighed, wishing she could escape from her sister. “What do you mean?”
Marie took her time answering. “It’s obvious that Adrienne has a very active imagination. But the way you and Papa coddle her, she has begun to think her imagination is real.” Marie raised her delicate china cup and sipped from her coffee, her gray eyes locked on her sister. “You must not encourage such behavior—all these stories and fantasies and imaginings.”
Genevieve’s hands rested in her lap; her fingers toyed with her linen napkin. Coffee and juice sat before her, untouched. “But Marie, the story she told was true.”
“Of course it is.” Marie sipped from her coffee cup, her elbows resting on the table. “I wrote to you about the chapel. I distinctly remember that. You and Papa may have discussed it. Perhaps you even read the letter out loud.”
Genevieve searched her memory. She did have a vague recollection of such a letter. She never cared much for what Marie had to say, and would often let letters from her sister sit for days without opening them. It seemed that her sister had two main themes in any of her communications. They always centered on the perfection of her son, or on what Genevieve was doing wrong. Genevieve had long ago grown weary of both topics. But the comte was fascinated with the New World. He read everything Marie sent. He purchased every publication he could find about Indians, or the Wild West, or life on the American frontier. He probably
had
read the letter out loud.
“She’s young; she’s sensitive to everything she hears. She seems bright enough. Perhaps she has heard the whole story, from that letter I sent, and remembers much more than most children her age.” The prim set of Marie’s lips left no room for argument.
“Perhaps,” Genevieve conceded. She looked at the terrace doors, at the bright sunlight washing over the flowers outside, and felt relief at such a simple solution. Genevieve did not have the energy to figure out what was going on with her daughter; and Marie’s idea made so much more sense than the idea that Adrienne might actually have
seen
the events she described.
But there was another part of Genevieve that did not want to agree with her older sister. She did not want Marie to be right; she did not want Marie to have all the answers. She could well remember all the years of Marie telling her what to do, what to think, how to behave. She remembered coming downstairs, at the age of fifteen, in a silk dress the color of spring leaves. Genevieve loved the color; she felt so grown-up and beautiful that evening. She had walked into the parlor, and Marie had turned from her place by the fire, her face contorted in an expression of horror.
“Genevieve, darling, hasn’t anyone ever told you that blondes should not wear green? You look as if you might be ill.” Genevieve’s pleasure crashed to the floor and shattered like glass. She suddenly felt ugly and stupid and completely inept. She fought hard to keep herself from crying, and for the rest of the evening she barely spoke, never raised her eyes from her plate.
In the years that Marie had been home, living here at the château, Genevieve had never been strong enough to disagree with her. Any time she had come remotely close to rebellion, Marie would make a veiled comment about their mother, and Genevieve would be plunged back into a sea of guilt. She was the one, after all, who had taken their mother’s life, and it seemed to her that Marie would never forgive her for that negligence.
“I’d be very careful how you respond to these stories of hers,” Marie continued. She laid her napkin next to her plate and pushed her chair back. “She mustn’t be encouraged to think that she actually
sees
these things. We cannot allow the servants—” At that Marie glanced up at the maid who was removing dishes from the sideboard. She lowered her voice to a whisper. “We cannot allow
anyone
to talk about her. We don’t want these fantasies of hers to . . .” Marie stared out into the sunlight. Her eyes flicked back to Genevieve.
“You may not remember this, Genevieve, but Papa and I have seen some major upheavals in France in the past thirty years. Something like this . . . if it got out . . . I hate to even think how people might respond. You must be very strict with her on this. I know you don’t want the family to be the subject of idle gossip.” Marie’s eyes narrowed. She stood and pushed in her chair, the legs scraping with a screech. “We both know how devastating gossip can be.”
Genevieve looked up at her sister, searching her face for information, for evidence of some knowledge that Marie had and Genevieve did not. Their eyes locked. The corners of Marie’s mouth lifted slightly, and she turned and strode from the room, her heels clicking on the marble floor.
Genevieve watched her leave. Her stomach did a flip, as it often did these days when the subject of gossip was raised. She felt sick. She put one hand on the mound of the baby she carried, and stroked it absently. Gossip had followed her for as long as she could remember, and lately she had to wonder if the talk was about Pierre. Why was it that he found so many excuses to stay in Paris? He rarely came home anymore. Adrienne was growing up without a father; Genevieve was left alone far too often. She wanted to live in Paris with him. She wanted all that the city had to offer. But somehow, the time was never right. Pierre always seemed to have some reason why moving his family couldn’t possibly work
right now.
She raised her eyes to find the sunlight and flowers of the terrace once again. Adrienne walked in the grass, her governess close behind her. She carried her doll and began running and laughing in the bright sun. She seemed so much happier, so much more at ease with her governess. Genevieve frowned, her brow knotted with the weight of Marie’s warning.
CHAPTER FOUR
B
onjour, 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 château 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?