Miramont's Ghost (4 page)

CHAPTER FIVE

A
drienne and Lucie sat at the desk by the window. Books towered around them—floor-to-ceiling shelves, gleaming dark wood that held the collections the family had amassed over many years. Grand-père sat in his favorite chair, on one side of the marble fireplace. He held the newspaper from Paris in front of his face. Smoke curled up from the edges of the paper, and the sweet chocolate scent of his tobacco permeated the air, weaving soft gray figures into the sunlight.

Genevieve sat in the chair opposite him, her knitting needles clicking. Gray circles ringed her eyes. Small baby booties formed in her lap, the blue yarn jumping and spinning as she pulled.

Adrienne eyed the blue yarn and sighed. Then she turned her head back to the primer in front of her on the desk. She sat on her knees, leaning far over the book, elbows locked on each side of it, her face in her hands, as she turned her head back and forth. “Sssss,” she said, in response to Lucie’s finger on the page. “Sssss,” Adrienne continued, looking up at Lucie and wrinkling her nose. “Like ssssun . . . and ssssnake.”

Lucie beamed.
“
Très bien
, Adrienne. And this one?”

Adrienne turned her head back and forth between her palms, studying the squiggles on the page. “Mmmm.” She drew the sound out with a flourish. “Mmmm . . . like Maman. Mmmm.” She let her eyes travel around the room, searching for another
M
word. Her gaze drifted from her grand-père, to his newspaper, to the blue booties in Genevieve’s lap. She searched the library shelves, the rose-patterned carpet. “Mmmm . . . like . . .”

From the hallway, they could hear Marie, charging down the stairway, cracking out orders to the servants around her. Her voice snapped like a whip. Adrienne looked in that direction. Her smile melted away like candle wax.

Grand-père lowered his paper, his pipe still clenched between his teeth. Genevieve’s knitting needles stopped clicking, now still and silent in her lap. Everyone had tensed at the sound of Marie’s approach.

Marie swept into the room. “Stefan, pack the entire collection of the lives of the saints.” Her arm swept out toward one shelf of the collection.

“Oui, madame.”
Stefan bowed just slightly, and began removing books from the shelf.

Marie turned slowly, her eyes sweeping over the contents of the room, oblivious to the people watching her. “Oh . . . and those silver candlesticks will be perfect. He can use those on the altar.” She reached for one of a matched pair, and held it in her fist, her eyes appraising its value.

Grand-père took his pipe from between his teeth. “Are we vacating the premises, Marie?”

“Hmmm?” She turned to him, her brows pulling together, as if she’d just noticed there was anyone else in the room. “No. No, but I am.”

“Oh?”

Marie beamed as she pulled a letter from the pocket of her black dress. “Yes. I’ve just had a letter from Julien. He’s been promoted.” Pride radiated from every pore of her being.

“That’s wonderful.” The comte locked his blue eyes on his oldest daughter.

“Archbishop Lamy has given him his own parish. Can you believe it? And he’s only twenty-six! I knew the archbishop would recognize Julien’s worth. It was only a matter of time.” She flipped the letter open with one hand, the candlestick still poised in the other. “Let’s see—it is a little place called . . . Santa Cruz de la Cañada.” Her eyes found her father again, after brushing over Genevieve’s blank look. “Julien says it’s north of Santa Fe about twenty-five miles.”

“Well, this is wonderful news.” The comte smiled and lowered the paper to his lap. “I’m happy for Julien.” He took another puff from his pipe. “You’ll be joining him, then?”

Marie replaced the letter in the pocket of her skirt. “Just as soon as I can book passage.” She placed the candlestick on the table, and picked up a heavy volume of poetry. “I can imagine it will be very difficult for him, alone in the wilderness like that. That parish is over seventy square miles,” she added. “That’s a lot to take care of. I’m certain I can be of help in running his home.”

Adrienne looked at Lucie, her eyes widening, then back at Marie. She continued to sit on her knees, leaning on the desk.

Marie pointed toward a crystal vase on one of the tables. “That vase, too, Stefan. Only pack it carefully. That’s leaded crystal from the queen of Spain.”

Stefan stepped down off a stool and turned toward Marie.
“Oui, madame.”

The comte frowned. The paper crackled underneath his hands. “Are you taking the entire contents of the château with you, Marie?”

Marie turned to him. “Oh, Father. There is so much here, you can hardly miss these few things. But this place—this Santa Cruz—is very poor. I believe the parishioners are mostly Mexicans and Indians.” Marie’s nose turned up slightly, and there was no mistaking the disdain in her voice. “Julien says the church has dirt floors. He says the entire area is poor and backward. At least in Santa Fe, the archbishop tried to provide us with some of the comforts of civilization. Now it looks like that will be up to me.”

She turned and swept a lace doily off a table and held it out to Stefan. “Imagine the possibilities. Julien can bring so much to those poor people. We’ll bring the beauty and comforts of civilization, an appreciation for music and art . . .” Marie stopped for a moment. “Just like when my late husband and I traveled in Europe. Julien will be able to bring a little bit of France into the remotest corners of the New World.” She smiled.

“Hmmm,” the comte murmured. “I would think that a priest’s main function is to bring the word of God, to administer the sacraments.” He sat up a little straighter.

Marie’s lips settled into a thin, grim line. “That goes without saying. But Julien is not an average priest. A man of his learning, his background, his ability, can bring so much more. A sense of refinement . . . a sense of . . . progress. Culture at its finest.”

She turned her head toward the window, and a smile crept back into the lines of her mouth. “I knew it was just a matter of time. Julien’s gifts are too great not to be noticed.”

Genevieve swallowed, and her eyes dropped to her knitting. She exhaled sharply, and clicked her needles together, her knuckles white with tension.

Adrienne’s eyes locked on the window in front of the desk. Sunlight poured through the glass. Golden beams shot from the panes. Adrienne stared, her eyes wide and dark. She relaxed into the vision that pulled at her.

Suddenly, Adrienne gasped, her mouth dropping open in a soft O. She climbed down from her chair and ran to her grand-père, scampering up into his lap despite the presence of the newspaper and the pipe.

The comte held his arms out and dropped the newspaper to the floor. “What’s this? Finished with lessons for the day, Adrienne?”

She shook her head and pressed her face against his jacket.

The comte placed his pipe on the table beside him and lifted her chin with his finger. “What’s wrong, my sweet?”

Adrienne swallowed and looked first at Marie, and then up at her grand-père. “I don’t like that church. The one with the dirt floors. It feels bad. Like something bad is going to happen.”

The noises of packing and moving died away, as if all the air had gone out of the room. Genevieve looked up, as did Marie. Stefan stopped moving, his arms full of books, his eyes discreetly lowered, but his body obviously straining toward Adrienne’s words. The servants had been talking. Everyone who worked in the household had started paying closer attention to the little girl and her stories. Word of Adrienne’s outburst at the patisserie had swept like fire through the village, and the servants had learned of it before the day was done. Everyone was talking about the little girl, and those who were old enough to remember were also talking about the girl’s grandmother.

Marie turned slowly, her black skirts swishing.

“Someone wants to hurt Julien,” Adrienne whispered.

Grand-père cleared his throat, and wrapped his arms around her. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. Julien is a smart man. He can take care of himself.” He pulled back a little and looked his granddaughter in the eye. “And your aunt Marie will be there to help him. She would never let anything bad happen to him.”

They both turned their gaze toward Marie. She was frozen in the midst of what she had been doing when Adrienne’s words leaked out into the room. She held a crystal candlestick in one hand, her eyes locked on her niece. Slowly she raised her eyes to her father, and a look passed between them, heavy with memory.

Marie’s brow pinched with fear, but in less than a moment it was swept away, replaced by perfect calm.

Marie cleared her throat. “There is nothing to be afraid of, Adrienne. New Mexico might be poor and the buildings might be mud brick, but it is not one of your fairy tale stories.” Marie rolled her eyes dramatically. “Honestly, Adrienne, your imagination is running away with you.”

Marie turned to face Lucie, still seated at the table in the corner of the room. “Perhaps it would be best if you don’t allow her any more of the Brothers Grimm. Those Germans—always planting the seeds of fear, with their wicked stepmothers and deep dark forests. It is obviously too much for the girl.”

The release of tension was almost audible. Stefan returned to packing. Lucie let out a sigh. Genevieve watched for another moment, and took up her knitting needles once again. The comte picked up his pipe, and Adrienne could feel his chest relax.

Adrienne watched them all. Why did they keep glancing at her? What had she done that was causing everyone to act so strangely? She felt their eyes on her, and she scrunched down in the seat, trying to hide her face in her grandfather’s jacket.

CHAPTER SIX

T
he bells of the village church chimed in the air. Renault, the comte’s driver, pulled the carriage beside the curving stone path that led to the church doors, open now to absorb the parishioners and the warmth of the spring morning. People milled about, hats bobbing in the sunshine like jewel-toned tropical birds. Lilacs framed the whitewashed building, and their perfume made everyone tipsy with spring.

Grand-père stepped down from the carriage and reached to help Genevieve. She was back to her old slender self and wearing a stunning periwinkle silk gown, a knitted shawl wrapped about her shoulders. Lucie stepped down next, holding baby Emelie, the child’s golden hair catching the sun. Grand-père offered his hand to Adrienne. Age was slowing him. His straight shoulders had rounded. His hands shook, just a little, and she held on to him, even after she was down on the ground. His hand seemed thinner, almost as if the fingers she clasped were made of fine bone china. She looked up at him and smiled.

“
Bonjour
, Comte
.
” Two older widows stood outside the church doors, still wearing black, despite the brilliant spring sunshine, despite the fact that their widowhood had spanned several decades.

“Ladies.” The comte tipped his hat, still holding the hand of his little granddaughter.

“Have you heard from Marie? How is she faring in that wild New Mexico Territory?” The two women seemed anxious to hold on to the comte, as if they could pin him down with their questions, and Adrienne squeezed his hand possessively.

“She is well. Julien is very busy, I believe. It is very isolated there; we don’t get as many letters as we used to.”

“I imagine they both have much to do, what with running a church and a school and trying to learn the language.” Madame Silva smiled and her gloved hands fluttered like jittery birds.

“Yes, I imagine so.” The comte removed his hat and flashed the two ladies his most dazzling smile. “If you will excuse me.” He tipped his head to them, and followed his family into the church.

Genevieve led them up the wide aisle, and entered the second pew from the front, on the left side. It was the same spot the Challembelles family had been sitting in for generations. She knelt for a moment, made the sign of the cross, and then settled back into the hard wooden pew. Lucie sat beside her, arranging Emelie’s blanket. Adrienne sat down next, and copied Lucie’s movements exactly, arranging the small blanket that covered her own little doll. Her father had brought her the doll from Paris, a gift when Emelie was born, and Adrienne had taken to motherhood with gusto. Grand-père smiled at the top of her head, and settled himself into the pew, his arm stretching out behind her.

Lucie sighed, followed just seconds later by a heavy sigh from Adrienne. The music began, the altar boys and priest trailed slowly up the center aisle, but Adrienne, like Lucie, stayed seated. Care of young babies excused them from the normal ups and downs and kneeling of the rest of the congregation.

Adrienne stared at the sunlight, streaming through the clerestory windows in the nave of the church. Dust filled the amber light, and Adrienne wondered where each little particle landed. She followed the beams of light, the dancing dust, down to the altar at the front of the church. Père Henri was swinging the censer back and forth, incense weaving and winding its way into the dust motes.

Adrienne examined the play of light at the front of the church. She looked at Jesus, hanging on the cross, his blood brilliant red in the stained-glass window behind the priest. She watched the way the sunlight played over the whitewashed walls, the way it disappeared in the vaulted ceilings that had always made her feel small, much too little for God to notice. She watched the dust motes as they landed on the priest’s bald head, the way they scattered when he waved his arms during the homily.

The priest stepped behind the altar, and began the words of the communion. The table was covered with white satin cloth, trimmed in gold. Silver dishes held the bread and the wine. Père Henri raised the silver chalice to the heavens. Light beams shot out like stars.

Adrienne watched as the room became very dark. The windows disappeared; no sunlight streamed onto the altar. The floor turned to dirt, the walls to brown; the wood pillars lost their sheen and became rough and crude. And the priest, raising the chalice in his hands, was suddenly much younger. This man was slender and small, with a dark beard and mustache, both neatly trimmed. There was no stained glass behind him, only the dark brown wall, and a rough wooden painting of the Virgin Mother. The altar had turned to dark wood, legs swirling upward in a carved pattern, but the wood was jagged and rough.

Adrienne viewed it all as if from a distance, as if she were sitting in a darkened theater, watching the scene play out below her. She could see the bowed heads of the parishioners, all of them with dark, blue-black hair. There were no fine dresses, no sparkling silks in that crowd. Many of the ladies wore striped woven shawls over their shoulders, in shades of gray and brown and beige.

The younger, smaller, darker priest began the words of the consecration. He offered the bread, the body of Christ, and held it high in the air. He raised the silver chalice, the one piece of wealth, the one piece that sparkled, in that poor brown building. Adrienne recognized that chalice. Marie had packed it last year, when she was preparing to join Julien in America. Adrienne glanced at the priest in her vision again, and knew suddenly that this was her cousin, the one she had never met. Julien, Marie’s son.

He lifted the chalice in both hands, raised it in the air, and repeated in a solemn voice,
“Hic est enim calix sanguinis mei, novi et . . .”
The words of the Latin rang in the air.

He brought the chalice to his lips, drank a slow swig of the wine. His hands lowered the cup, revealing his face. The face transformed before her eyes, changing from the calm and peaceful look of a priest communing with God into a grotesque monster. His eyes bulged. His skin turned clammy and gray. He looked as if he had seen the Angel of Death standing right in front of him. The chalice dropped to the floor with a thud, and Julien clutched his throat. His eyes rolled back in his head, and he crumpled to the ground. Marie, sitting in the first pew, rushed to his side. Several of the men who helped with the service followed her, and knelt beside the stricken priest. His mouth bubbled with blue-white foam.

Marie’s eyes, round with fear, rose to the man across from her. She shouted, in French, “Milk! Bring milk!” The man stared at her, uncomprehending.
“Leche!”
she shouted.

One man ran from the building. Marie loosened Julien’s collar, and reached for the chalice, on its side a few feet away. She picked it up. The wine had spilled into the dirt, leaving a trail of wet spots on the dirt floor where it had fallen. She brought the chalice to her nose and sniffed, then placed it beside her as Julien continued to retch and gag. The chalice tipped over, and rolled a few feet, forgotten in the heat of the moment.

The young man who had run out returned, holding a battered tin cup in his two hands, milk sloshing over the top as he handed it to Marie. Marie held Julien’s head. Another man held his shoulders. She pushed the rim of the cup between his lips, already slightly blue in color. His eyes were dilated, huge, unfocused. “Julien, drink. You must drink this,” she said. She managed to get a few sips of the milk into his open lips, and watched as he swallowed. She poured in more. Time seemed to stand still, the men around him watching, waiting. Their eyes were dark and unreadable, their faces set like stone. Marie forced more milk into his mouth.

His lips lost some of the bluish color, but his face looked bleached and pale. A sheen of sweat could be seen on his forehead. “Help me,” she whispered to the men around her. They understood. One man lifted the priest in his arms, and carried him down the aisle and out the doors of the church to the rectory next door. The parishioners stood and watched. Most of the faces were unmoved, unemotional, stoic, as if the entire congregation were chess pieces carved of marble.

Adrienne blinked, brought back to the bright light streaming in the windows of the church in Beaulieu. Père Henri, sunlight bouncing off his bald head, was replacing the chalice on the altar.

Adrienne leaned forward slightly, turned toward her mother. “Maman,” she said, her voice echoing off the walls and ceiling of the church.

“Shhh,” Genevieve whispered.

“But Maman.” Adrienne’s knowledge was too much for her to contain. She reached around Lucie to pull at the sleeve of her mother’s dress.

Genevieve glared her. “Shhh,” she commanded, her eyes and voice pushing Adrienne back into her seat.

Adrienne turned her eyes to the front of the church once again. She watched, her body refusing to sit still, as the priest raised his arms, and led the congregation in a final song. Everyone but Adrienne and Lucie stood. Adrienne watched as he made the sign of the cross, and uttered the words of the blessing.

“The Lord bless you and keep you. The Lord make his face shine upon you. The Lord lift up your countenance, and grant you peace.” Adrienne could barely contain herself, impatient to speak about what she had seen.

The priest started slowly down the aisle, followed by the altar boys. His robes swung leisurely from side to side. Adrienne stood, almost jumping up and down. In her excitement, she forgot her own baby, and let it hang from her side, dangling by one arm, brushing the floor.

“Maman,” Adrienne spoke again as they stood and moved into the center aisle.

Genevieve pinched Adrienne’s shoulder, shot her another glaring look, and Adrienne bit her tongue, wriggling with the excitement of what she had seen.

They moved slowly toward the doors at the back of the church. Grand-père and Genevieve greeted the people of the village, Grand-père shaking hands, Genevieve offering her slender, gloved hand to a few of the local women. They stopped at the door. The priest took Genevieve’s hand in both of his, swallowing her hand in his rough red paws. “And how are you today, madame?” He smiled.

“
Je vais bien,
Père Henri,
merci.
Wonderful message today.” She smiled.

Adrienne grew impatient. Her mother had not listened to the priest’s homily; she never did. This news that Adrienne held inside her was too important to wait while Genevieve charmed the villagers like some exotic hothouse orchid.

Adrienne tugged at her mother’s skirts. “Maman, we need to go. Julien and Aunt Marie are at the castle, waiting for us.” The insistence of her voice drew the attention of several people who stood nearby.

Genevieve’s smile dropped from her face, and she looked down at Adrienne, as did the priest and Grand-père.

“We must go, Maman! Someone tried to kill him. In church, during the mass.” Adrienne was insistent. “He is sick, Maman. He almost died. With
poison
.” Adrienne drew out the last word dramatically. “I knew there was something bad about that church.”

By now the entire area had gone completely quiet, all voices stilled as they caught the words of the little girl.

Genevieve looked up at the priest. She tried to smile, but it slipped away, cracking like a china teacup dropped on a marble floor. All of the radiant beauty of a few moments before had evaporated.

The priest blinked. He looked at Genevieve, suddenly rendered speechless.

“Such an imagination,” Genevieve exhaled, her voice ruffled with fear. “We are quite beside ourselves with her stories, sometimes. I don’t know where she comes up with these things.” Genevieve tried another feeble smile.

“I understand, madame. It is not unusual, at her age, to imagine things. Children can be so creative.”

Genevieve sighed gratefully. Her face had turned green; she refused to meet the eyes of any of the people around her.

Grand-père did search their faces, looking for anyone who might remember his late wife and the stories that had somehow escaped about her. Most of the parishioners were watching Adrienne and Genevieve, not looking at him. But when he turned to make his way to the carriage, his eyes met those of Madame Ettienne. She was almost the same age as the comte, ancient compared to those around her. She did not nod, did not acknowledge their glance in any way, but the comte knew, as he reached to take Adrienne’s hand, that at least one person in that congregation had remembered Marguerite, and made the connection. He wrapped his hand around that of his granddaughter, and with his other hand, took Genevieve’s elbow, steering them both toward the carriage. Lucie followed, folding the blanket over Emelie’s face. Grand-père opened the door of the carriage, helped all the ladies inside, and folded himself into the seat next to Adrienne.

They heard the crack of the whip, and the carriage jolted forward. The horses trotted off, their hooves clicking on the stone street. Renault turned the carriage toward the château. When they were safely away from the ears of the village, he leaned back slightly, his voice low. “Monsieur? There is . . . news. Madame Morier and Père Julien are at the castle. Père Julien is very sick, monsieur.”

Genevieve’s eyes met those of her father across the space between their seats. The comte swallowed, his Adam’s apple moving up and down. He doubted that Genevieve knew anything about her own mother. He could not imagine that anyone from the village or any of the servants would have dared to speak to the daughter of the comte about such a distressing subject. Certainly he had never discussed it with her. He turned to look out the window, feeling the glaring inadequacies of his parenting. Should he have told her? Would it have made any difference?

Genevieve held her lace handkerchief, locked inside her gloved hand, in front of her mouth. Lucie sat in the corner of the carriage, jiggling the baby, who had begun to whimper. Lucie kept her eyes held discreetly on the child. Adrienne sat across from her, next to the comte, staring out the window, and jiggling her own baby doll.