Miramont's Ghost (7 page)

The comte exhaled slowly, his eyes back on the storm outside the window. He could remember turning, the tension still thick in the air of the room, and seeing the dark eyes of Marie. She and her friend Madeline had been in the next room, playing chess, when they had heard the shouting, the beginnings of the disagreement. He remembered looking into the eyes of that other girl, the girl who would go back to her family and tell them about the crazy woman at the Château de Challembelles. He well remembered how the story had traveled the countryside, quickly coming back to the village of Beaulieu. And he remembered turning his gaze to Marie, shame and embarrassment written in every line of her features. In her eyes burned something even worse than shame and embarrassment, something that made him cringe even now, all these years later. Marie fairly vibrated with anger.

Adrienne looked so much like her grandmother. Not just in the coloring, the copper-colored hair and blue eyes, but in the way she walked, in the way she held her head slightly tipped, her chin pointing to the left, whenever a vision came to her. He felt a lump rising in his throat, and his eyes burned. He would do anything to protect this little girl, anything to keep her from the gossip and stares of the villagers.

But lock her away? Kill her spirit and force her to stay hidden and quiet? Like so many times over the past year, he pushed the thought away from him. Not now. Not today. He could not, would not, do anything just yet. He swore to himself that he would deal with this. Soon.

CHAPTER EIGHT

A
drienne followed Lucie down the long hallway toward her bedroom. They passed a guest room on the right. The door was ajar,
and A
drienne slowed, tipped her head slightly so that she could see inside the room. Julien lay in the middle of the bed, his face almost as pale as the white linen sheets surrounding him. His eyes were closed. He didn’t appear to be breathing. Adrienne stopped for a moment in front of the door, staring at this cousin she had never met. He had the dark hair, the dark beard, she had seen in her visions. Julien began to cough, a horrid, crackling cough that wracked his entire body.

Lucie appeared in front of Adrienne and held out her hand. “Come, Adrienne. He needs to rest. You can meet him later.” Her words were barely audible in the hushed atmosphere of illness.

They entered Adrienne’s room down the hall, and Lucie began to unbutton the girl’s church dress. “Adrienne, do you know who did this? Who poisoned Julien?”

Adrienne shook her head.

“How can you be certain he was poisoned?”

“I could see him—Julien. In the church. It is very dark there. No windows. The floors are dirt.” Adrienne stood patiently while Lucie slipped a day dress over her head. “Not that one, Lucie! Can’t I wear the pink one, with the roses?”

Lucie stopped and smiled. “I suppose.” She made another trip to the wardrobe.

“Tell me, Adrienne. What you saw.”

“Well, he took the cup in his hands. The silver one that Marie took from the library, the last time she was home?”

Lucie nodded, and turned Adrienne slightly so she could tie the ribbon at the back of her dress.

“And then he raised it up, like this.” Adrienne pretended to hold a cup in her hands, and raised it above her head. Her eyes lifted to the ceiling. “He said a bunch of words I couldn’t understand . . . just like Père Henri says.”

Lucie nodded.

“And then he took a sip, like this.” Again Adrienne demonstrated. “And then his eyes got big, and he dropped the cup, and his hands came up to his throat.” She acted out each sentence. “And his eyes rolled back in his head . . . and then . . .” Adrienne let her eyes roll back, and she dropped to the floor, like a rag doll.

“Hmmm,” Lucie commented. Her lips were pressed together, as if trying to hide a smile.

A heavy silence filled the room. Adrienne opened her eyes. The roses on the rug were a deep crimson, shaded with cream and pink. And at the edge of one cabbage rose, two pointed black boots stood, black skirts swishing around them.

“That’s very amusing, Adrienne.” Marie’s voice cracked in the air.

Lucie jumped. She had not seen Marie come in. Adrienne swallowed and sat up.

“I don’t know where in the world you get these stories of yours.” Marie stood at the edge of the rug, stiff and severe. A whiff of lavender escaped from her black skirts, and Adrienne coughed.

“But there is a great difference between imagination and the actual truth.” Marie’s eyes were narrow and hard.

Adrienne felt as if she’d been stung. “But I—”

“Enough!” Marie did not shout, but her words cut the air as if she had. “There is no way for you to know what happened on the other side of the world. And I will tolerate none of these stories. Is that clear?”

Adrienne swallowed. “Yes, madame.” She met Marie’s gaze.

Adrienne sat in the middle of the rug, where she had been demonstrating the story to Lucie just a few moments before. Her lower lip pushed out; her eyes burned with rage. But she did not cry.

CHAPTER NINE

P
ère Henri stopped for a moment to catch his breath. He leaned against the trunk of a chestnut tree, and pulled a handkerchief from his pocket. Though it was only late May, the sun was hot on his bald head, and he mopped it down for the third time since starting his journey. It was a mile from the rectory to the gates of the Château de Challembelles, though it felt much longer, and it would never do for him to arrive looking nervous and sweat-drenched.

In truth, he was nervous and sweaty. It was not yet eleven, but the day was already unseasonably hot and humid. The incline on the road to the château was slight, but it was an incline, and for some reason it seemed much more difficult today than it had in the past. It was partially due to the effects of time: he was approaching sixty, and he was overfond of good food and fine wine and blessed with a housekeeper who kept him supplied with both.

But at least part of the difficulty lay in the visit itself. He’d been there many times, of course, as a guest of Genevieve and the comte. There’d been a dinner after baby Adrienne had been baptized, and another just a few months ago, when Pierre was home from Paris for the baptism of baby Emelie. He well remembered the marriage of Genevieve and Pierre Beauvier seven years ago. The whole affair had been quite lavishly done up, as he recalled, and the food had been excellent. He still remembered the crispy skin on the roasted duck, and the memory provoked an annoying growl from his stomach. Over the years that Père Henri had been the priest in Beaulieu, there had been several occasions to visit, but all of them had been through invitation. He could not recall another occasion when he had taken it upon himself to visit the château, uninvited and unannounced.

It wasn’t that Père Henri was particularly interested in the gossip of the village. But whenever his housekeeper, Madame Cezanne, served him some delicious concoction from her overflowing kitchen, she usually spiced it with some tidbit or two that she had heard while at the market. Yesterday evening, she had served him a wonderful beef roast, slightly pink and swimming in juice, just the way he liked it, and roasted new potatoes, drenched in butter and flecked with chives from the garden. He had closed his eyes and inhaled the aromas, drinking them in, savoring the feast before he had tasted a bite. Indulging her penchant for sharing the latest gossip seemed a small price to pay for having such a wonderful cook in the house. But the news that she had served with last night’s meal had been particularly interesting, since it tied directly to the outlandish story Adrienne had blurted out as the family left the church yesterday morning.

“Madame Morier is back from America,” the woman said quietly, her eyes on the potatoes that she heaped on his plate. “The cook is all in a state—seems madame came back without any prior warning. Cook is positively mortified, since madame is very particular about how things are done when she is home.”

Père Henri looked up at her, but she kept her eyes discreetly on the work of dishing up his plate. Her cheeks were red; her graying hair escaped in little vagabond curls from the bun at the nape of her neck. “And her son is with her. Cook was quite beside herself. Says she’s going to have to make
two different
selections for each meal. Père Julien is sick, apparently, and having quite a time keeping anything down.”

The story was particularly troubling, especially given Adrienne’s outburst after the mass. Père Henri had assumed, at the time, that Adrienne was simply demonstrating her remarkable creative abilities. He liked the little girl. She was very beautiful, for one thing, quite like her late grandmother, according to his housekeeper. She was bright, precocious even. She showed an interest in everything. And since the addition of her governess just a few years ago, Adrienne had begun to demonstrate her creative abilities in several avenues. She had played a lovely little piece on the pianoforte for Emelie’s baptism dinner. She had been most anxious to show the priest a little painting she had done of the lilacs in the back garden.

So when she’d shared that outlandish story as they left the church the day before, Père Henri had assumed that it was nothing more than her imagination, a little girl watching the priest as he performed the rites of the Eucharist, and expanding on that scene to create a story.

The father walked through the heavy iron gate that blocked the road to the Challembelles estate, and started down the lane toward the front entrance. Chestnut trees lined the path, and the temperature dropped a few degrees in their shade. His stomach danced with nervousness; his mind flittered from one prepared comment to another. He had told himself over and over again on the walk out here this morning that it was not simply curiosity that propelled him. If it were true that the younger priest had been poisoned at the chalice, then they might need him, Père Henri, to help them get through this difficult time with the ministrations and spiritual guidance that only an older priest could offer.

The maid announced him, and he was shown into the morning room, where Marie and Genevieve sat at their desks writing letters. The comte sat in a chair by the fire, burning brightly despite the heat of the day outside, reading a newspaper.

The comte stood and offered his hand, and Père Henri noticed, not for the first time, that it shook slightly. “How good of you to visit, Père Henri. Please sit down. Would you like coffee?”

“That would be lovely, thank you.” The priest shook the comte’s hand, and turned to Marie. “Madame Morier! Such a long time has passed since I last saw you. It is so good to see you again.”

“Likewise, Père Henri.” Marie allowed her hand to be swallowed by his two enormous mitts.

“Madame Beauvier.” Père Henri nodded to Genevieve.

“Please sit down.” The comte took his pipe from his teeth, and indicated the sofa in front of the fireplace. Marie and Genevieve joined them, and Père Henri felt beads of sweat gathering on his forehead as he sat down across from the fire.

The maid returned with a tray and poured and served the coffee, beginning with their guest. He took the cup, stirred the sugar, and held his nose over the steaming brown liquid. He turned to Marie. “I understand Julien is with you.”

“Yes, he is.”

“I haven’t seen him in . . . oh, years, I suppose. Not since he first left for America,” Père Henri said. “He seemed so young, to be traveling halfway around the world.” He took a sip of coffee, and placed it on the table in front of him.

“He is not so young, now, I’m afraid.” Marie smiled. “Seems to be a common malady, this growing older.”

“Yes, yes, quite so.” The priest’s eyes jumped from Marie’s face to that of the comte, sitting across from him. He reached again for his coffee cup, unsure of how to proceed. He sipped again.

“I understand Julien is unwell.”

“Yes, he is very ill, I’m afraid.” Her eyes dropped to the floor.

Père Henri waited for her to continue.

Marie swallowed and placed her cup on the table. “Julien has been in South America these past two months.”

The priest’s eyebrows went up. “Oh?”

Both Genevieve and the comte raised their eyes to look at her.

“Yes.” Marie met his gaze again, her eyes hard and flinty and totally unreadable. She folded her hands together in her lap. She leaned forward slightly. “I wouldn’t want this to get out, Father, but . . .”

The priest leaned toward her, completely spellbound.

“Well, he’s been on a mission for the French government. A secret mission.” Marie let her eyes scan the room, as if checking to see that there were no ears to hear this. She leaned toward the priest again, her head lowered slightly. “A very delicate matter, I’m afraid.”

The father leaned back and nodded. “I see.”

Genevieve lowered her coffee cup and stared at her older sister.

Marie let out a long sigh. “They needed someone who understood diplomacy. You know that Julien trained in Paris?”

The priest nodded.

“And they needed someone who spoke Spanish. Someone who wouldn’t call attention to himself. As an emissary of the church, Julien seemed to be the perfect choice. I’m sure you understand.”

The priest nodded, his coffee momentarily forgotten. This situation was getting more interesting by the second.

“He did his best, I’m certain. But the conditions were . . . primitive, shall we say? Julien caught some kind of bug. He believes it was the water, but then . . . one can never be sure. It might have been something he ate.” She met the priest’s eyes again, reached for her cup, and wrapped both hands around it.

The priest fidgeted in his seat. “I had no idea he was . . .” His eyes jumped nervously from Marie’s face to that of the comte, who held his gaze. He let his eyes flicker on Genevieve’s face, but she kept her eyes down, staring into the coffee cup in her lap.

He turned back to Marie. “I had heard that he was sick, but I had no idea he had been in South America. I . . . ah . . .” He glanced nervously at Genevieve. “I had no idea.”

He looked back at Marie again. “This is most dreadful! Will Julien be all right? Have you consulted a doctor?”

“We saw a doctor in Paris, on our way home. He seems to think Julien will recover—that it is just a matter of time. He prescribed rest . . . bland foods. Julien will be taking mineral waters.”

“I’ve heard that the waters of Vichy can be very healing,” the priest offered. He felt so much more comfortable now that he had the true story and it did not include attempted murder.

“Yes. Quite. I’m sure we will make use of them.” Marie sat back and sipped from her cup.

Père Henri relaxed back into the cushions of the sofa, his shoulders loose, his face soft with relief. “When Julien is feeling better, I would love to visit. I’ve always wanted to hear everything I can about America. It sounds like quite a wild place, the West.” He smiled broadly. “I would imagine South America is quite fascinating also . . .” His face changed when he noticed Marie’s frown.

“Père Henri, this is . . . quite sensitive. The government insisted that this mission be kept . . . confidential. I’m afraid we are not at liberty to discuss it.”

“Oh, yes. I’m sorry. I did not mean to pry.”

They sat for another moment, silence stretching between them, like a cat awakening from its nap. A bird twittered outside the open windows. Père Henri could hear the snip-snip of the gardener’s hedge trimmers as he worked near the terrace.

“Well, it has been such a pleasure to see you again, Madame Morier, but I must be going. Today is my day for visiting.” The priest stood and placed his coffee cup on the table.

He bent and kissed Genevieve’s hand, shook hands with the comte, now standing as well, and offered his hand to Marie.

“Give my best to Julien. I will look forward to hearing all about New Mexico Territory when he is recovered.”

Marie stood and put her hand on the priest’s forearm. “I’ll see you to the door, Father.”

They reached the main hall, and Père Henri leaned close to her, his hand covering her smaller one. He smiled awkwardly. “I will say a novena for Père Julien.”

“Thank you, Father. That will be much appreciated.” Marie looked back over her shoulder toward the morning room. Genevieve and the comte stood by the fireplace. Marie looked back at the priest, and leaned closer to him. Her voice dropped. “Father? Could you . . .” She swallowed, as if trying to swallow a bitter drink. “Would you mind . . .” Her eyes came up to his.

The priest tipped his head. “What is it, madame?”

Marie swallowed again. “Would you mind saying a novena for the girl? Adrienne?” She met the priest’s eyes.

Père Henri was puzzled.

Marie glanced back at the morning room again. “I think there is something . . . not quite right about her.” She let her eyes drop to the floor. When she looked up at him again, there were tears in her eyes. “She . . .” Marie bit her lower lip. “She tells these stories. Preposterous stories.”

The priest swallowed. “Oh?”

Marie glanced back at the morning room again. “It seems to be getting more and more out of control.” She sighed. “I’m afraid there is no one here who can handle the situation. Genevieve has other things on her mind, what with the new baby. And my father . . .” The sentence hung in the air between them. “You can see it, can’t you? Age is taking its toll on him.” Her eyes searched those of the priest again. “I don’t think they see what is really going on here.”

The priest stared at her.

“I’m afraid the girl may be”—she leaned in close to Père Henri, and her voice dropped to a whisper—“mentally unwell.”

The priest drew back. For a moment, he was stunned. “I see.”

“But, Father . . . please don’t let this get out . . .” Marie glanced back toward her sister, once more. “It could be . . .”

The priest squeezed her hand. “I understand, madame. I will be happy to pray for the girl.”

“Thank you, Father,” she said, holding the front door open for him.

Père Henri started down the lane, stopping once to look back at the castle. Marie had already gone inside. He stared for another moment, then hurried his steps toward home. Madame Cezanne would be sure to find this latest news as fascinating as he himself did.