Chateau of Secrets: A Novel (32 page)

G
isèle stared at the man in the front doorframe of the château, the February snow falling down behind him and his black trench coat. His fancy black
coupé
had trailed muddied tire tracks through the white carpet of snow.

Émilie usually answered the door, but after three months of working for the Germans, she obtained a pass to bicycle to her sister’s home in Cahagnes and never returned. Gisèle mourned her leaving, but Émilie had taught her well. Now it was just her and Lisette, serving the Germans in silence.

“
Bonjour
,” Philippe greeted her as if no other words needed to be spoken.

He had matured since she had seen him last, his face stockier and forehead balding. He looked a decade older than his thirty-two years.

He motioned toward the entryway. “May I come in?”

The familiar fear twisted in her gut again. She couldn’t explain away Adeline as a friend’s child now, not with the Germans occupying her house. Perhaps Philippe’s visit would be short. And Adeline would remain hidden.

“Of course,” she said, but she wished she could run away, like
she’d done the night of the blitzkrieg. Except now, there was no place left to run.

She hadn’t talked to Philippe in more than a month, but Tante Corinne wrote that Philippe had taken an important position in the Vichy government. Doing what, she never said.

Adeline toddled up to her when they stepped into the drawing room, jingling a silver bell one of the officers had given her. Her arms outstretched, Gisèle had no choice but to pick her up.

Philippe stared down at the child. “Who is this?”

“Adeline . . .” She swallowed hard. “She is my daughter.”

“Your daughter?” Fire flashed in his eyes. “How old is she?”

“Two.”

He glanced at the window, and she guessed he was calculating the months in his mind. It had been two and a half years since she’d seen him last. She should have said something about Adeline, during one of their brief conversations on the telephone, so he wouldn’t be shocked. But with transportation so difficult now, gasoline almost impossible for a French citizen to obtain even with the coupons, she had never guessed he would show up at her door.

“Where is Lisette?” she asked, praying she wouldn’t say upstairs.

“In the kitchen.”

“Why don’t you go play with her for a bit?”

Adeline nodded her head before she toddled toward the kitchen.

Everything had changed that afternoon Gisèle found Lisette with the
Oberst
. Lisette continued to work at the house, helping with Adeline, and she visited the servants’ quarters almost every day while Adeline napped. But Gisèle and Lisette rarely spoke.

When Philippe turned back to her, the fire in his eyes was gone, replaced with a coldness as bitter as the winter air. “Is this the reason you never came to Lyon?”

“One of them.”

“You should have told me you were pregnant.”

“I knew you’d be angry.”

His fist pressed into the back of a chaise longue. “Who is the father?”

“A man from the village. You don’t know—”

His eyes blazed again. “What is his name?”

“It doesn’t matter anymore.”

He unbuttoned his trench coat and took it off. “I will find out.”

Gisèle didn’t know where Jean-Marc Rausch was, but she hoped he was far, far away. She stared at the coat on the chair. Was there another reason Philippe was here?

“I’ve heard you’ve been entertaining soldiers,” he said.

“I have housed them, Philippe. Not entertained.”

“Does your
amour
know?”

Irritation flamed within her. “He is my husband.”

“Your husband?” His laugh crackled with sarcasm. “Of course, you must have been married to have a child.”

She stepped back toward the main hall. “It’s time for you to leave.”

He didn’t move. “You may tell people you were married, but I know the truth.” He straightened the porcelain urn on the sideboard. “Where is this husband now?”

“I don’t know. He was a soldier . . .”

He turned back toward her. “I don’t believe you.”

“You don’t have to.” She crossed her arms. “Why are you here?”

“I came to discuss our marriage, but I see it’s no longer possible for us to marry.”

Even if she wasn’t pretending to be married, the thought of marrying Philippe repulsed her. Whether or not she had a child, the idea would be revolting to him too when he realized she had been slaving in the kitchen to serve the German officers. In his mind, serving the soldiers was probably as bad as sleeping with them.

The Germans may have occupied her country, her village, but until she decided otherwise, neither Philippe nor anyone else would occupy her heart.

Major von Kluge stepped into the room, and when he saw Philippe, he lifted his palm. “
Heil
Hitler.”

When her cousin returned the greeting, she cringed. Then he introduced himself. “I am Philippe Borde. Gisèle’s cousin from Lyon.”

Something passed between the two men, an odd look of understanding. Did the Germans already know she had a cousin living in southern France?

The major directed him toward the office. “May I have a word with you in private, Monsieur Borde?”

“Of course.”

As they walked away, she heard the major say, “Your château has been most accommodating for us.”

His château? The château wasn’t his—

But then a terrible thought came over her. If Michel didn’t return—and she disappeared as well—the château and all the Duchant property would become Philippe’s. She shivered. Philippe wasn’t here to check on her—at least not in a caring sort of way. He was here, she feared, to see what could be done about securing this property for himself. He knew she hadn’t been married when they fled from the château that June. What if he found
out that her marriage certificate read May 1940? He could have her deported for her deception.

Would her own cousin send her to a work camp? She didn’t know to what extent he would go to get rid of her, and it seemed they were sending away the French people without any sort of justice. The yellow stars in Saint-Lô had been extinguished and others had disappeared as well—those who refused to hail the god Hitler. She often wondered about the children at the orphanage and the little boy who’d refused to give his name, wondered if they had been taken too. And she wondered about André and Nadine, and Nadine’s parents, and her old friend Odette.

When Lisette brought Adeline back to her, Lisette nodded toward the office. “Who is here?”

“Philippe Borde.”

Lisette backed away from her. “I must go.”

Gisèle picked Adeline up, and the girl patted Gisèle’s hair. “Sad, Maman?”

She kissed her cheek. “There is no reason to be sad when I’m with you.”

Adeline looked back at the office door, and when she stuck out her tongue, Gisèle rushed her away from the hall. “It’s time for your nap.”

As Adeline rested in her small bed, Gisèle sang softly like her mother had done for her years ago. When Adeline fell asleep, she stepped back into the hallway and peered down into the courtyard as Philippe drove away.

Was he here on government business as well as to inquire about the property?

Gisèle was no longer the girl who had run with Philippe during the bombing. The château was her father’s home. Her brother’s refuge. Her family’s legacy.

One day good would defeat the evil in their midst. She didn’t know when, but she clung to that hope. Philippe might expose her, but she had no regrets for what she had done.

It was too late for her to go back on her story about the marriage and there was no place for her to run. She didn’t know how much longer she could hold together the pieces before everything unraveled, but like her brother, she would continue to fight. Resist.

Even when she was afraid.

T
he quaint chapel had been beckoning me for days. The place where my parents and I had prayed with Mémé so long ago.

Out my bedroom window, I watched as strangers strolled down the long path from Agneaux every morning and slipped through the door. Marguerite said she unlocked the door so villagers could pray and tourists could explore the medieval treasure.

This afternoon I dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, the color of fire, before strolling across the courtyard like the locals. I wasn’t alone. Madame Calvez didn’t want to see me again, but Isabelle’s friend was still sick, so for the fifth day in a row, Isabelle and I spent the afternoon playing at the same park where Riley had lain back in the grass and told me how God rocked his world. The quiet time, the laughter, had soothed my heart.

Isabelle made me smile, and she made me forget for a few hours all that had transpired back in Virginia. It had only been two weeks since my mom called and asked me to come to France, but it felt like a million years ago. I never could have imagined that I would be exploring the corridors of our family’s château, visiting the parks with a ten-year-old, and beginning to dream about a future without Austin.

Oddly enough, I was content.

It wouldn’t be long before I had to face my reality and get back on an airplane, but what I would do in Virginia now, I had no idea. There was enough money in my savings account to cushion the blow of unemployment, and my parents would let me tap into my trust fund if I drained my bank account, but I wanted to support myself. It was the Duchant in me, I supposed.

The breeze rustled the trees as Isabelle and I walked along the drive. Dozens of messages had flown back and forth between Riley and me this week. The château seemed empty without him here. Even though my own faith had been shaken, I took shelter in his and Mémé’s and my parents’ faith.

Tombstones were clustered together in a small yard outside the chapel. We found the graves for Vicomte and Vicomtesse Duchant—my great-grandparents—and placed wildflowers Isabelle and I had picked on top of each of them. Michel rested beside them, and I had the faintest memory of Mémé and me putting flowers on these graves before I’d left her alone to her tears.

She’d said something odd to me as we stood in front of the chapel so long ago. Something about secrets. A secret that shielded their family.

Dad thought childhood memories shouldn’t be trusted, but something about this memory pricked my mind, like the thorn that had stung my finger.

I read the epitaphs on the twenty or so stones, wondering if the girl Mémé remembered might have been buried with the rest of the Duchant family, but there was no Adeline.

I pushed open the wooden door to the chapel, and Isabelle scooted around me to get inside. We were the only ones there, but the smells from time past permeated the old wood—wilted flowers and incense and dirt from the fields. The stone floor was worn
smooth from years of shoes scouring it, and near the altar was a picture that captured my attention. It was a pencil drawing of a man with wings—there was a sword in one hand and the head of a dragon in the other. I suspected he was an angel, but he looked like a warrior. A sculpture of Christ’s body hung on the wall, his head missing. An old gate stood open at the side.

She tugged on my hand, toward the pew. “Let’s pray.”

Isabelle knelt like an old pro.

Until my grandmother became bedridden, she’d attended Mass every Sunday and often during the week as well. I remembered going with her to a chapel in the months after Grandpa died. The chapel overlooked the Potomac River and I would stare down at the water. Tears had streamed down her powdered cheeks as she prayed in French, and I determined then—as a thirteen-year-old—to master the language my grandmother loved.

Isabelle folded her hands in front of her, and I did the same, though I wasn’t certain what to say. Ever since I’d begun attending church with Austin, my faith had become sterile. Riley had been so passionate about his faith, but I felt like I had lost my passion for just about everything.

I wanted it back. My passion to love kids and see the world. My desire to talk to God and not run the other way. To love again and not hide. To revel in the honesty of being able to share my story.

Isabelle prayed quietly beside me in French, and I prayed as well, that God would reveal Himself to me as He did with Riley. That He would show me what to do next.

When she finished praying, Isabelle crossed herself, and I followed suit. I didn’t want to leave though. The château was full of mystery, but the chapel was different. Instead of questions, there was peace here. Answers, perhaps.

We lingered at the foot of the cross, and I knew . . .

I was at a crossroads like Riley had been. No matter what happened when I returned to the States, no matter if I never married or had children, I would have to trust God. Only He could fill those empty places left in my soul.

My peace was disturbed by the sound of gravel crunching outside. I didn’t want to move, but Isabelle took my hand and urged me toward the open door.

I expected to see Pierre or Marguerite in their station wagon, or a delivery truck, but instead a black Mercedes crawled like a spider across the courtyard, searching for prey.

The door opened, and when the car’s driver stepped onto the gravel, I cringed.

Austin Vale had stepped back into my world.