Miramont's Ghost (15 page)

Lucie straightened her back and stretched her arms over her head. She had been at her desk, hunched over her journal, for the past hour. It was late: one in the morning, and she was exhausted. She put her plume back in its stand, blew on the ink of the page she had just finished.

It had been a while since she had written in the journal. For so long, there had been nothing to record. But she’d started writing again a few weeks ago. She had not told Adrienne, but Lucie had known, since the night at the opera, that Adrienne’s visions were back. She had known the girl almost her entire life; she recognized the signs. She had not asked Adrienne about it. After the death of Madeline in childbirth, there was some part of Lucie that didn’t want to know what Adrienne saw.

Lucie had watched as Gerard Devereux moved into their lives. She observed the way he looked at Adrienne, the way his eyes followed her around the room. She had seen Adrienne brighten; she had noticed the lilt in her step, the smiles that sometimes crept into her face when she thought no one was watching. Lucie wanted desperately to believe that Gerard was the answer, the handsome prince who would rescue Adrienne from her loneliness and isolation. The handsome prince who would rescue the maid from the evil witch.

She would never tell Adrienne this, but she had scratched it onto the pages of her journal, shivering with fear as she did. When Adrienne had described her vision—Marie on the dark ocean, Marie covered in blood—Lucie’s whole body had frozen in apprehension. But it wasn’t Gerard she feared for. Gerard was off in Paris; he was safe from Marie’s clutches.

Adrienne was not. Lucie shivered again, looking at the words she had written on the page. Despite her own lack of clairvoyance, despite her inability to see or know the future, Lucie was certain about one thing. The blood on Marie’s dress was not Gerard’s.

She had to do something to protect Adrienne. She had to do something to get the girl out of here, away from Marie.

I would never let Adrienne know this, and I hope she is distracted enough by her current circumstances that she does not notice, but I plan to watch Marie as I never have before. That woman is hiding something, I feel certain of it. And I intend to find out what it is.

Lucie laid her pen on the desk and blew on the ink. She closed the journal and went to her closet, where she tucked it away in her tapestry valise.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

A
drienne let the book drop to her lap. She pulled her knees up inside her heavy wool dress, wrapped her arms around them, and leaned her cheek to rest on one knee. She stared out the window. It was so difficult to focus on a book these days. She would find herself at the bottom of the page with absolutely no idea of what she had just read.

The morning room was glazed in sunlight, still too winter-weak to provide much warmth. A fire crackled in the fireplace. Genevieve and Marie sat at their desks, attending to correspondence.

Adrienne stared out at the early March weather. The winds had been fierce the past few days, but there was movement in the air, a rustling and stirring. Like a whisper, it held the promise of spring. Adrienne could see the leaves of the crocus, poking through the soil in the garden, surrounded by the icy white of last evening’s snow. The trees were thickening, like a woman in the early stages of pregnancy. Everything seemed ripe with the coming warmth and light and color.

Adrienne had been watching the plants, the trees, the garden, for as long as she could remember. But never, in all this time, had she allowed the promise of spring to seep into her bloodstream, to affect her heart or make her mind race. Since Grand-père’s death, she had felt frozen inside, as if her heart and mind and emotions were locked in eternal winter. There was no reason to hope, no reason to look forward to anything. Every day was like the one before. Her life, until recently, had been just as solitary, just as barren and hard and cold, as the winter landscape.

Gerard Devereux had changed all that. He gave her a reason to believe, a reason to imagine a life different from the one she had always known. She found herself waking up with a smile on her face. She could see them, living together in an apartment in Paris. She couldn’t help but smile when she imagined holding his child, their child, in her arms. She reached into the pocket of her dress, slipped a sideways glance at Marie, and pulled out his latest letter.

Dearest,

I can hardly wait for your father’s return from the north. It seems as if he is taking forever on this trip. I wish I had been able to speak with him right away, after leaving, but I suppose I shall have to be patient.

I told Grand-père, after we left you, that you had consented to marry me. I can’t tell you how pleased he was. He likes you a great deal, Adrienne. That tells me that I have made a good choice, that he, too, can see our compatibility, our connection.

As soon as your father returns, I will speak with him. In the meantime, I remain,

Yours forever,

Gerard

Adrienne brushed her fingers over the thick paper, folded it tenderly, and tucked it back into the pocket of her dress. She sighed, and laid her cheek against her knee again. She smiled at her reflection in the window glass. It was just like a fairy tale—the tall, handsome prince, the rescue from the wicked witch who sat at her desk in the corner. She took her hand from the letter in her pocket and made the sign of the cross once again, as she had every time she had thought of the vision of Marie. She’d been praying every morning, every night, trying to create a web of protection around Gerard.

Stefan entered the room with the morning’s mail on a silver tray. Adrienne looked up, her eyes glued on his every move. He stopped first at Genevieve, with a nod of his head. “Madame.” He turned and walked toward Marie, his heels clicking on the marble floor. “Madame.” He bowed lower for Marie. Adrienne watched as he turned the tray on its side, tucked it under his arm. His eyes sought Adrienne’s, briefly, as if he knew she expected mail. His eyes seemed to speak the words that he would not dare to say aloud: “I’m sorry, mademoiselle. Nothing today.” He dipped his head toward her and left the room.

Adrienne sighed and turned back to the window. She stared at the snow on the ground, at the wind blowing in the treetops. She watched as the world outside her window faded and disappeared, and she was drawn into a scene half a world away.

It was night. A half moon hung in the sky, hazy with cloud cover. Her gaze dropped from the brilliance of the moon to a cobblestone street, curving up a hill. An enormous stone castle dominated the bend of the street. Four stories high, wood and granite and glass, and every window blazed with light. Carriages crowded the pavement; horses clip-clopped on the stones. She could hear the horses whinny and snort. She could hear laughter, voices rising and falling in the excitement of the evening.

One by one, the carriages stopped at the front door. Ladies and gentlemen spilled out, dressed in the costumes of a century before—the time of the American Revolution. The women wore wide skirts, the same skirts seen in the time of Louis XVI in France. Their hair was powdered and poofed and pompadoured. The men wore powdered wigs and ruffled shirts, short white pants tucked into tight leggings, just below their knees. Ruffles cascaded over their hands as they reached to help the women down from the carriages. Music spilled from the doorways and windows and flowed down the street.

Around the castle, out of the way of the rich carriages and their ostentatious contents, sat the plain wagons and buggies of the townspeople. They had each paid a small fee to sit on the street, in the cold, and observe the participants in this costume ball in honor of George Washington’s birthday. Everyone had heard about the huge castle, built by the French priest, completed just a few weeks before. And they had all ventured out, on this cold February evening, blankets wrapped around them, trying to catch a glimpse of the splendor inside, of the opulence and wealth of elite society in Manitou Springs, Colorado Springs, and Denver.

Unlike the frigid observers, Adrienne’s vision took her through the doors of the castle, into the low-ceilinged entry, and up the steps. The parlor was to the left. People crowded the rooms, talking and laughing, sipping champagne. Against one wall stood a huge stone fireplace, the fire blazing high, light shimmering on the jeweled silks of the women’s skirts. Beyond the parlor were glass doors, luxuriant green plants filling the conservatory behind. Julien stood at the top of the steps, greeting his guests.

“I understand you designed this yourself.” A young woman smiled.

“Yes. Yes, I did. All my life, I’ve wanted to build a home like this, something like what I grew up with. I wanted to combine the styles and features that I’ve seen in all my travels. My father was a diplomat; we lived in some of the most beautiful places in Europe when I was young. I wanted to take the best of Europe, and still somehow manage to find something suitable for the mountains of Colorado.” He beamed with pride. “And I was afraid, mixing so many different architectural styles, that it would only confuse an architect. It just seemed easier to handle the design myself.”

Adrienne’s vision led her out of the parlor, up another staircase, to the picture gallery, a long, narrow room brimming with costumed ball-goers. Members of the orchestra filled the far end of the room; the discordant sounds of tuning up filled the air. They lifted their instruments, and at a nod from the conductor, broke into “Hail, Columbia!”

The ball-goers marched through the hall, down the stairs to the parlor below. Adrienne heard the voice of a costumed servant introducing “General and Mrs. Washington,” “Mr. and Mrs. John Quincy Adams” as couples entered the parlor. Costumes of the American Revolution filled every available space.

Adrienne let her eyes sweep over the decorations. Potted plants and hothouse flowers bloomed in every corner; plants twisted through the railings. She stared at the two huge flags, draped over a balcony railing: one French, one American.

Adrienne watched as the guests sipped from crystal punch cups, nibbled on tiny sandwiches and cakes. She could hear the voices, the snippets of conversation. “It was so generous of the father to volunteer his castle for the ball. So glamorous. Such a perfect setting.”

“Yes, I agree. And to think—every penny he raises tonight will go toward the new library.”

“We are so fortunate to have the father here. And I understand that Manitou has been much better for his health than that . . . Santa . . . oh . . . Santa something-or-other. Another one of those dreary little mud towns in New Mexico Territory.”

“Thick with Indians, is what I heard. Thank goodness he was transferred. I can’t imagine someone like the father trapped in a place like that.”

Adrienne drifted away from Manitou Springs and found herself once again sitting in the window seat in Beaulieu, staring at her own reflection in the glass.

Marie’s voice filled the room, reading the letter from Julien, describing the George Washington ball that he had recently hosted at the castle. He had written about it all, just as Adrienne had seen it in her mind a few moments before. Adrienne turned and watched her aunt finish the letter. She watched as Marie folded it, tucked it back in the envelope, and placed it in a drawer of her desk.

Adrienne turned and stared out at the day. This was the first vision she had had for several weeks now. The castle was finished; Julien was living there; Marie would be joining him before too much longer. Marie had begun to have furnishings packed for shipping to the New World.

Adrienne let her hand drop to the letter in her pocket. She was tired of visions. Tired of trying to figure out what they meant. She was perfectly willing to let Marie go live in Manitou. She could take half of the château with her, for all that Adrienne cared. Before long, she would be married, living in Paris. Before long, she would have Gerard and his grandfather as her companions, and she could let all these vague, uneasy feelings go, nothing but dust in the wind.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

A
drienne sat in the window seat in the morning room. As she had so many times these past few months, she let the book drop to her lap. She stared out into the bright sunshine. The snow was gone. The buds on the maple trees were full and red, ripe with new leaves. She glanced at the tulips by the edge of the terrace. Not a cloud marred the blue sky.

Stefan entered the room, his silver letter tray before him. He bowed to Genevieve. “Madame.” She took the letters he offered. Adrienne kept her gaze on the flowers outside. She dared not get her hopes up. It had been three weeks since she had last heard from Gerard. She had begun to think he had changed his mind. Perhaps he didn’t love her after all.

Stefan bowed close to her, and she jumped. His eyes met hers with a twinkle. “Mademoiselle.” She looked at him, at the gray hair, the gray eyebrows, and the absolutely emotionless expression on his face. Only his eyes showed the pleasure he felt in offering her this letter. She took it, her hands shaking.

He turned and left the room. Adrienne held the letter against her breast for a moment. She glanced at Genevieve, at Marie. They appeared to be absorbed in their own correspondence.

Adrienne slit the seal, pulled out the thick paper.

Dearest,

I am sorry to have kept you waiting so long. My heart is so heavy, I could barely put pen to paper. I have been transferred—to Brazil. I thought I was being groomed to work here, in Europe. I do not understand the sudden change of circumstances. I leave tomorrow.

I have tried, repeatedly, to speak with your father. He returned ten days ago from his trip, but he has not allowed me an audience. I am baffled by his behavior. I caught him in the hallway this afternoon, told him I must speak with him. He smiled, and took my arm, and told me not to worry, that whatever it was, it could wait until I return from South America. I should have pressed him, perhaps, but I was afraid that it would only make my situation worse.

I have no idea how long I will be gone. I am stunned by all that has happened these past few days. And I do not think I can bear it, being so far from you. Will you wait for me? Is it too much to ask?

Yours forever,

Gerard

Adrienne stared at the words on the paper. She read them again. Her mind refused to absorb them; her breath froze in her chest. She lowered the note to her lap, looked out the window at the sky. She picked up the note, read it again.

Adrienne turned her face back to the window and stared out at the scene that had, just a few moments ago, seemed so beautiful. Her eyes glazed; she could no longer see the daffodils, their yellow faces turned toward the sun. She could not see the blossoms on the chestnut tree, or the crystalline blue of the sky.

The clock ticked. Marie’s pen scratched against the paper.

Adrienne turned slowly, and stared at the dark curls of her aunt’s head. Hatred filled every pore of her being. Marie had made her life miserable, for as long as she could remember. With a venom that came from all the buried emotion of seventeen years, Adrienne sprang to her feet, her arms stiff at her side. “You did this, didn’t you?” Her voice cut through the air like a knife. She faced Marie, her jaw clenched.

Marie raised her head slowly, removed her spectacles from her face. She let her eyes travel over Adrienne. She looked at the note in the girl’s hand. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m sure you know very well what I’m talking about. He’s been transferred to Brazil.” Adrienne’s hands shook, but she did not allow tears to come. She stood, her body a blade of steel in the cool morning. A hush fell over the room. She raised her eyes to Marie. Her voice was barely a whisper. “And you are behind it, aren’t you?”

Every person in the room felt the change in barometric pressure. Genevieve’s mouth hung open in a soft, round O. Emelie looked as if her own heart had been broken.

Marie sighed as if bored by Adrienne’s hysterics. She sat, calm and cool, seemingly untouched by the heavy change in the room. She laid her pen on her desk and raised her eyes to her niece. “Has your mind come completely unhinged?”

Adrienne stopped. She blinked. Her eyes stung. She had no vision, no private information, to hurl at her aunt. She didn’t actually
know
anything. But her fury, her pain, her years of suffering, all rose to the surface, and she could no more stop the words flying from her mouth than she could stop her heart from breaking.

“I have no power in the French embassy. Did it ever occur to you, Adrienne, that Gerard might not want to marry a woman with your . . . shall we say . . . encumbrances? Perhaps he heard about your vivid imagination. Perhaps
he
requested the transfer.”

The words were delivered quietly, evenly, but Adrienne felt as if she had been kicked. Did someone tell him about her visions? Did someone tell him that she was defective? The silence in the room was overpowering. All eyes focused on Marie; everyone in the room held their breath.

Adrienne stared at Marie, heat smoldering in her cheeks at the suggestion. No, it had not occurred to her that Gerard himself might have requested the transfer. She ran her fingers over the letter she held in her pocket. Was it possible? Would he have done that to her? Would he have said the things he had in this letter, asking her to wait? Her entire life, she had felt different, unworthy, flawed in some irredeemable way, and this possibility just flamed the fires of her own self-doubt.

She turned and fled from the room, across the terrace and into the woods. Her stride was long; her arms swung, desperate to escape the tidal wave of thoughts and feelings and fears and questions that were slamming into her consciousness.

Daylight faded from the sky. Dusk settled on the countryside. The keening of the wind seeped through the edges of the windows; branches bent and swayed, scratching at the sides of the château. Adrienne had been gone for hours. She had left without a sweater, without a cloak, without any kind of protection from the cold. Genevieve paced by the window. She stopped, looked out, bit her nail.

Marie sat, even now, at her desk. As if her work were too important to leave, under any circumstance. “Quit pacing, Genevieve,” she ordered. “It won’t help.”

Lucie stood at the other window, staring into the woods where Adr
ienne had fled. She turned suddenly, and moved toward the hallway. “I’m going to go look for her,” she announced, heedless of either of the women. She strode from the room, her fury clicking through her heels and onto the floor. She grabbed her own cloak and Adrienne’s from the front hall.

Lucie flew down the path toward the lake, anger and worry boiling inside her, making her walk harder and faster than she ever had. She found Adrienne at the cemetery. The girl was crumpled in front of the comte’s headstone, her face streaked with dirt and tears. Adrienne shivered, her teeth rattling. Lucie stooped and wrapped the cloak around her. She leaned close to Adrienne, pulled the girl into her arms.

“I’ve tried so hard. All these years, I’ve tried so hard to do the right thing. To be quiet. To hold my tongue. I did what Grand-père asked. I kept quiet.” She looked up at Lucie, her eyes filled with fear. Adrienne wiped her hand under her nose. “I tried so hard.”

She stopped for a moment, raised her tear-stained face to Lucie. “He’s already gone. That letter was dated over a week ago.” Adrienne stared at her grand-père’s stone. “I hate her. I wish she was dead.”

“How do you know? How do you know it was Marie? Could it have been a normal transfer?” Lucie did not speak the thought that Marie had planted in both of their minds, that Gerard himself might have requested the transfer.

Adrienne turned away. The wind gusted, whistling through the stones, singing with the spirits. It lifted Adrienne’s skirt, set it back down. “I don’t know. I didn’t see anything, if that’s what you mean. I don’t know anything, except that she hates me and always has.”

Lucie squeezed the girl’s shoulders. “Did he say he was breaking the engagement?”

Adrienne wiped tears away, and shook her head. “No, nothing like that. Nothing about not wanting to marry me. Only that he had been transferred and had not been able to speak to my father.”

“There, you see? Marie was just being mean. This will all work out—it just may take longer than we thought it would.”

Both women watched as the last rays of sunlight turned the gravestones pink. Lucie said a silent prayer, asking the comte to help this girl, to protect her.

“Maybe. Maybe.” She turned to her governess, her eyes filled to overflowing. “But that’s not the way it feels.”

Lucie put her hand on Adrienne’s arm. “Would it help if I write to your father?”

Adrienne turned and looked at Lucie. “Write to my father? But why would
you
write to him?”

Lucie felt the girl’s scrutiny, and she reddened. She could see Adrienne’s thoughts lining up; she watched as Adrienne began to connect the pieces of the puzzle. She felt, once again, the heat of Pierre’s gaze on the night that Gerard and his grandfather had first come to visit, the night she and Adrienne had performed the duet. She remembered the way she had blushed, remembered turning to see Adrienne looking first at her father and then at Lucie.

Adrienne leaned backward in the grass. She stared at Lucie. “Lucie? Has something happened? Between you and my father?”

Lucie met Adrienne’s gaze. She swallowed. She wanted to protest, to ask Adrienne how she could think that, but when her eyes met those of the young girl, the words stuck in her throat. Adrienne would know. She would know the truth, no matter how Lucie tried to explain.

Lucie swallowed again, trying to force the truth back down, hidden, where it had stayed for so long. She drew a deep breath. She reached a hand to Adrienne, but the girl jumped up, refusing to be touched. She stared, her eyes wide with horror.

“I was seventeen when my father died. Alone. Penniless. I had nowhere to go.” For years, Lucie had kept it all inside, shrinking away from the thought of what had happened. For years, she had cringed at the idea of what might become of her if the truth were known.

“After he died, I went to the embassy . . . to see if they might have some work for me. My father had known so many people there. Twenty years of his life, he worked there. He helped deliver the city during the siege of Paris. I thought there might be someone there who would be willing to help me.”

Adrienne began shaking her head.

“Your father . . .” Lucie’s cheeks flushed pink, like the sky in the dying sunlight. She drew in a breath. “Your father said he could find me a position as a governess. I was well educated. He knew I was proficient in music and painting and languages.

“I was so grateful to him. I had been so afraid. I . . .” Lucie glanced at Adrienne and let her eyes drop to the ground again. “I was afraid I would be forced . . . Sometimes there aren’t a lot of choices for women. It often comes down to the convent or—” She stopped. Her eyes were brimming with moisture. She met Adrienne’s gaze, wondering if the girl knew enough of the world to understand the implications.

Adrienne sank to her knees.

“When he told me that he knew of a family—a wealthy family—that needed a governess, I was so relieved.” Lucie bit her lower lip. “The price . . . the price for being placed in such a good position . . . was only one night. Just one night.” Lucie’s words blew away from her, the sound fading in the dusk.

The branches on the tree swayed and creaked above their heads.

“I didn’t know until I arrived here that he was sending me to be the governess to his own daughter. That I would be living with his own wife.” Lucie stared into the sky, now almost completely drained of color. She shrugged. “I thought the worst was over. I needed the position.”

Adrienne swiped her hand at her own tears. Lucie did the same.

“It was so hard. At first, I couldn’t look Genevieve in the eye. I had these spells where I would feel like I was going to faint. I’d get light-headed . . . hot. But then, after a time . . . it got a little easier. Genevieve didn’t know.”

Lucie stole a sidelong glance at Adrienne. “You were so little. Just a baby, really. I fell in love with you, right off. I wanted you to be my daughter. And your grand-père. He reminded me of my own father. I felt so at home with him, and with you.” She took a deep, quivering breath. “After a while, I was able to forget, to pretend it never happened.” She looked at Adrienne’s face again, barely visible in the dusk. “I had lost everything. Everything. I needed this position . . . I needed you. Oh, Adrienne! I never deliberately lied to you.”

Lucie blinked, and stared off into the distance. All those years of fear, of dreading anyone ever knowing the truth, evaporated in an instant. It was over. The truth was out. She was swamped with relief, and with a horrible, aching guilt. As much as she wanted to tell Adrienne everything, she could not share the fact that it had happened again, on Pierre’s most recent visit.