Miramont's Ghost (21 page)

Adrienne moved to the window and looked out at the street below. She raised her hand to the drapes and let her fingers slide over the long silky cord. The traces of a smile moved the corners of her mouth. Yes, she would wait. And if, during this time of waiting, she sometimes imagined the ways in which Marie might die, what harm could there be in that? If it made Adrienne feel better, if it gave her the strength to keep going? Images of murder seemed an innocent consolation for all that she suffered at the hands of that woman.

CHAPTER THIRTY

A
drienne followed Marie up the steps, just as she had the evening before. Her legs ached. She struggled to make the climb.

Marie stood in the doorway, key in hand. Her eyes followed Adrienne as she stepped into the room, into the small prison that was hers. Marie pulled the door closed. The key turned in the lock.

Adrienne collapsed on the narrow cot and stared at the ceiling. She did not light a candle. Complete darkness was a better fit for her thoughts. She was exhausted. “Acting,” as Julien had called it, was draining. Every muscle in her body, every fiber of her being, felt strained and taut.

For years, she had spent most of her time alone, or with Lucie. Sometimes she painted, or played the piano with Emelie. The most stressful hours of her life had come on Sunday, when the family went to church and Adrienne was forced to endure the stares of the villagers.

Marie’s visits to Beaulieu were distressing—she had to be constantly on her guard—but they never lasted more than a few months. Even when Marie was home in France, Adrienne had her own room with her own things, waiting for her at the end of the day. She had been allowed to wander the grounds, to paint, to read. And there had been long periods, sometimes a year or more, when Marie did not come home to France at all. Never, in all that time, had Adrienne faced the unrelenting prospect of day after day, hour after hour, in Marie’s presence. Never, in all that time, had she faced the sheer stress of the past fifteen hours. Never before had she been faced with the incessant repetition of the same set of duties. Marie’s eyes focused on every one of her movements, every one of her expressions.

Adrienne turned on her side and let out a sigh. Such effort, to hide her emotions, to swallow the burning anger that rose from her stomach. Several times, she had to remind herself to look away, to drop her gaze, when Marie would look up and see Adrienne staring. The humiliation, the degradation, of wielding a feather duster, of being consigned to take orders, only caused her hatred to burn more brightly, like blowing on the red coals of a dying fire. She was certain that her anger flared in her cheeks, caused her eyes to glint like steel.

She would not give in. She would not allow Marie to strip her of her birthright. There had to be
something
she could do, some way to extricate herself from this mess. As she had so many times in the past days, Adrienne allowed herself to imagine Marie gone, dead, erased from being. It was like tonic water, like a cool breeze. She closed her eyes and smiled. Marie—dead and gone. Out of her life. What a relief it would be! Such freedom. Adrienne could pick up the pieces. She could find Gerard. They could begin again. She might have a chance at an actual life.

She did not imagine how this might be accomplished; she only allowed herself to feel the sweet release of never having to deal with the woman again. Never having to face those eyes of flint, focused on Adrienne as if they could burn holes in the girl. Never having to face the incredible ways in which Marie had conspired to keep Adrienne under control.

It had started as a game, really, just a way to find consolation. It gave her a sense of power, picturing the ways in which Marie might die. Suffocation. Strangulation. An accidental fall down the stairs. Adrienne had begun to pay particular attention to the inventory of pillows in the parlor. She had allowed herself to look at every curtain cord, in every room she entered.

She gauged the steepness and curve of each set of steps, took note of the steps that Marie used most often. She could picture it: Marie slipping at the top of the stairs, tumbling all the way to the bottom. Marie standing on the balcony outside her third-floor dressing rooms. She could see her, tumbling over the side of the railing. She could hear the thump of her body as it hit the street below, her arms and legs splayed out like those of a rag doll.

Adrienne held her hands out in front of her and examined them carefully: the long, slender fingers, the palms uncalloused, and until recently, completely free from work. Could she do it? Could she, Adrienne Beauvier de Beaulieu, commit murder? Could she silence forever that hateful poison that seeped from her own aunt, her own flesh and blood? She could imagine Marie gone, could imagine her dead and silent. But somehow, she could not actually see herself being the instrument that caused that fall, that caused her aunt’s death.

Adrienne stood and walked to the small window. Her thoughts swooped around her, relentless birds of torture. Murder. She shook her head at the word. What horrible twists of fate had put her in a position where she could actually contemplate
murde
r
?

She shook her head, turned away from the window, and began to unbutton her plain black dress. The dress felt stiff with dirt. She had not changed in days, she realized. Not since their stay at the Waldorf Hotel in New York had she bothered to change into a nightgown. Adrienne slipped her arms from the dress and let it drop to the floor. She moved to her tapestry bag, the one small bag that Marie had allowed her to bring when they left France. She reached in and pulled out another plain black dress. She threw it across the end of the bed. Underneath it was her nightgown, a white flannel with tiny blue roses on the bodice. Adrienne pulled it out of the bag and dropped it over her head. She moved wearily toward the bed.

She stopped and turned, reached for the traveling bag. She sat down on the bed and pulled the bag to her lap. She searched desperately until her hand wrapped around the soft watery caress of velvet and silk. Smiling, Adrienne pulled the dress from the bag. She had forgotten all about it. Marie had insisted, in that final, frantic hour before their departure, that Adrienne needed nothing but plain black dresses for the trip. “Traveling is a dusty, dirty business,” she explained.

She had insisted that once they reached America, she would take Adrienne shopping in New York and buy her a few new frocks. “The fashions are quite different in America, you’ll see,” she insisted. “They aren’t nearly as sophisticated as Paris, but then, you want to fit in, don’t you?”

Adrienne shook her head, remembering her own naïveté at Marie’s explanations. But as soon as Marie had left the room, she had reached for one gown, her favorite dress. It was blue, the deep blue of dusk. Tiny rows of ruffles lined the bodice, fitted with pintucks and lace. The skirt was the same deep blue. Twin rows of velvet ruffles decorated the hem. Adrienne pulled it from the bag and held it to her chest. She buried her nose in the fabric, searching for the smell of France, a whiff of home. She held the fabric against her cheek, lost in the soft caress of her dream.

She pictured escaping, leaving the castle in her blue dress. She pictured Gerard at her side. She pictured them making their way back to France—riding the train across the country, staying in New York. She could see herself standing next to him on board ship, her gloved hand locked in his. She pictured a home in Paris, her sister coming to visit. For a few moments, all her pain and fatigue vanished. She was lost in the dream of living a normal, happy life, a dream she had begun to imagine the first time Gerard had come to Beaulieu.

“I will wait,” she whispered to the dark. “I will pretend, just as Julien suggested. I will keep my head down and learn everything I can. I will give Gerard time to find me.” She stared at the dark mound of material in her hand.

Adrienne stood, held the dress to her chest, and paced up and down the narrow room. And when he did find her, she would be ready. She would learn all she could about the castle, about the secret staircases and the doors and balconies. She would try to learn a few words of English. She would watch the sisters at Montcalme, on the hill just above them, and try to learn their habits. She would study Julien and Marie, observing the patterns in their days.

Adrienne hid the dress in the bottom of the bag. She lay down on the bed and pulled up the thin, scratchy gray blanket. She exhaled her fatigue into the dark air. Julien was right. Acting, that was the way to go. She would pretend to acquiesce. In the meantime, she would learn all she could about her surroundings. She would be ready when Gerard appeared. She would prepare for their escape.

Adrienne held her hands up in front of her again. For now, she would put away the thought of murder. For now, she would not worry about whether or not she was strong enough to silence Marie. For now, she would focus on some other way to escape from the clutches of her aunt’s web.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

S
he did everything Marie asked of her, and she did it without uttering a word. She combed Marie’s hair every morning, met those dark eyes in the mirror. But her heart was veiled. She did not allow a flicker of emotion to cross her face. She hung Marie’s clothes, straightened the dressing room, her face a perfect blank. When Marie called, asked her to make tea or hang clothing, Adrienne complied. She did not speak. She curtsied, a mere wisp of a curtsy, a parody of a curtsy, dropped her eyes for a moment, and then looked Marie full in the eye once more.

And she used every opportunity, moving around that castle, feather duster in hand, to look for solutions. She used that feather duster as her excuse to examine every room in the building. She took note of every window, every door. She walked past the balcony doors on the third floor, stared at the wrought-iron railing that surrounded the small space. She calculated the chances of being able to climb over the railing, slide down the roof of the portico, and make it to the ground without injury.

She walked the back staircases, learned where each one ended, which door led to which room. She watched the clock, timing the appearance of the sisters with their meal trays. She watched Julien, trying to discern a pattern to when he left the castle and when he returned. He took the dogs for a walk every afternoon, close to four. Marie usually lay down for a nap while he was gone. She watched the windows, trying to see which direction he took when he left.

The afternoon sunlight slanted across the floor of the parlor. Marie sat by the fireplace, stitching. Adrienne stood by the bookcase, a cloth in her hand. She took down each book, wiped the spine and the tops of the pages where the dust gathered. She looked at each title. Her hand reached for the next volume, red with gold lettering. It was a dictionary, a French-English dictionary. Adrienne stole a glance in Marie’s direction. The book was too large, too heavy, to slip into her skirt. Adrienne wiped the book slowly, thoroughly, trying to determine a way to sneak the book upstairs, to her prison in the attic.

She put it back on the shelf, reached for the next volume, a slim little work in black cloth. This was also a French-English dictionary, of the type that a person would use when traveling. Adrienne glanced up at Marie. She turned her body between the shelf and Marie, pulled another volume off the shelf, and held it up to dust it. She slipped the smaller dictionary into the pocket of her dress and prayed that it would not bulge and give her away.

The loud clopping of horses’ hooves on the paving stones below caused both women to look up at the same time. Pounding fists thudded on the front door below them. No one had visited since Adrienne and Marie had first arrived. Adrienne wasn’t sure what to do. She looked at Marie.

Marie held her stitching, arrested in midair. She met Adrienne’s gaze. “Henriette, answer the door.”

Adrienne put her dust rag on the table and hurried down the stairs. She pulled the heavy door inward. A man with a mustache stood on the step. He twisted his hat in his hands.

Adrienne curtsied.

“Hello. I mean . . .
bonjour
. Is the father at home?” he asked her.

Adrienne stood, looking into the man’s eyes.
“Je ne comprends pas
,”
she murmured.

“The priest?” The man looked troubled. He twisted his hat again. “Père
Julien?”

Adrienne nodded. “Ahh . . .
Oui, monsieur
.”

She led the man up the stairs, through the parlor, and into the conservatory, where Julien was repotting a palm. Adrienne stopped at the glass doors and told Julien, in French, that a gentleman was here to see him.

Julien brushed the dirt from his hands. “Angus, how good to see you!” Julien held out his hand, and Angus Gillis stepped forward and took it. Adrienne curtsied and moved back into the parlor, pulling the double glass doors to the conservatory closed behind her. She moved back to the bookcase and took up her dust rag again.

She stood, working on books, not far from the two men in the next room, and strained her ears toward the sounds of the conversation. She almost smiled, thinking of the servants at home. The family had often forgotten they were in the room, and Adrienne realized now how perfectly suited servitude was to the game of spying. The voices of the two men drifted through the glass. She desperately wanted to be able to speak, to understand, English. Her fingers brushed the dictionary on the shelf.

Adrienne moved her body slightly, trying to watch the two men from under her lashes. Marie kept her head down on her stitching, but her body, too, was tense and taut, obviously strained toward any word she might understand. Adrienne shot a quick glance at Marie. The woman must certainly understand a lot more English than she let on. She had traveled back and forth so often over the years.

It was obvious that this was not a social call, despite the fact that Julien and Angus had been friends for some time. Adrienne could feel it in the air, even through her inability to understand the words that were spoken. The tension between the two men was palpable. Mr. Gillis reached inside his suit pocket and brought out a document, folded carefully. He held it out to Julien.

Julien’s eyes narrowed; he waited several tense seconds before he reached for the document in Angus’s outstretched hand. Their voices dropped, and Julien sank into a chair and unfolded the document, his face torqued with anger and with something that looked a lot like fear.

Adrienne almost forgot to use her duster, she was so intent on the energy of the exchange between Julien and this man who had built the castle. Angus muttered something and turned to leave, charging through the glass doors and coming straight at her. Adrienne looked up and saw his face, clouded with emotion. He held his hand up to her, a clear signal that he didn’t need her to show him out, muttered something in English, and charged past her and down the steps. She heard the door close after him, the sound of the horses and buggy as they clip-clopped down the hill.

Marie put her stitching on the chair and moved quickly into the room that Angus Gillis had just vacated. She closed the doors behind her, but Adrienne could hear them, and this time she understood clearly what was being said. Marie asked him what was going on, what were those papers from Mr. Gillis. Why hadn’t he stayed for tea?

Julien slouched in his chair; he did not look up at his mother. “A lawsuit. He’s filed a lawsuit.”

“A lawsuit? For what reason?” Marie’s voice was overloud, and Adrienne stepped back slightly, hoping they would forget she was just outside the door.

“He says I haven’t made a payment for over a year,” Julien continued. “He went into a whole tirade about how he and his brother advanced the money for all of this.” Julien waved his arm to indicate the castle. He shook his head, as if impatient and bored with the whole subject.

“But Julien, I sent you the money for the last payment over a year ago. What happened to those funds?” Marie’s eyes were narrow and piercing.

“And I gave them some,” Julien responded. He turned his eyes away from his mother. “But I used some of the money for a few other debts. A priest doesn’t make a great deal of money, Maman.”

The shouting continued, and Adrienne moved away from the conservatory. She had never heard the two of them argue, but this was obviously a topic that had come up more than once.

The glass doors opened, and Marie left the room, color glowing in her cheeks. She cast one stinging look at Adrienne and stormed through the parlor and up the stairs.

A crash erupted from the conservatory. Adrienne turned and saw that Julien had kicked over a huge potted palm. Dirt spilled across the floor; the palm splayed outward like the fingers of a hand. Julien kicked the half-empty pot again, and it skidded across the conservatory and crashed into the brick wall, pieces shattering across the floor.

Adrienne tensed. Her eyes took in the violence and anger smeared across the floor. She had never seen Julien like this. He’d always stayed calm, controlled, his voice always perfectly modulated. She stared at the broken pot and twisted palm, her stomach jumping. Her eyes rose and met his. His eyes were on fire, his jaw hard and set.

“What are you staring at?” Julien hissed at her. He strode from the room, the papers rolled tightly in his hand.

Adrienne watched him go. She took it all in—Marie’s angry words, the raised voices, the broken pot. She turned back to the mess of dirt and plant all over the floor in the conservatory. She had never stopped to consider it before, but now she had to wonder where Julien had come up with the money to build this place. This castle, with its forty-six rooms and fancy wallpaper and pressed ceiling, had to have cost a fortune.

Was that the secret that Marie did not want known? Was this the information that she had schemed and lied and manipulated to protect? Was that the reason why she had brought Adrienne here? So that no one would learn of his financial mismanagement?

Adrienne turned slightly, and from the corner of her eye, she could see Marie, standing at the window on the landing of the staircase, staring out into the streets where her son had disappeared.

Adrienne could see how brittle and old Marie was becoming. She seemed smaller, somehow. For one brief moment, Adrienne almost felt sorry for her. Then Marie turned, and their eyes met. There was nothing fragile in Marie’s look.