Miramont's Ghost (28 page)

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

J
ulien was slow in getting up the next morning. He turned in his bed, looked out the window at the mountains. Storm clouds billowed behind the peaks, spilled over into the canyons. The first fat flakes of snow swirled in the air. He stood and dressed. He did not kneel to the statue of the Virgin in his room. He did not pray.

The morning was half gone when he left his own room and walked into the grand ballroom. His mother sat in the corner, dressed in black, a hat and veil on her head. Her hands were tiny and lost in black gloves. She held her handbag in her lap.

“I’m going back to France,” she said, not looking at him but addressing her words to the tapestry hanging on the wall in front of her. It was the tapestry the family had had for generations, the one from Queen Isabella of Spain.

Julien dropped his eyes to the floor, swallowed hard, and sighed. “When?”

She turned her eyes to his. “Now. Today.”

Julien pursed his lips. Her announcement brought nothing except a profound feeling of relief. He sighed. “As you wish.”

“You can take me to the train station.” She had turned her eyes away again. It was not a question.

Julien sat in the parlor, slumped in the wing chair, his feet propped on the table in front of him. He held a brandy snifter in his hand, twirled it in his fingers. The only light in the room came from the fire. Amber spirits danced on the floor.

He sighed, a long, slow breath, heavy with fatigue. Marie had taken only one trunk. She had left most of her belongings; all of the treasures that had been in the family for years were still here, just as she had left them.

He had helped her board the train and find a compartment. He held her elbow and helped her into her seat. She leaned back against the cushion, stared out the window into the dark of the station. She did not turn to him. She did not look at him. She did not say good-bye.

Julien took a slow sip of the brandy and leaned back into the chair. The warmth of the liquid burned its way down his throat, through his chest, into his belly. He closed his eyes. He was exhausted—physically, emotionally, mentally. He felt adrift in a dark sea, untethered from the one woman who had always been there, always a hindrance to his desires and yet always able to help when he needed it.

The sound, when it finally penetrated his awareness, was soft, barely discernable. The flames of the fire crackled. But underneath that sound, wrapped around it, coming through it, he heard the sound of a door, pushing, slowly, along the floor.

Julien opened his eyes. He looked through the glass doors of the conservatory, opening into the parlor. Blue moonlight filled the space beyond, plants reaching up to touch the frosty light. He leaned forward, and stared into the icy blue darkness. The creaking sound of a wooden door reached his ears. He listened, his body strained for every sound, every breath of movement.

It grew quiet once again. He leaned forward for what seemed like ages, but could hear nothing else. At last, he shook his head, sighed, and leaned back in the chair. He took another drink of the brandy, closed his eyes.

Again, that soft sound: a heavy door, tight in its frame, pushing slowly against the floor. Julien’s eyes shot open. He stood and walked to the door of the conservatory. He moved into the blue glow of the moonlight in the glass-enclosed room and turned, slowly, trying to find the sound.

He stopped, and gasped. His mouth fell open. The door to his private chapel—that heavy wooden door that he had so carefully locked last night—stood open. He felt a rush of cold air on his right side. He forced himself to move, one slow, deliberate step at a time, toward the opened door. He cocked his head, trying to see into the darkened room of the private chapel. He held his breath, every fiber of his being tense with listening. Behind him, the doors of the conservatory slammed shut, the glass rattling in the doorframes.

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

J
ulien sat at his desk. His beard was unkempt; his eyes looked like those of a wild animal. His hair stood in spikes on his head, uncombed. He brushed his hand through it and rested his head in his hands.

In the weeks since his mother had left, he had barely slept. Every time he lay down, he pictured Adrienne’s body, lifeless and bloody, as he carried her to his private chapel and buried her in the tunnel. And every time he did manage to drift off for a few moments, his mind fought its way back to consciousness, listening as the music carried toward his room. The first time it happened, he got out of bed, walked down the hall, his ear cocked toward the sound. Someone was playing the piano in the great hall. Notes of the night serenade drifted into the room, like a dream. He would walk to the edge of the hall, keeping his feet hushed. But no matter how quiet he was, the minute he stood there, his hand on the switch for the light, the music suddenly stopped. He turned, more and more often, to the bottle of brandy he kept by his bed.

The pounding on the front door made him jump. Julien shot up, walked to the window, and pulled the curtain aside, trying to see to the street below. The angle of the roof was wrong; he could see nothing but the top of the portico. The banging on the door sounded again.

Julien ran his hands through his hair, swallowed. He took a deep breath. He straightened his clothes. He noticed how disheveled, how wrinkled and dirty he looked. He stopped, thought about not answering the door.

The pounding sounded again, more insistent. “Father?” a woman’s voice called.

Julien swallowed again. He clenched his jaw and went downstairs, pulled the door open. Mother Mary Meyers, the superior for the Sisters of Mercy at the sanitarium, stood on the stoop, the skirts of her white habit billowing out around her.

“Good morning,” she barked. Her eyes were hard and cold, and she took in his unkempt appearance. “Might I have a word with you?” She stepped through the door without waiting for his reply.

Julien ground his teeth. “I’m rather busy this morning, Mother.”

“Yes. Well.” She ran her eyes over his beard, over the hair on his head standing up in tufts. She could probably smell the alcohol on his breath. “This won’t take long.”

Julien turned to walk up the stairs and waved his hand for her to follow.

He led her to the parlor. She moved in, her stride swift and strong.

“Please have a seat,” he snapped, annoyed with the interruption. He was too exhausted to deal with her today and wished only to get this encounter over with as quickly as possible.

“No,” she bellowed. “As I said, this won’t take long.” She watched him as he walked to the edge of the room and dropped into a wing chair.

She straightened her back, held her hands folded in front of her, rough and red against her white habit. “I’ll be frank, Father,” she stated.

Julien moved his eyes to the window across the room.

“There have been reports . . .” She stopped. Her hands fidgeted. “I have received reports that . . . There are allegations . . .”

Julien moved his eyes to her face. “What allegations?” He glared at her.

“Allegations that . . . that you have been touching the children.”

Julien’s jaw clamped shut, his face flushed with anger. His eyes burned into her. “Is that so?”

She did not wither at his look. “Yes, Father. Several of the sisters have come to me. It seems that some of the children have told them . . .” She took another breath, threw her shoulders back. “The children are telling some very alarming stories.”

“And you believe them?” Julien ground his teeth. His fists clenched and unclenched at his sides. “Children are well known for making up stories.”

“I didn’t . . . not at first. But I have spoken to some of the children myself. Their stories are . . .” She raised her eyebrows. “Convincing. Far too detailed to be childish imagination. I felt I must confront the situation.”

Julien rose from his chair. They stood facing each other, locked in a battle of wills.

“Have you been touching . . .” she began.

Julien slammed his hand on the table. A paperweight jumped and wobbled. “Don’t you dare speak to me like that!” His words were clipped and slow, low and heavy, like thunder. He slammed his hand down again.

Mother Meyers jumped at the sound, but she did not drop her eyes.

“I won’t have it! Do you hear?” He started to move around the table, staring at the woman before him, wanting to put his hands around her neck. “You will not come into my home and speak to me like this!”

“I didn’t believe it,” she said quietly. “Not at first. Even as I walked over here today, I didn’t quite believe it.”

Julien’s jaw was hard. Color flamed in his neck.

“Now . . .” She tipped her head, just slightly. “Seems like a rather strong reaction, from a man who has done nothing.”

Julien took another step toward her, his arms taut, like violin strings pulled too tight, ready to snap.

He stopped, two feet from her face, and stared at her. “You’ll be dead within a year,” he hissed.

“Are you threatening me?” She pulled her shoulders up and stared right back at him.

His breathing was ragged. The sour smell of brandy filled the air.

She met his gaze. Then she turned sharply on her heel. Her shoes snapped and clicked across the floor and down the steps.

Julien heard the door slam. He paced to the window, pulled the curtain aside, watched as she strode away, her white habit sailing out behind her. He stood watching, long after she had disappeared.

He turned and went to the bar, poured another brandy, despite the early-morning hour. He returned to the window, sipping, and stared out at the street. His mind reeled with her accusations. Who spoke? Which children? Who dared to tell such stories? He wanted to march into town, grab children by their collars, shout into their small, frightened faces. “Was it you? Or you?” He imagined their fright, tears popping into their eyes.

Anger pounded in his face, in his ears, in his neck. He was furious. He paced back and forth in the parlor. And then he heard it, once again: the swish of wood, the door brushing along the floor. He turned slowly. Sunlight washed across the conservatory. Potted palms lifted their arms to the light. The door to his chapel moved slowly, as if some invisible force was pushing it open.

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

D
r. Creighton finished measuring the elixir. He tightened the lid, put a label on the small bottle, and walked back to the counter at the front of the drugstore. For a few hours every afternoon, while he wasn’t busy with patients at the sanitarium, he dispensed remedies from this tiny shop on Manitou Avenue.

Fred Parker stood by the front window, staring into the street. Red mud filled the street in heavy clumps and mounds, churned up by the many horses and carriages. He turned, and Dr. Creighton noticed the dark circles under his eyes, the twitch at the corners of his mouth. His eyes jumped uneasily around the room.

“Fred? Are you all right?” Dr. Creighton took the gold coin that Fred held out to him, payment for the elixir. “You seem a little jumpy.” Dr. Creighton stopped. He’d never seen Fred act like this before. He looked guilty, like he’d just robbed a bank.

Fred glanced back at the street. He turned back toward the doctor, leaned slightly to look behind the doc into the shelves at the back. He leaned one hand on the counter, his eyes coming up to Dr. Creighton. “Couple of us boys is getting together this evenin’.” He smiled, a slick, oily smile. He glanced behind the doctor again, turned his body to look at the door. “Gonna clean up the neighborhood a little.”

“What do you mean?”

Fred stroked his mustache. “You know that priest? Father Morier?” Fred dre
w the syllables out in a false attempt at the proper French pronunciation.

Dr. Creighton nodded.

Fred looked behind the doctor again, searching the shadows for spies. “Rotten bastard! Word is he’s been touching the kids. Little kids. Same age as my Sallie.” Fred shook his head. “Goddamned rotten bastard!”

Dr. Creighton let out a slow leak of air. “Fred, are you . . . are you certain? This is a very serious accusation. Are you absolutely sure?” Dr. Creighton remembered the French maid that he had been called to look in on a few weeks ago. She was young, but certainly not a child. He’d gone back to check on her a few days later, and Julien had informed him that the maid and his mother had gone back to France. Probably best, given her condition, the doctor had thought at the time.

Fred leaned forward again. “You know that little Tyler girl? Ain’t but seven year old? Her mama said she cried and carried on like she’d been kilt! And once she told her mama, then the lid came off.” Fred puffed. “Then other kids started talking. Makes me sick, that piece of French scum.”

“Fred, even if this is true . . . shouldn’t you let the law handle it? He’s a priest. He deserves the chance to defend himself.” Dr. Creighton fought the anger, the nausea that rushed over him. He thought of his own little girl. She was nine.

“The law?” Fred exploded. “Let the law handle it? And drag those kids through the courts? A trial? Let everyone in town see who they are? Make ’em get up in front of people, and have to tell their story? Are you crazy?”

Dr. Creighton swallowed.

“Seems to me them kids been through enough. Rotten goddamned son of a bitch.”

Fred stopped, turned slowly toward the doctor. “You ain’t . . . you ain’t a friend a his, is ya?”

Dr. Creighton pulled his shoulders up. “What are you saying, Fred Parker?”

They met each other’s eyes.

They stared at each other for several moments. Dr. Creighton lowered his gaze to the countertop. He quieted his breath. He looked back at Fred. “I just think maybe you ought to let the law handle it.”

Fred spat in the direction of the spittoon in the corner. “Well . . . I guess I ain’t asked what you thought.” He turned and left, letting the door slam behind him. The bell on the handle jangled.

Basil Creighton stood still, staring out at Manitou Avenue. Pockets of snow lay heaped at the sides of the street, only churned into mud where the horses had done their work. Basil stared at the mud. He never had liked the father. He’d always found him arrogant, a little too full of his own importance. And that thing with the maid—that had made him want to choke the priest.

He gulped. His Adam’s apple strained against his shirt collar. The last thing in the world he wanted to do was to help that sorry excuse for a man and even sorrier excuse for a priest—a man of God. But it didn’t matter what the man had done; he still had the right to a trial. He still had the right to face his accusers, to have his day in court.

Basil moved to the front door, pulled his key out of his pocket, and locked the bolt. He turned the sign in the window to “Closed.” He stared out into the street. It was growing quiet; only a few people stirred in the late winter afternoon.

He turned and hurried out the back of the shop. He carried his bag, pulled the collar of his coat up against the chill of the wind blowing off the mountain. He hurried up the steep grade of Ruxton Avenue.

Light shone from inside the houses. They looked warm and safe, protected from the weather, safe from harm. Basil looked around, wondering how many of these homes were actually secure. If this horrible rumor was true, how many homes had been violated? How many children had that man touched? His stomach churned. He thought about going home, abandoning this fool’s errand and walking the block and a half to his own wife and children, probably this moment sitting down to dinner.

But the thought of sitting in his own home, warm in front of the fire, his daughters relaxed and comfortable in the room around him, while somewhere in the streets, the priest was being beaten to death, or shot, or maybe hung . . . Basil rushed past the turnoff to his own home and continued up the hill on Ruxton Avenue.

He stopped at number sixteen, climbed the steps to the porch, and banged on the front door. It was the dinner hour, but it couldn’t be helped. There was no time to waste.

Angus Gillis answered the door, a white napkin stuck in his shirt collar. Angus reached for it and pulled it away. “Basil! Good to see you. Come in, come in.” Basil stepped inside, shook the thick hand that Angus offered. “Have you eaten?”

Basil looked up at Angus Gillis, glad he’d chosen to come here. The builder was as open and honest and straightforward as any man in this town. Basil admired his clear thinking, his even temper, the way he had handled the situation with the priest over his unpaid debts on the castle. Somehow, even through all that, Angus had managed to stay friends with Morier.

Basil glanced toward the dining room, where Mrs. Gillis and their daughter, Lenore, sat waiting. He turned and looked Angus in the eye. “Thanks for offering, Angus, but I’m short on time. Can we speak privately?”

Angus nodded, and leaned into the dining room to address his wife and daughter. “You two go ahead. I’ll finish a little later.” He led Basil into the parlor and closed the sliding pocket door behind him. A few minutes later, the door rolled open and both men moved swiftly. Angus reached for his coat and hat from the hat tree in the hallway. Mrs. Gillis stood, staring at her husband.

Angus paused for a moment at the door to the dining room. He looked at his wife and dropped his voice. “There’s a lynch mob, going after Father Morier.”

Her hand rose to her throat, a napkin clutched tightly in her fist. “Be careful, Mr. Gillis,” she whispered. “He is not worth your life.”

He nodded to her and clamped his hat on his head. The two men left, the door shutting with a sharp thud behind them.

“You go down to the town clock,” Angus murmured. “See if you can find out where they are. Slow them down, if you can.” Dr. Creighton nodded, and started down the hill he’d just come up.

Angus went behind his house and hitched the horses to his buggy. He threw a couple of wool blankets into the back, a buffalo robe on top. He climbed up in the seat and clucked to the horses. They turned to the right, up Ruxton Avenue, toward the castle.

Julien heard the pounding on the door, but he was slow in responding, as if waking from a dream. His shirt was untucked, wrinkled, and messy. He noticed the bottle of brandy in his hand and moved to put it on the table. He raised a hand to his face. His beard had grown shaggy and unkempt. His eyes stung; he could smell the odor on his clothes and body and breath. He waited, but the pounding on the front door was loud and insistent, and he forced himself down the stairs.

“Why, Angus. What a pleasant surprise,” Julien began, his words slurred and sloppy.

Angus stepped abruptly through the door and closed it behind them. Julien stepped back in surprise. “Get your coat, Father. There’s no time to waste.”

“What in the world? What are . . .” Julien shook his head, trying to clear it. “What are you talking about?”

“Father? Now. Get your coat. There’s a lynch mob, down the hill. They want your hide, and they’ll be here soon. You need to get out of here. There’s no time to lose.”

Julien’s eyes darted from Angus’s face to the floor to the stairs leading up to the parlor. His throat worked in a series of gulps. He stared at his home around him.

“Father? Get your coat.”

Julien raised his eyes to Angus Gillis. He turned, let his eyes glide over the golden wood on the stairs, the wallpaper from Paris. He looked at the fire in the parlor, the huge wall of carefully cut stone surrounding it. Light danced on the ceiling and the molding, shipped from a cabinetmaker in New York, that surrounded the room. He moved slowly, as if it were too much to ask. Too much to be borne. How could he leave this castle? The one he had designed, the one Angus and his brother had built?

His hand moved to the side of his head. All that time, all those years, at the parish in New Mexico, waiting, hoping, for a chance to go somewhere where he would feel at home, where the people would appreciate him. Somewhere where his every move wasn’t shadowed by the stares of the dark-eyed people who so obviously disliked him, somewhere where there were more Europeans, more of the wealthy, privileged set that he felt so at home with.

Julien let his eyes travel over every corner, every plant. He could see the painting his mother had shipped from Beaulieu, the still life that had hung at the castle in France since long before Julien was born.

Angus reached for his elbow, held it firmly in his large hand. “We have to go.”

Julien nodded. He took his coat from the hook, pulled it over his arms and shoulders. He reached for his hat, clamped it on his head. He glanced up the stairs, one last time, and then let Angus guide him out the front door. Julien climbed into the back of the buggy and curled up on the floor. Angus covered him with blankets, the buffalo robe on top.

Julien felt the buggy dip as Angus climbed up on the seat. He heard the crack of the whip, the sharp clop-clop of the horses’ hooves on the pavement. He felt the steep pitch of the hill as the buggy started down. Under the covers, in the dark, he followed every turn and twist of the road: left onto Ruxton Avenue, the curve of the street where Angus’s own house stood, the right turn onto Manitou Avenue at the bottom of the hill.

He heard their voices, rising in volume as the buggy drew close to the group of men waiting by the town clock. The buggy stopped.

“Evenin’, Angus.” Julien recognized the timbre of the voice. He couldn’t remember where he’d heard it before, what face it might belong to.

“Evenin’, boys.” Angus’s voice was friendly and even, completely calm. “Having a party?”

Stanley Reed laughed. “Guess you could say that, huh, boys?” Julien could hear the laughter of several men.

Reed turned back toward Angus. “More like housecleaning, actually.”

“That so?” Julien was impressed by how normal Angus made his voice sound.

“Certain French priest has made a little mess around here,” Reed continued. “Want to join us?”

“I would. I would, indeed. No room for that kind of thing around here.”

Julien’s heart pounded. The sound was deafening, like the ocean in a storm. He wondered how the men outside the buggy could keep from hearing it. For a moment, Julien wondered if Angus was going to turn him over to the men.

“But I’m afraid I can’t—not this evening anyway,” Angus said. “Got an appointment in Colorado Springs. We’re looking at house plans. But I wish you boys success. Any man that would do something like . . . like what I’ve heard. Well, he doesn’t deserve to live, far as I’m concerned. A man of the cloth, at that!” Julien held his breath. The tension was strong enough to sober him completely. He could feel the quiet in the men outside the wagon; he could feel the way Angus held his breath, as if uncertain whether they would let him go. Julien heard the rattle of a harness, heard Angus cluck to the horses, and they lurched forward. The wheels on the buggy creaked and moaned.