Miramont's Ghost (19 page)

She laid the quill on the paper. Adrienne had lived a lifetime of isolation and loneliness, a lifetime of feeling different, inadequate, flawed. All those feelings came flooding back now, threatening to sweep her away. Perhaps Marie had spoken the truth that day in the morning room, when Adrienne had received word of his transfer. Perhaps he had already heard the rumors about his fiancée. Perhaps he had stopped for a pastry, and Madame LaMott had been quick to let him know all the talk about Adrienne Beauvier de Beaulieu, the granddaughter of the comte, the pretty girl who was quite mad. Perhaps Marie herself had found a way to inform him of Adrienne’s failings.

Maybe he had asked to be transferred to Brazil. Perhaps he had chosen the easy way out—to take the assignment in Brazil and pretend that he was going against his own wishes.

Adrienne stared at the paper. Her thoughts swooped and swirled in the darkness, vampires that drank away every hope, every sweet memory of him. She hated herself in that moment. Hated what she was, hated what she could sometimes see. And now, when she needed a vision to guide her, to give her some spark of hope, to show her a way out, there was nothing. When she most needed guidance, her gift refused to cooperate.

Adrienne could count on one hand the people who cared about her, or had cared about her. Her sister, Emelie, only twelve, and just as helpless as Adrienne herself. Lucie, a servant, removed from the château in Beaulieu to God knew where. Her grand-père, dead for over ten years now. And Gerard. At least for a short time, it had really felt as if he cared. No matter how her doubts nagged at her, he was her only chance.

She picked up the quill and began to scribble the words.

Dearest Gerard,

I have reason to believe that my aunt Marie is trying to stop us from being together. She has taken me from my home, and we are now in America, in New York. I believe she has sent word to my family that I died at sea, but it is not true.

Tomorrow we board a train heading west, to a place called Manitou Springs, Colorado, and the home of my cousin, Julien Morier. I cannot begin to fathom her motives for these actions, but I beg you, if you get this letter, to please come for me.

Adrienne laid the quill on the desk, rubbed her hands against the sides of her face, searching for the words she needed. She had always been so careful in her previous letters to Gerard to try to strike just the right tone: intimate, but not too intimate. Her eyes focused on the candle flame for a moment. She shook her head. Tone was not important here. She was desperate.

She heard Marie in the next room, the rustle of covers, the squeak of bedsprings. Adrienne didn’t breathe for a moment. She sat silently, completely still, waiting until she was certain that Marie was asleep. Then she picked up the quill and bent over her paper.

You are my only hope. Please come for me.

Yours faithfully,

Adrienne

She folded the letter and slipped it into an envelope with the hotel crest in the corner. She did not know the address, and so wrote only his name, in care of the French embassy, Rio de Janeiro, Brazil. She hated not having more information but consoled herself with the thought that there could be only one French embassy in Rio de Janeiro. She ran her finger along the length of the stationery, wondering if Gerard would ever run his hand over the same thick paper. She put all her hope, all her love, in that touch, wanting desperately to convey all that she could not say.

She knew that Marie was watching her every move in the daylight hours, and of course she didn’t dare leave the hotel room at this hour. Adrienne folded the letter and slid it into her wrist purse, a small black bag knitted in silk. Somewhere along the way, she would find an excuse to slip off to the restroom, and drop the letter into a mailbox.

So much depended on that one brief letter—so much that was completely out of her control. It could take months to reach him, if it did at all. It could take several more months for Gerard to travel to America and try to find her. And of course there was the chance that he would not choose to come at all.

Adrienne sighed and turned toward the window. The gray of the coming daylight was just beginning to stain the night sky. All her doubts and fears and insecurities vied for attention.

Adrienne pushed those thoughts away. None of that mattered now. He was her only hope.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

T
he train was hot and dusty, and Adrienne leaned her head against the window. She had watched the horizon for hours now, watched as the mountains grew from specks of blue to towering peaks as they drew nearer. The swaying of the train, the rhythmic clicking of the wheels pulled her, dragged her down into sleep.

She felt closed in, cramped, almost claustrophobic in the small space of her dream. The space was dark, gray, and unfocused, like walking in the fog, too confined. Like a prison. In the dream, Adrienne stood, looking out a small window. She was high up: the street below her looked small and far away. There were bars on the window. She knew, without turning to look, that she was locked in. From somewhere behind her, she heard a baby cry. Its wails pierced the walls of the room.

Adrienne’s eyes shot open. A woman sat on the train seat to the left, holding her baby as it screeched, its face turning bright red with the effort. Adrienne swallowed and tipped her head to look out the window. The train was slowing. She could see the reddish stone of the station just ahead.

The train pulled into Colorado Springs, and Adrienne stood. Her legs and back felt numb, held too long in one position, and she was glad to move. She tried to get her bearings out the windows of the train, but they pulled inside the station and were swallowed by the darkness of the building. She could see very little.

Marie wove down the aisle in front of Adrienne, her body swaying from side to side, the feather of her hat bobbing and pointing, careening like a drunken bird. They stepped from the car and were immediately met by a muggy blast of station air.

Julien hurried over. Except for the collar that marked his ecclesiastical calling, he looked like many of the men in the station. His black beard was well trimmed, and he held his bowler in his hands as he moved toward them.

“Maman,” he said, kissing his mother on her wrinkled, powdery white cheek. “I trust you had a good trip?”

“Adequate, I suppose,” Marie replied. “Each time I make the journey, it seems longer and farther than the time before. But perhaps it is just my age.”

Julien turned and took Adrienne’s hand. “Adrienne! How good it is to see you!
Comment allez-vous
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”
His eyes sparkled, and he raised her gloved hand to his lips. “You’ve grown into a lovely young woman, Adrienne. How long it has been since I saw you last. You were only a child, and now look at you.” He held both her hands and raised her arms.

Adrienne smiled, gave the smallest of curtsies, and dropped her eyes to the ground. She had only vague memories of this cousin: his illness when she was very young, a visit he made to France when she was nine or ten. Like so many of the memories from her childhood, they were hazy and indistinct. She remembered nothing about him, nothing about his personality. Her stomach began to churn. She could not allow herself to think about what kind of life awaited her here.

Julien went off to make arrangements for their bags and then led the ladies to the waiting buggy, sitting in the red dust of Bijou Street, in front of the depot.

“I borrowed this buggy from the Gillis brothers,” Julien explained as he climbed up and took the reins. “Mine isn’t large enough to hold all of us. I suppose I will need to see about buying something larger. I didn’t know you were coming, Adrienne”—he turned and looked over his shoulder at her—“until a few days ago when I got Maman’s letter. I am so thrilled that you decided to come.” He clucked to the horses, and they lurched forward. Adrienne made note of the fact that Julien had not been in on this scheme to bring her here; it was all Marie’s doing.

“The Gillises are my neighbors on Ruxton Avenue. The same ones who built the castle. Remember, Mother? I think I wrote to you about them.”

Marie nodded.

“They’ve got quite a reputation around here. Built the El Paso County Courthouse, the parish in Manitou, numerous other buildings.” He waved his hand as he spoke. “And of course, I wanted the best when I started the castle. It pays to hire the best, don’t you agree, Maman?”

Julien sat in the front seat of the carriage, Marie beside him. Adrienne sat in the seat behind. She could not remember ever having heard Julien talk so much at one time. He was animated about the castle, by the thought of showing it off to both of them.

“There were times when I thought we would never get it done,” Julien continued. “I mean—so many architectural styles combined in one building. And it’s built right into the hillside. That was a piece of work, too, I should tell you. There were old mining shafts in there that had to be covered up. Quite a structural challenge.” Adrienne stared at the back of his head. His words sparked a vague memory. Was it a dream? A vision? Something about the castle, nestled against the hillside. But she could not remember.

“But, oh, Maman! Wait ’til you see it. I know it will remind you of France.”

They turned right onto Colorado Avenue, and Adrienne gasped at the beauty spread before her. Mountains rose in front of them, purple against the blue sky, breathtaking in their size and proximity. She had read of the Rocky Mountains; she had watched from the train windows as they chugged across the prairie and the mountains drew nearer. But now, sitting right at their base in the open air, she was overwhelmed. She could see the thick green pines, red rock formations jutting through the trees, reaching into the sky.

“That mountain is Pikes Peak,” Julien continued. “Discovered almost a century ago. Stunning, isn’t it? Over fourteen thousand feet tall. And the castle is right at the base of it.”

Adrienne could understand why Julien had wanted to build here. The mountains and pine trees and rock outcroppings were so much like the area around Beaulieu. It was beautiful. Her heart hammered; she fought the storm of pain that threatened to overtake her at the thought of home.

They drove through Colorado City, a few miles from the train station. “This area is a little rough,” Julien said. “Lots of saloons, and miners, and . . . Well, not exactly the same caliber as Colorado Springs, I can tell you. General Palmer has been very careful to keep the Springs genteel, refined. He works hard to keep the rabble outside. Do you remember him, Maman? You met him when we were working on bringing the railroad into Santa Cruz.”

Adrienne watched as the doors to a saloon flew open and a man came sailing out into the street. He sprawled in the mud facedown. She turned her head to watch as he dragged himself up. She could hear music spilling out of the dance hall after him. The buggy moved through the hubbub of Colorado City, and the road curved. A vista of red rocks towered in the near distance—every shade of scarlet and rose and apricot and sienna. Ponderosa pines stretched their feathery limbs around the rocks, and scrub oak covered the areas with any soil. The scene looked like a tapestry, like the finest work of a Persian master weaver.

Julien stopped the buggy, obviously pleased by Adrienne’s appreciation. “Quite a sight, isn’t it? The Indians consider it sacred ground. A while back a German man who lived here started calling it the Garden of the Gods. The name has stuck. Fitting, don’t you think?”

“It’s beautiful,” Adrienne murmured. “I can see why you wanted to build here.” The air was clear and crisp. The smell of pine trees was thick. The scenery lifted her spirits. She heard the call of a red-tailed hawk, and she shaded her eyes with a gloved hand, watching it glide through the sky.

Julien clucked to the horses, and they hurried forward, anxious and quick now that they were getting close to home. As they moved into the hills, the glimpse of Pikes Peak was lost, obscured by the hills and canyons of Manitou. Gray clouds piled up behind the mountains and spilled down into the town. The wind kicked up. Adrienne shivered.

They traveled the last half mile of Manitou Avenue at a trot, trying to beat the rain. The buildings, the red brick of the Presbyterian church, the town clock, the library, all blurred together in a jumble of stone and slanting rain. Adrienne hunched in her seat, her eyes blinking against the spattering of raindrops that hit her face. Julien turned left, up Ruxton Avenue. The street rose sharply and the horses slowed.

They turned right. The horses clipped over the bridge on Ruxton Creek, and despite all Julien’s talk, she was still awed by the immensity of Miramont. The castle rose before them, four stories of wood and stone. The hill climbed sharply behind it, as if the castle had been carved from the mountain itself. Adrienne looked at the key-shaped windows on the third floor, at the glass conservatory below them, filled with greenery. She had seen it in visions, but in person, the building had a commanding presence.

Wind gusted. Lightning flashed in the dark skies overhead. Thunder bellowed. Rain beat the pavement in plate-sized splatters. An icy finger of wind raced across her shoulders and down her arms, and Adrienne shuddered. Julien pulled the carriage beneath the portico and jumped down, quick to help the women out of the rain. There were no servants to greet them.

Julien turned the key and pushed open the wooden door. The women stepped inside, shaking off the moisture from their skirts and shawls. Marie removed her hat, and drops splashed on the floor, the formerly proud plume now looking like a shipwrecked sailor. A wooden staircase rose to their right, and Julien led them up.

“I ordered the wallpaper from Paris,” he said. “I wanted to bring France here—to make this place feel more like home.”

Adrienne trailed behind Julien and Marie. She took in the pale blue, sage, and cream of the wallpaper. Her hands trailed over the honey-gold wood railing on the stairs. At the top of the staircase, to the left, was the parlor. The walls were deep sienna, almost the color of the red rocks and soil they had just passed through. Thick carpets and mahogany furnishings filled the room. Julien bent down and struck a match to the wood and kindling already set in the fireplace, a huge stone affair that covered one entire wall.

“You may recognize the secretary, Maman. From the Orleans family. The crystal is from that set that we had in Beaulieu . . . remember the one from Queen Isabella?”

Marie nodded and smiled her approval. “Julien, this is wonderful! The design is so original.” She turned slowly, her eyes taking in every corner, every detail of the molding and pressed ceiling.

He led them down the hall to the right, past the dining room and kitchen. “The kitchen is unnecessary, really.” Julien swept his hand up, indicating the dark wood cabinets. “We don’t have any servants here, for doing our own cooking. But I put in a kitchen anyway. And I’ve made arrangements with the Sisters of Mercy to provide our meals.” He beamed at his mother.

“I gave them that property on the hill, just above the castle. They’re going to use it for a sanitarium. Word is out, it seems. Every tuberculosis patient in the world is coming to Colorado Springs and Manitou. Something about the dry mountain air has been very effective for many patients.”

Julien moved around the room, his hand brushing over the countertops. “The only thing I asked in return for the property is that they provide us with our meals. Ingenious, don’t you think? They’ll be cooking for all the sisters and their patients, so it really won’t take much extra to bring the three of us some of that food.” He opened a cupboard, showing them the dishes and crystal that filled them. “But just in case we want to have someone in for tea, I went ahead and stocked the kitchen.”

He opened a small door at the back of the kitchen. Marie and then Adrienne poked their heads into the small, narrow space. A staircase rose sharply along the back wall of the castle. Adrienne touched the stones lining the outside wall. They were cold, slightly damp. The air was close. She shivered, trying to shake the dark foreboding that inched its way along her back and neck.

“They can use this staircase. It connects to a tunnel that goes into the mountain and up into Montcalme. See, Maman.” Julien smiled, obviously proud of his own foresight and planning. “They don’t even have to go out in the weather to bring us our meals.”

Marie smiled and laid her hand on Julien’s forearm. “Wonderful, Julien. This is very well thought out.”

They followed Julien to the third floor. The staircase opened onto a long, narrow room. The ceiling was made of pressed gold panels; the wallpaper was flecked with gold. The key-shaped windows they had observed from the street lined one wall of the room. Julien had already hung the tapestry from Queen Isabella, the paintings that Marie had shipped. Adrienne turned slowly on the wooden floor. The room was exactly as she had seen it in her vision a few months before. She heard, once again, the orchestra at one end, watched as the costumed ball-goers danced.

Julien led them to a large bedchamber and balcony. The four-poster bed of the empress Josephine towered in one corner. Julien turned to his mother, his teeth gleaming from the center of his dark beard. “It arrived last week, Maman. I had some men from town put it together for you. It took eight men to get that bed upstairs.”

He moved quickly to a little bathroom, next to Marie’s dressing room. He sat on the edge of the tub and turned on the faucet. Water poured into the heavy bathtub. “And I put in all the latest amenities. Running water. Electricity. Radiators for heat. You’ll see such a difference when winter gets here.” Julien’s voice was rapturous, as if he himself had invented steam heat.

The tour continued, Julien stopping and pointing and talking. His face glowed; his eyes sparkled. Adrienne did not remember this Julien, excited and talkative and proud. She remembered his pale coloring, his wracking cough, when he had come to France, ill from the poisoning. She had never seen him this animated.

They stopped in front of a small room, corners and nooks making it very different from the others. There was a small fireplace, surrounded with tile.

“The guest bedchamber,” Julien explained.

“It’s charming,” Adrienne murmured, speaking for the first time since entering the castle. She turned a slow-motion circle in the center of the room. The twists and turns and corners gave the room sixteen sides. The fireplace, the dresser, reminded her in some small way of her own room in Beaulieu. A little like home. She sighed and followed Julien and Marie as the tour continued.