Miramont's Ghost (22 page)

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

U
nlike the castle in France, Miramont Castle was often surrounded by activity. The sanitarium on the hill behind them bustled with goings-on. Nuns scurried back and forth between the tents spilling down the hill and the wooden structure of Montcalme, just above. They looked like blackbirds in their long habits, like blackbirds stooping to pick at seeds as they bent over their patients.

To the south of the castle, directly out the front windows, lay Ruxton Avenue. Every afternoon, a steady parade of tourists and townspeople walked by, some climbing the hill, others in their buggies, the horses clip-clopping on the steep, curvy road to Pikes Peak. Not far up Ruxton Avenue was the Iron Springs, one of the many natural springs for which Manitou had become famous. It was covered with a portico, surrounded by benches.

Adrienne stood at the window on the landing of the staircase, the lace curtain pushed to one side. She watched the steady stream of people, laughing and talking as they climbed the hill to the springs. The ladies looked like dolls, dressed in every stitch of finery they could manage. Adrienne looked at the wide hats, the ruffled parasols, the puff sleeves and slim-waisted dresses that seemed to be all the rage. She strained to see the lace and ribbons, the bodices thick with pintucks, the tiny buttons climbing to milky throats. Their skirts fluttered in the breeze, like the wings of butterflies, delicate, gossamer shimmers of material.

Adrienne stood on tiptoe, strained to catch every glimpse of beautiful clothing. She lowered her heels and fingered the heavy black crepe of her servant’s dress. It crossed her mind that she was almost as bad as her mother, more concerned about the latest fashions than with what was happening in her life.

She sighed and let the lace curtain fall back into place. That wasn’t entirely true. She was doing everything she could. In her rounds of dusting, she had the opportunity to find Julien’s bowl of change that he kept in his room. Once a week, not enough to attract attention, she snuck a coin into her pocket, hiding it in her valise upstairs. She was practicing a few phrases in English every evening, locked in her room, quietly trying to whisper the pronunciation of the words. Preparing for the day that Gerard would arrive. “My name is Adrienne. I am from France. This is my husband, Gerard Devereux.” She allowed herself to picture the two of them, walking up the street in Manitou, visiting the Iron Springs, talking to the other couples as they sat under the portico. An ordinary couple. An ordinary day.

She glanced down and saw Julien standing on the corner of the street just below the castle. He was speaking to a group of women, his two big dogs straining against their leashes, anxious to be home. Julien tipped his hat to them, fought the pull of the dogs as they moved up the hill toward the castle. She could see his teeth, a wide smile gleaming from his dark beard.

The door closed with a heavy thud, and Julien’s voice rang out. “Maman? Henriette?”

Adrienne moved to the top of the steps and looked down at his dark head. Julien looked up at her. “We’re having guests.” He let the dogs loose and hung up the leads at the bottom of the steps. The dogs trotted off to their water dish, in a downstairs room. “I just ran into Dr. Creighton’s wife and daughters. I’ve invited them to tea. They were headed to the Iron Springs but said they would stop on the way back.”

Adrienne continued to stare at him. Julien met her gaze.

“We’ll need tea. And cake, if there is any. And maybe a bottle of that ginger champagne as well.”

Marie appeared on the landing opposite.

Adrienne turned and headed toward the kitchen. Guests. They were having guests. The novelty of it made her step lighter. She boiled water, cut slices of cake and fanned them out on a plate. She polished the silver teapot, the creamer and sugar bowl. She reached for the champagne glasses, arranged them, upside down, on a linen napkin on another tray.

Julien waltzed in, excitement coloring his eyes and the way he held his shoulders. He went through the pantry, searching for a bottle of ginger champagne. “Have you seen this before, Adrienne?” he asked, showing her the bottle. “Manitou Bottling Works” was printed on the label.

Adrienne shook her head.

“It’s not really champagne. This company took some of the mineral water—there is a spring down the hill just by their shop—and came up with a secret recipe. Ginger and mineral water and . . . I don’t know what else. But it’s bubbly like champagne, without the alcohol, and completely delicious.” He smiled at Adrienne, took the bottle, and headed to the parlor, where the guests had gathered.

Adrienne kept her eyes low, her face tranquil and composed as she moved around the room with the tea tray. She made a second round, passing out the empty champagne glasses, and Julien followed close behind her, proudly pouring ginger champagne.

Mrs. Creighton smiled at Julien as he filled her glass. “Eliza is quite fond of this.” She nodded toward her youngest daughter. “Her favorite, in fact.”

He poured a glass for the oldest daughter, a dark-haired, dark-eyed girl close to Adrienne’s own age. The girl did not seem interested in anyone around her. She did not look at her mother, or Marie, or Julien. She seemed not to notice Adrienne as she served. Her eyes traveled to the pianoforte in the corner. She sipped her champagne absently.

Adrienne moved, head lowered, to the youngest daughter. Her hair hung in blond curls, just to her shoulder. Her eyes were blue. She looked like a china doll in her ruffles, clearly only nine or ten years old. She took an empty glass from the tray, accepted the piece of cake on delicate china that Adrienne held out to her.

“Merci beaucoup.”
She looked directly in Adrienne’s eyes when she said it.

Adrienne smiled, dipped a slight curtsy.
“Je vous en prie.”

Julien followed behind her, pouring champagne.
“Parlez-vous français?”
He smiled at Eliza. She blushed and lowered her head.

Marie watched the girl intently.

“Only a little, I’m afraid,” Mrs. Creighton answered for her. “We took a trip to the continent, just last summer. The girls and I, that is. Dr. Creighton is much too busy to get away.”

“Yes, I see him on the hill with the patients, at all hours of the day and night. It must be difficult, to have him away so much.”

“He does work long hours. But . . . we are glad he is able to help so many.”

Eliza held her champagne glass up to Julien. Julien wrapped his hand around hers, held the glass, and poured. When he stopped pouring, his fingers slid slowly away from the child’s. She dropped her eyes to the floor.

Adrienne looked at Julien. She could see the sparkle in his eyes, a gleam that was almost feverish. The look made her flinch. It held a light that was much too sharp, too bright. Adrienne had the fleeting thought that perhaps his stomach troubles were back; perhaps he was about to be bedridden again.

He moved to a seat not far away from the youngest child. His voice, though she could not understand what he said, held a note she had not heard before. Ingratiating. False. He put it on like perfume, as if he carried a bottle of disingenuousness in his pocket. “Aren’t the roses just glorious this year?” He smiled at Mrs. Creighton. “Have you seen the churchyard?”

Mrs. Creighton nodded.

“I am fortunate to have so many of my young parishioners to help me with the gardens.” Julien turned his smile toward Eliza.

Adrienne felt Marie’s gaze burning into her and realized she’d been staring. She dropped her eyes. She turned the tray on its side under her arm, curtsied, and left. Several feet down the hallway, she stopped and turned, straining her neck to get another glimpse of Julien, smiling and chattering. Of the little girl, her head down, her glass held demurely in her lap. The little girl who spoke French.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

U
hhh,” Adrienne gasped. Her eyes shot open; her body jerked. She let out a long stream of air. Her heart pounded. Only a dream. It was only a dream. She stared at the moonlight that spilled through the small window, painting the wall and floor in a blue glow. Only a dream, she told herself again. She was in her room, high up on the fourth floor of Miramont Castle. In America. In Manitou Springs. Only a dream.

Adrienne rolled onto her back. She stared at the ceiling, waiting for the thudding and lurching of her heart to slow. She sighed again and closed her eyes.

In the dream, she’d been sleeping, lying on her side. She was in her own bed at the château in France, a young girl of only nine or ten. She woke suddenly, her eyes flying open and her leg jerking. Moonlight flooded through the big picture window and onto the floor and the bed. But in the dream, she woke knowing that she was not alone. Someone was in the room with her.

She lay very still, trying to sense whom it was, to sense the quiet movements. She could feel the warmth of the body, feel hot puffs of air on her neck. Julien crawled into the bed and lay down behind her, his body curled around hers. His hand ran up and down her arm, down the side of her hip and thigh.

Adrienne rolled onto her back. “What are you doing?”

Julien brought his hand up quickly, pressing his fingers flat against her lips. “Shhh,” he whispered.

She stared at him in the dark. His face was a pale oval in the moonlight. His mouth disappeared in the darkness of his mustache and beard. He removed the pressed fingers from her lips, slowly, cautiously, as if not sure she could be trusted to stay quiet.

“What . . .” she whispered.

His eyes held a sparkle, a feverish gleam. His eyelids drooped, a heavy-lidded look that made her squirm. She realized that he had his other hand on his own body, massaging himself slowly. He continued to rub himself with one hand, and with the other he trailed his fingers down her lips and her neck, through the dip of her collarbone, across her flat, little-girl chest, and slowly down her leg.

“Ahhh, Adrienne,” he breathed. “Don’t you ever get lonely?”

Adrienne blinked, tears stinging her eyes at the mention of the word. Yes. Yes. She was very lonely. She lay very still. She couldn’t breathe, the word stabbing her chest like a knife. Lonely. Unbearably lonely. She had to have been nine or ten; her grand-père had been dead for over two years.

He moved his hand; she felt his body press closer to hers. “It’s so difficult, isn’t it? To be alone so much?”

Adrienne felt a tear filling her eye. She raised one hand, swiped at it angrily.

“I really don’t believe that God wants us to be alone like that, to be so lonely,” Julien whispered. He was moving against her now, pressing himself against her side, his hand trailing to the bone between her legs. She tried to shift away. His hand was insistent, firm, and she cried out.

“It’s all right, Adrienne. I won’t hurt you. God wants us to be touched. He wants us to feel good.” Julien’s breath came in ragged gasps next to her ear. Her hair felt hot and sticky where it caught his panting.

He made a groaning sound. His body shifted, almost covering her with its weight. He buried his face in the pillow. His hand stopped moving, his body stopped pressing. He lay there for a moment, utterly still.

His touch had felt dirty. She squirmed with shame, not understanding his movements or his breathing or anything about what was going on. She was afraid of him, in some way she had never known before. This was not normal.

“This is our secret, Adrienne. I’ll help you . . . with your loneliness. I know how good it feels to be touched. To be held.” He caressed the sides of her face, his fingers light and slow. “But we mustn’t tell anyone. Only those who are truly lonely can understand.” He held his fingers to his lips, as if shushing her. He rose from the bed, shifted the fabric of his pajamas, and moved to her bedroom door, his feet totally quiet on the floor. He turned back and looked at her, his eyes dark jewels in the night. “You understand, don’t you?” He looked at her again, his eyes hard, almost threatening. “This is our secret.” He snickered. “You don’t want people to think that you’re making up stories again, now do you?”

He closed the door with a gentle click.

Adrienne’s heart thudded; she stared into the dark of the room in Miramont, trying to force her mind to stop racing.
It is only a dream,
she told herself, over and over. Only a dream. But it didn’t feel like a dream. It felt like a memory.

Her mind went back to the day before, the day that the Creightons had dropped in for tea. She saw, once more, the way Julien’s tapered fingers had lingered over the hand of the little girl, Eliza. Adrienne raised her own hand from the covers and held it in front of her face. Had he touched her, that same way? She could
almost
see Julien’s fingers, lingering over her own small hand. She could
almost
feel the brush of his fingers against hers, when he asked for her to pass the salt at the table, or when he handed her a book. She stared at her own hand in the semi-dark, felt the pitch and roll of her stomach at the thought.

Those years after Grand-père had passed were lost in a haze. She had tried so hard to keep her voice quiet, to keep her visions in check. She had blotted out huge pieces of her childhood. Now, at this distance, she tried to figure out if this were only a dream, or if it had really happened. The only thing she knew for certain was that it all made her feel sick, shame and revulsion mixing in a stomach-churning brew.