Miramont's Ghost (23 page)

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

A
ll thought of escape evaporated, like rain puddles in a harsh, hot sun. She could think of nothing but this cousin, this man she barely knew, this priest with his long, slender fingers and delicate constitution.

Who was he? What had he done? How much was he capable of? And what had he done to her? The questions flew up at her from the pages of the novel that she held open in front of her. She could not read. She tried to concentrate on a sentence and found her mind playing with some tidbit of memory, some long-forgotten knowledge.

The memories came back in wisps, like the scent of smoke left in a room after the smoker has gone. She remembered, in pieces, her vision at the church when she was very little. She remembered that younger version of Julien, standing in front of his congregation in Santa Cruz, raising the cup of wine to the heavens. She remembered the clattering sound as it fell to the floor, remembered the foam coming from his mouth.

At that young age, she never stopped to think about what the vision could possibly mean. To her young mind, it was just an interesting story. She would never have asked why—why anyone would hate their priest so much that they would want him dead. All the questions she had never asked at the time came tumbling back now, piling up in a jumbled mess that she felt compelled to try to sort through.

Slowly, bit by bit, she began to connect the dots—the pieces of information that she knew. If her memories of what Julien had done to her were truly
memories
,
if her suspicions about why Julien was poisoned were correct,
it might explain why Marie had gone to such lengths to get Adrienne away from France. It would explain Marie’s overwhelming need to keep Adrienne silenced. Did Marie know about Julien? Or worse than actual knowledge, did she
suspect
that her son was abusing little girls? Is that why she had done all this?

Adrienne took up the feather duster and moved, absentmindedly, about the castle. She positioned herself at windows, looking out at the street below them or at the nuns on the hillside above. She moved through each room, hoping to catch a glimpse of him, trying to see where he went when he left the castle.

She wandered into his bedchamber, at the southwest corner of the castle. She moved around the room, her duster swishing back and forth, her eyes trailing over the objects on his dresser. There was nothing there to suggest something was amiss, only a hairbrush, a bottle of cologne, a folded handkerchief, the bowl of change that she had been slowly stealing.

She moved to the window. This room, Julien’s room, was the only room in the castle that afforded a clear view of the church, a block up the hill. She held the curtains in one hand and stared at the church building, wishing she could use her vision to see inside, to see what he was up to.

Julien stepped out the side door of the church and locked the door behind him. Adrienne stepped back quickly and let the curtain drop. She watched him through the gauzy fabric as he looked around, up at the castle, and then moved up the hill, around the corner, and out of sight.

Adrienne exhaled slowly. She needed to be alone. She wanted a vision, craved a vision. For the first time that she could ever remember, she wanted to use her second sight, to know what was going on in this house. She wanted to know just what Julien was doing, and how much Marie knew.

After all those years of unwanted images, of knowledge she did not want or wish to have, now she needed it. And she had no idea how to make it work, how to trigger the mechanism that allowed her to see and hear and know. Nothing came to her. No words, no images, no sudden feeling of certainty. Nothing. All she had was this knot in the pit of her stomach, this vague
feeling
that something was dreadfully wrong.

How do you ever know the truth about another person? Without the knowledge that comes through clairvoyance, how could a person ever know when someone spoke the truth? How could you ever know with any certainty what happens behind closed doors?

Adrienne thought of her mother, of the feelings of doubt that had surrounded her like a fog. For years, she had carried an uneasy sense about her husband that she could never prove, never really know. Is this what it felt like? To suspect, to imagine, but to have nothing concrete to allow the relief of certainty?

Adrienne found herself staring at Marie much more often these days. Did she know some dreadful truth about her son? Was that why she had moved heaven and hell to keep Adrienne silent? Or was she, like Adrienne, left with just this vague foreboding, a sinister apprehension that amounted to nothing but shadows in the dark?

Adrienne sighed and turned her head toward the window. His loose change sparkled in the morning light, and she quickly slipped three coins into the pocket of her dress.

They knelt in the parlor—Julien, Marie, and Adrienne—heads bent, beads clicking, rosaries moving between their fingers. A fire blazed. Sparks popped and cracked.

Julien’s eyes were closed; his voice rang in the room, leading them through the prayers. “I believe in God, the Father Almighty.”

Adrienne whispered the words. “I believe in the Holy Spirit, the holy Catholic Church, the communion of saints . . .” Her mind popped and cracked like the sparks from the fire. She peeked at Julien, kneeling to her left.

Her mind raced to the vision of Julien, standing at the front of the church in Santa Cruz, drinking from the chalice. She saw, once more, the way his eyes bulged, the way he fell to the floor, his lips turning blue from the poison. She heard, once again, the crash of the potted palm after he had kicked it, just a few weeks ago, the way the pot hit the wall and shattered. She could hear one large piece that hadn’t broken rolling back and forth on the floor.

Adrienne snuck another glance at him. His voice led the prayers, like a song. “Hail Mary, full of grace. The Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.”

Someone in that congregation had tried to poison their priest. Adrienne was convinced that no one would try to murder their priest unless he had done something truly awful. Had he stolen from them? Lied to them? Had he let his temper fly and actually hurt someone?

Her breath came faster; her heart pounded. She glanced at Julien again. She thought of the way his fingers had slid, slowly, over the fingers of that little girl, Eliza Creighton. Suddenly she knew, knew with certainty just what he had done.

He had touched one of the children in Santa Cruz, maybe even more than one. Maybe he had done more than just touch. Her knowledge of the act was vague. But it would certainly explain attempted murder. That would certainly explain poison at the chalice.

Through the whirling of her thoughts, Adrienne could feel it, boring into her skull, drilling into the top of her head. She looked up through her lashes. Marie was directly across from her. Adrienne wondered if her thoughts had moved across her own face. Had she left her mouth open? Had she knit her brow? Had she stared too long at Julien?

Adrienne closed her eyes, tried to make her face calm and her heart slow. “Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners . . .”

The prayers went on forever.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

M
arie and Adrienne placed their feet carefully as they walked down the stone street. It was cold, winter’s chill making them hurry as fast as they could on the icy pavement. They turned at Ruxton Creek, walked up the path to the Chapel of Our Lady of Perpetual Help. Normally, Adrienne loved Sunday morning mass, if only for the opportunity it provided to leave the castle, to smell the pine trees, hear the birds, and look at the sky. She missed her long walks on the grounds of the castle in France, missed watching the trees and shrubs and grasses color and fade into their winter attire.

This morning, she watched her feet. She did not look around at the mountains, took no notice of the families walking to church or pulling up in their buggies. She didn’t tip her head back, scanning the sky for hawks. She didn’t stop to watch the water in the creek or the lacy patterns of ice; she didn’t stop to listen to the sound of the water muffled beneath. Her mind was too full, too troubled, to enjoy the beauty of the winter morning.

She and Marie entered the small wooden building, made the sign of the cross, and moved to the pew at the left front. Adrienne stared at the floor. Her mind would not be still. She kept imagining Julien’s eyes, that feverish sparkle, the lids heavy. She scanned the room, looking for children, for young girls Eliza’s age, the age she herself had been in that horrible memory. She had to tell someone, didn’t she? Had to do something to stop him. Or should she forget it all, concentrate on her own escape?

For days now, she had been making the arguments in her head. Even if she could speak the language, even if she could find the right person to speak to, what would she tell them? What did she have, really, as evidence? A disturbing dream. A long-ago vision of Julien being poisoned—a vision that Marie had covered with the story of working for the government in South America. Uneasy feelings and dreams were not enough to convict a man. She felt protective of every child that walked into the church, but she had no idea what she should do.

The bells chimed, and people stamped their feet at the door, walked the short aisle, and sat down, a heavy rustling of coats and scarves trailing from every pew. An older woman sat at the church organ. Her gray hat was huge, a cluster of bright-red cherries bobbed at its crown. She leaned far back in her seat as she played, her fingers insistent, her bosom heaving, the notes of Mozart filling the small space of the church.

Everyone rose. Adrienne kept her eyes on the floor. She didn’t want to look at Julien, and she tried hard not to. She could feel him, though, as he swayed from side to side, walking slowly down the aisle. He swung the censer back and forth, and wisps of incense curled in the air. He walked to the front of the church, his stomach out, his shoulders back, almost swaggering in his chasuble.

In church, Julien was quite different from the Julien at home. Every movement ended with a flourish. Every sentence was strung out slightly longer than it needed to be. He seemed to love the power, the way every man and woman and child in the room hung on his every movement, every word. He stood now, at the front of the church, and closed his eyes. He held them closed, said not a word, for what seemed far too long. A man at the back of the church coughed.

Julien opened his eyes, gave a dramatic sigh, and started his homily, in English. She’d been practicing, trying to learn the words in the little dictionary upstairs. This morning she stared straight ahead. She did not want to know what he was saying. The tone of his voice was enough. She cringed at the way it rang out, stopped suddenly, and dropped to a lower register. Like an actor, she thought with a faint smile. Or a baritone at the opera. All melodrama and tragedy.

A weak, watery sunlight flooded through the eastern windows and caught the gold candlesticks on the altar. Adrienne stared, glad to have something to focus on other than Julien and his false speech and his slender hands waving dramatically.

A much younger Julien appeared before her, shining in the reflected light. He looked almost like a teenager, his skin smooth, his beard gone, and only thin wisps of hair sprouting on his upper lip. He and three other young men were walking down the street, laughing and joking.

“So, Julien, think your university education can help you with this?” One of his companions smiled broadly at Julien, and stopped. He stood outside the door to a bordello in Paris. Men came and went, laughing, smoking cigars. They could hear raucous laughter, the sound of a piano, and the laughter of women punctuating the deeper roars of the men.

Julien looked at the door and tried to see through the glass. His smile dropped from his face.

“How about it, fellows?” The first man raised his eyebrows and smiled suggestively. “A little drink, perhaps? Maybe a little . . .” He tipped his head toward the interior, smiled again, and opened the door.

The inside of the establishment was dark. Smoke filled the space. Along one wall was a huge bar, a mirror stretched behind it. Adrienne heard the sound of the bottles, tinkling and chiming as the bartender poured drinks. Laughter filled the air like smoke.

At the opposite end of the room, a woman stood on a small stage, singing a song that made Adrienne blush. The singer was very scantily dressed. She wore a tight corset, deep-blue velvet with tiny rows of black lace and black buttons up the center. Her breasts were barely contained; they threatened to spill with every shake of her shoulders. Her legs were long and thin, covered in black fishnet stockings. She wore tall black heels, in which she moved easily around the stage as she danced and sang. A man in white sleeves and a bowler hat, a cigar chomped between his teeth, played the piano.

She shimmied up to a table full of men, just to the right of the stage. She leaned down, putting her delicate hands on the face of one gentleman, turning his smile up to her as she sang. Then she pushed his head to her breasts. He shook his head back and forth between the two globes, and raised it, laughing, a deep red rising up his cheeks.

The woman shot up again, strutting around the room, shaking her derriere. She kicked one leg high in the air, swung it over another man’s head. It came down neatly on the other side. Men sitting close by clapped and whistled.

The song ended, and she curtsied, just as if she were a fine lady. She bounced up, smiling. Some of the men stood, clapping, their cigars planted firmly between their teeth. Adrienne could see several other women at various locations around the room. All were clad like the singer, in garments that barely covered them, as if they had not bothered to dress completely. Some were sitting on the laps of men; others sat on chairs, leaning close to their companions, pushing their breasts against the men’s arms.

The woman who had just finished singing sauntered over to the table where Julien sat with his companions. “Evening, boys.” She smiled.

Julien blushed. She sat down next to him. “Could I have a cigarette?” she asked him. He pulled one from a silver case in his pocket, held a match to it. His hands shook. She smiled and blew smoke in his face. The corners of her mouth turned up, as if she enjoyed young men like Julien, obviously unschooled in the art of seduction. She talked to the young men for a few moments, laughing, blowing smoke at their jokes. Julien said very little.

She leaned forward and crushed her cigarette in a crystal ashtray. In one fluid movement, she rose, swung one leg up and over Julien, and ended in his lap, facing him with a bright smile. He almost jumped in surprise. She leaned close to him, rubbed her breasts against his jacket. She put one long-fingered hand at the back of his neck, caressed his hair, twisting it in small curls. Then she leaned toward him and whispered in his ear. Her left hand rested on his chest, and her slender fingers snaked between the buttons on his shirt.

She rose suddenly, grabbing his hand and pulling him up. One of his friends whistled. “About time, I’d say. This has been too long coming, if you ask me.”

Julien glanced at his friend with a scowl. He turned and followed the young woman up a flight of stairs. She sashayed up, careful to keep her derriere in front of his face as she led him up the stairs. His face burned scarlet in the dim, smoky light.

They walked down a long hallway. Julien heard grunts, moans, giggles, coming from behind the closed doors they passed. The woman pushed open a door to the left, and they stepped inside. The room was tiny, barely able to contain a brass bed and oak washstand. Red satin spilled over the mattress; an oil lamp cast a soft golden glow on the walls and ceiling.

Julien stopped in the center of the room. He swallowed. The woman closed the door, turned to look at him, and in one polished movement, she ripped the hooks at the top of her corset. Her breasts spilled out. The nipples were dark and huge in the dim light.

Julien gasped, his breath arrested. She finished the ripping motion, and her corset dropped to the floor. Her black fishnet stockings were held up by garters, wrapped high on her slender thighs. Her waist was lean. He let his eyes drop to the reddish brown hair below her belly.

She smiled and moved toward Julien, her hand moving smoothly to his chest. She pulled his shirt up; her fingers worked the buttons of his trousers. She leaned into his neck, her tongue flicking back and forth over the sparse stubble. His trousers dropped to the floor. His penis stood straight and hard, brushed against her belly as she continued to kiss him.

She moved to the bed, smiling, her hand guiding him to her. She lay back, spread her legs, and guided his hand to the warmth between them. Julien lay awkwardly beside her. He panted, his eyes closed. She moved one hand to hold his penis; with the other she tried to guide him inside her. Julien’s body stiffened. He moaned, and collapsed at her side. He had not lasted long enough to get inside her. He lay now, next to her on the bed, gasping.

She dropped her hands from his body and rolled her eyes at the ceiling. She reached over him to the bedside table and lit a cigarette. Julien rolled onto his back.

“Well, that didn’t last long, did it?” Her words were sharp. “What’s the matter, little boy? Having trouble keeping a stiffie?” She moved her hand from side to side. She blew smoke in the air, snorted.

“I love the young ones,” she whispered, running her fingers over the hair on his chest. “Sometimes they can go on and on forever. So young. So eager. So energetic.” She looked down at Julien, shriveled and soft. “Well, don’t worry about it. When you’re older, when you have a little more experience, you’ll be able to hold on longer.” She smiled and pushed herself up from the bed.

She stood on the rug, tugging her corset back up over her hips. She fingered the hooks, reached the top, adjusted her breasts. She turned toward Julien and leaned down close to him, her breath puffing into his face. “Thanks, honey. It was two seconds of absolute bliss.” She stood up straight, winked at him, and flounced out of the room.

Adrienne’s breath caught. She stared up at Julien, stately and dignified in his white robes, his gold collar marking him as someone special, someone different. Someone who held ultimate authority, someone who could not be questioned. Someone that no one would dare to tease or make fun of. She stared, watching his every move.

She knew now, without any doubt, why he had gone into the church. Not one week after his humiliation in the Paris brothel, he had withdrawn from university, moved away from his companions of that wretched evening. He had insisted that God called him. That God needed him. He had not mentioned to anyone that it was he who needed the church—needed the protection, the authority, the standing offered in the robes of Christ. He needed the perfect excuse to never marry. He needed to make certain he would never face humiliation and shame in front of an adult woman, ever again.

And with that vision, Adrienne understood why he was drawn to the children. They wouldn’t laugh at him. They wouldn’t make fun of him. They were completely in his power. The weak, the helpless, the quiet.

Adrienne swallowed. She shifted in her seat, glanced at Marie, to her right. She sucked in her lip and sighed. At last, a vision. The corners of he
r mouth rose slightly. They weren’t gone; she wasn’t broken. And with that vision, one that made her blush thinking of it, she understood her cousin. She understood why he craved power and prestige, why he needed to build a forty-six-room castle for just him and his mother. And more disturbing than all that, she understood why he might turn to children when he needed human touch.