Miramont's Ghost (5 page)

“Shhh,” she whispered to her doll. “We’re almost home. Shhh.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

T
he carriage stopped in the circular drive in front of the castle, and Renault held the door and offered his hand to each of the women as they stepped down. The maid, Henriette, opened the door as the family trailed up the steps. She curtsied, and took Genevieve’s wrap.

“We had arranged for luncheon on the terrace, monsieur, but it looks as if a storm is coming. We will move everything to the dining room. Whenever you’re ready. And Madame Morier is waiting for you in the library.” She curtsied again, and left the hallway.

The comte looked at the group in the hall. “Why don’t you girls go change out of your Sunday clothes? We’ll eat after I’ve had a chance to speak with Marie.”

The women started up the steps. Genevieve and Lucie did their best not to stare, but both took advantage of the curving of the staircase to try to catch a glimpse of Marie, standing like a statue in her black crepe. She stood before the floor-to-ceiling window in the library, but her face was turned to the view outside. She was like a paper cutout, nothing but a dark silhouette with the light behind her.

The comte braced himself. At one time, he had loved a challenge, loved the adrenaline rush of dealing with difficult situations, and testing his own abilities. The coming encounter only sapped his already depleted strength. He felt every moment of his age, every ache in his body. He stepped into the library and closed the door behind him. “Marie,” he said, turning toward his oldest daughter, “how good to see you. We weren’t expecting you until August. Julien is with you?”

Marie turned toward him, her eyes nervous and tired, more fragile looking than he had ever seen her, and he found himself feeling relieved. Perhaps they would be able to avoid a battle. They kissed each other’s cheeks, and her hands rested on his forearms for a moment. “Yes. He’s upstairs resting. The trip was quite a strain on him. He’s not been well.”

The comte searched her face. She looked haggard; her skin was pale; dark shadows hung at her eyes. She seemed uncomfortable with his gaze, and turned back to the long windows, seeking the sun. She rubbed her arms as if she were cold.

The comte searched his jacket pocket for his pipe, and began to load and tamp it down. He kept his eyes on his work. “Julien is sick?” He kept his words as level as possible, and focused on lighting his pipe. He exhaled, and smoke curled up around him. He inhaled again and moved to the window beside her.

Marie turned and met his gaze. The blue of the walls cast a harsh shadow on her skin, making her look gray and sickly herself. “Yes.” Her voice caught, and she swallowed hard. “His stomach. He’s had a very rough time keeping anything down. I thought it would be best—that he would recover better if he were here.”

She took a deep breath, and the comte noticed that her body almost shook with the effort of appearing calm. “Yes,” Marie replied. “He’s upstairs resting. Perhaps the waters of Vichy can work their magic on him.”

“I’m surprised you dared to travel so far, if he’s that ill.” The comte took another long drag on his pipe. He stared out into the green lawn, the deeper green of the woods beyond. Servants were on the terrace, gathering up the plates and silverware, crystal and linen, from the outside table. Wind gusted, lifting the edges of the tablecloth as they worked.

Marie nodded, and turned toward him. Her eyes were brittle. “He can get better care here,” she said. “Better doctors. And servants”—she raised her eyes to the floor above them—“to help.”

“Have you any idea what might be wrong?” The comte inhaled, and blew smoke toward the window.

Marie seemed to be finding it difficult to get the words out. “We thought it might be the water. Conditions are so primitive there. Perhaps something has contaminated the well.” Her words sounded rehearsed. Both the comte and his oldest daughter were well trained at maintaining composure, at framing information in the most beneficial way, but the air was thick with what was not being said.

The comte took another deep drag on his pipe, let the smoke out slowly. “I see.”

Marie turned her head toward the window. She sat down on the arm edge of a chair, her body stiff and brittle, like a china doll perched on a shelf.

The comte stood beside her, but did not turn to look at her. “Marie, I have not survived eighty-five years of French politics because I’m a fool. One does not run halfway around the world, with a man who is deathly ill, because of bad water. You could have drawn water from a different source—drilled another well. You could have moved him to Santa Fe.” Smoke curled around his head. He turned to Marie.

Marie met his eyes. They stared at one another. “Tell me the truth,” he said.

She turned her gaze back to the baby green of spring outside the window, and let her breath out in a long, slow stream. She wrapped her arms around her chest. The comte could see that her eyes were full. “Julien almost died.” She swallowed, and one tear dropped from her eye to the bodice of her dress. “He was poisoned. At the chalice—during mass.” She braved one quick glance at her father’s face. “It seems that someone wants him dead.”

The comte exhaled slowly, and turned to look at the view again. Adrienne’s words at the church hung in the air, specters of the story she had almost shouted as they stood in the doorway. He shuddered, and stared out at the horizon. Clouds were piling up over the mountains, heavy and gray with the promise of rain. When he spoke, he spoke to the glass. His voice was low. “Have you any idea who did this? Why?”

Marie sighed. She shook her head. “No.”

“Has he done something, Marie? Something to anger one of his parishioners?” The comte turned toward his daughter. She glanced at him and then focused her eyes on the thunderstorm building in the distance.

“He’s done something to anger almost every one of his parishioners, I imagine. There isn’t a priest over there—not from France, anyway—that hasn’t felt the anger, the resentment, of the people in New Mexico Territory.”

The comte studied her face and raised his eyebrows.

She turned to him, and the anger in her eyes could burn holes in the carpet. “It’s awful. I don’t understand those people at all. They are completely locked into their own way of doing things. I’ve never met people so stubborn, so resistant to the ways of civilized society. And it’s obvious to me that they don’t understand Julien. He’s only trying to help . . . trying to get a school going . . . trying to administer the sacraments. But they don’t want his help. They don’t want to better themselves or their children at all. I don’t think they have any idea how hard Julien is working to improve things for them. They cling to their old ways, their old superstitions.”

Her eyes went back to the window, and she stared at the approaching storm. Fingers of rain reached down and brushed the ground in the distance. The trees near the château began to sway in the wind. They could hear branches creaking in the chestnut tree just outside.

“It isn’t just Julien, either. They resent everyone. They hated the Spanish—drove them out and kept them out for a hundred years after a very bloody revolt. Then they had to deal with the Mexican government. Now the Americans, and they
really
seem to hate them. They seem to dislike everyone outside of their own little group.”

The comte exhaled slowly. “And the archbishop? Has he . . . ?”

“The archbishop has had all kinds of problems. He excommunicated two Mexican priests, just up the road from Julien. One of them had a wife and children, and yet he continued to perform baptisms and weddings—even after the archbishop ordered him to stop.” Marie shook her head. “The people seem to have this idea that they can manage by themselves. That they don’t need any of us. That the rules of the church don’t apply to them.

“And this isn’t the first time they’ve resorted to poison at the chalice, either. There was an incident in a parish in Albuquerque, just a few years back. Only that priest was not so lucky.” There was a sharp intake of breath, as if the words she uttered had stabbed into her chest. Their eyes met, and the comte saw her fear, saw the brush with death that now permeated her being. She bit her lip and turned back to the window.

Marie ran her hands up and down her arms. The temperature was dropping. A gust of wind, thick with dust and the smell of moisture, rushed in an open window, and Marie closed it. “I really don’t know how Julien can even consider going back. I don’t believe those people are even remotely interested in salvation. They seem perfectly content to stay locked in their own little world, oblivious to the possibilities of something better.”

Her eyes filled with tears. She was visibly struggling, trying to fight her emotions, trying to keep her fears from completely enveloping her. “I cannot imagine that the situation is going to get any better. But he insists . . . says they need him.

“Maybe they do need him, but they certainly don’t want him. How is he ever going to make a difference? They agree to your face, nod their heads. But then they’ll go off and do whatever they want anyway. They still practice their old ceremonies—but they do it in secret. And the very idea—” Her voice caught, and she swallowed. “The very idea that they would . . . that someone could do something like . . .”

Marie cleared her throat. The comte waited for her to continue, watching as she fought the fear that swirled like a whirlwind all around her. He could not remember more than one or two times in all of Marie’s life when she had not maintained strict control of her emotions.

“There is another priest at Santa Cruz. It’s a large parish—far too much for one man. Seventy square miles, and Julien has to make the rounds to all these small villages. Father Medina was appointed to help, but . . . I think he does more harm than good. He is one of them—his family is still part of the community. Trained at the seminary in Mexico, of all places. As if anyone could receive proper training in that godforsaken place.” She looked up at her father, and back outside. “He and Julien have not gotten on so well. He is very sympathetic to the Indian people in Santa Cruz. Too much so, if you ask me. Sometimes it has hurt the authority of the church . . . Julien’s authority.”

The comte turned toward Marie. “Sounds like difficult circumstances for a young priest in his first parish.”

Marie nodded. She turned to him. Her eyes were clear and hard. “I can’t imagine anything
more
difficult. Understanding the Indian race is far more difficult than European politics, I’m certain. No wonder the Americans have a policy of putting them on reservations. But even so, they still persist in hanging on to their old ways. Perhaps the Americans were right to pursue a campaign of complete extermination.”

The comte shuddered. He did not agree with her, but this hardly seemed the time to discuss such an issue.

Marie sighed heavily, and they both watched the storm as it broke against the castle, water pelting the window. Lightning flashed in the western sky; thunder hammered the air. The rain beat a heavy, pounding rhythm on the stones of the terrace outside.

“Father.” Her voice was soft, almost drowned by the storm. “Let’s keep this between ourselves, shall we? I cannot expect the rest of the family, or the villagers for that matter, to understand the intricacies of life in the New World.” She turned to him, her eyes clear and hard. She was recovered, her stiff shell back in place, her shoulders and chin firm. “I cannot abide the thought of people talking . . .” She sniffed and took a deep breath. “When they have no way to understand.”

Their eyes met, and the comte thought he could see a glimmer of what it had been like for the child Marie, the little girl whose mother had been the subject of so much talk. He swallowed a tight knot of pain. Despite how thorny Marie could be, despite her demanding, argumentative nature, he understood how difficult her life had been. She’d lost her mother; she’d lost her husband; and now she had almost lost her son.

He moved the pipe to his right hand, raised his left arm, and pulled her close. For one moment, she leaned into him. He could feel how frail she was underneath that tough exterior. She was too thin, her frame so slender and brittle that he feared crushing her.

After a moment, she drew back. She sniffled, and drew a handkerchief to her nose. She turned and left the room, careful not to meet his eyes after her moment of vulnerability. He heard the click of the door as she closed it behind her.

The comte blew out a puff of smoke. He turned back to the window and stared at the grounds of the castle through the veil of the storm—lands that had been in his family for generations. Below the window, stretching away to the woods, were his vineyards. Chestnuts and cedars surrounded the grounds of the castle, protecting it from the eyes of the villagers.

Despite all the unrest in France in the previous century, he had managed to retain his family’s holdings. He was proud of that: so many other families in the nobility had lost everything, had been forced to flee France. But he had learned, partly from watching his own father, how to negotiate the minefields of political change. When the peasants and locals in the village of Beaulieu had fought against the high taxes imposed by the king, and the tithe imposed by the church, the comte had not remained rigid and unyielding, like so many of his acquaintance. During years of bad crops, he had excused part of their tax obligations to him and his family. He had allowed the villagers to hunt on his lands at certain times of the year, free of charge. He listened to their grievances against one another, or against the church, and helped to negotiate peaceful solutions. He helped to raise money for a school in the village. He never locked himself away—shut up in the riches of his own castle, waited on by servants—or turned a blind eye to the sufferings of the village. He made it a point to walk in at least a few times a week, to speak with those he passed on the street.

And now here he was, at eighty-five years of age, tired of the battle, exhausted by the endless rounds of power struggle and negotiation. The comte stared out the window as rain pelted against the glass. He could see his own reflection, faint though it was in the dim light. And now this. There was one pressing problem that he had not dealt with—one issue that could cost them all dearly.