almost died. With poison .” Adrienne drew out the last word dramatically. “I knew there was something bad about that church.”
By now the entire area had gone completely quiet, all voices stilled as they caught the words of the little girl.
Genevieve looked up at the priest. She tried to smile, but it slipped away, cracking like a china teacup dropped on a marble floor. All of the radiant beauty of a few moments before had evaporated.
The priest blinked. He looked at Genevieve, suddenly rendered speechless.
“Such an imagination,” Genevieve exhaled, her voice ruffled with fear. “We are quite beside ourselves with her stories, sometimes. I don’t know where she comes up with these things.” Genevieve tried another feeble smile.
“I understand, madame. It is not unusual, at her age, to imagine things. Children can be so creative.”
Genevieve sighed gratefully. Her face had turned green; she refused to meet the eyes of any of the people around her.
Grand-père did search their faces, looking for anyone who might remember his late wife and the stories that had somehow escaped about her. Most of the parishioners were watching Adrienne and Genevieve, not looking at him. But when he turned to make his way to the carriage, his eyes met those of Madame Ettienne. She was almost the same age as the comte, ancient compared to those around her. She did not nod, did not acknowledge their glance in any way, but the comte knew, as he reached to take Adrienne’s hand, that at least one person in that congregation had remembered Marguerite, and made the connection. He wrapped his hand around that of his granddaughter, and with his other hand, took Genevieve’s elbow, steering them both toward the carriage. Lucie followed, folding the blanket over Emelie’s face. Grand-père opened the door of the carriage, helped all the ladies inside, and folded himself into the seat next to Adrienne.
They heard the crack of the whip, and the carriage jolted forward. The horses trotted off, their hooves clicking on the stone street. Renault turned the carriage toward the château. When they were safely away from the ears of the village, he leaned back slightly, his voice low. “Monsieur? There is . . . news. Madame Morier and Père Julien are at the castle. Père Julien is very sick, monsieur.”
Genevieve’s eyes met those of her father across the space between their seats. The comte swallowed, his Adam’s apple moving up and down. He doubted that Genevieve knew anything about her own mother. He could not imagine that anyone from the village or any of the servants would have dared to speak to the daughter of the comte about such a distressing subject. Certainly he had never discussed it with her. He turned to look out the window, feeling the glaring inadequacies of his parenting. Should he have told her? Would it have made any difference?
Genevieve held her lace handkerchief, locked inside her gloved hand, in front of her mouth. Lucie sat in the corner of the carriage, jiggling the baby, who had begun to whimper. Lucie kept her eyes held discreetly on the child. Adrienne sat across from her, next to the comte, staring out the window, and jiggling her own baby doll.
“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
By now the entire area had gone completely quiet, all voices stilled as they caught the words of the little girl.
Genevieve looked up at the priest. She tried to smile, but it slipped away, cracking like a china teacup dropped on a marble floor. All of the radiant beauty of a few moments before had evaporated.
The priest blinked. He looked at Genevieve, suddenly rendered speechless.
“Such an imagination,” Genevieve exhaled, her voice ruffled with fear. “We are quite beside ourselves with her stories, sometimes. I don’t know where she comes up with these things.” Genevieve tried another feeble smile.
“I understand, madame. It is not unusual, at her age, to imagine things. Children can be so creative.”
Genevieve sighed gratefully. Her face had turned green; she refused to meet the eyes of any of the people around her.
Grand-père did search their faces, looking for anyone who might remember his late wife and the stories that had somehow escaped about her. Most of the parishioners were watching Adrienne and Genevieve, not looking at him. But when he turned to make his way to the carriage, his eyes met those of Madame Ettienne. She was almost the same age as the comte, ancient compared to those around her. She did not nod, did not acknowledge their glance in any way, but the comte knew, as he reached to take Adrienne’s hand, that at least one person in that congregation had remembered Marguerite, and made the connection. He wrapped his hand around that of his granddaughter, and with his other hand, took Genevieve’s elbow, steering them both toward the carriage. Lucie followed, folding the blanket over Emelie’s face. Grand-père opened the door of the carriage, helped all the ladies inside, and folded himself into the seat next to Adrienne.
They heard the crack of the whip, and the carriage jolted forward. The horses trotted off, their hooves clicking on the stone street. Renault turned the carriage toward the château. When they were safely away from the ears of the village, he leaned back slightly, his voice low. “Monsieur? There is . . . news. Madame Morier and Père Julien are at the castle. Père Julien is very sick, monsieur.”
Genevieve’s eyes met those of her father across the space between their seats. The comte swallowed, his Adam’s apple moving up and down. He doubted that Genevieve knew anything about her own mother. He could not imagine that anyone from the village or any of the servants would have dared to speak to the daughter of the comte about such a distressing subject. Certainly he had never discussed it with her. He turned to look out the window, feeling the glaring inadequacies of his parenting. Should he have told her? Would it have made any difference?
Genevieve held her lace handkerchief, locked inside her gloved hand, in front of her mouth. Lucie sat in the corner of the carriage, jiggling the baby, who had begun to whimper. Lucie kept her eyes held discreetly on the child. Adrienne sat across from her, next to the comte, staring out the window, and jiggling her own baby doll.
“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
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