Madame Clement is nothing like what Maëlle had expected of a wealthy benefactress, but Château Clement itself displays more grandeur than she could have imagined. Crystal chandeliers and a massive, sweeping staircase. The balustrades and passageways, the hewn stone and painted panels. The arches and doorways and paneling made of oak and mahogany, beautiful and gleaming with polish but unadorned.
Maëlle chases the housekeeper along a hall, around a corner, and down a half staircase into a set of public rooms lined with more leather-bound books than Maëlle has ever seen in one place. Then they proceed up a longer staircase to a narrow hallway lined with several doors. Madame Boucher is unsmiling as she opens the door to a bedroom with a beamed, sloping ceiling and a window that looks out over the stables. There is an enormous bed made up in luscious white linens, asmall writing desk, and a tall armoire. A thick wool rug warms the stone floor.
“I hope this is adequate for your needs,” the housekeeper says.
“It is beautiful,” Maëlle replies.
“There is a washroom down the hall. We have running water here, so you won’t need a chamber pot. The stones become chilly in the evening; I shall have the maid set the fire when you retire. Please let me know if there’s anything else you require.” Madame Boucher does not make eye contact, and Maëlle can’t help but feel as though she is being treated better than is proper, that she is an underling, an impostor. Never in her wildest dreams had she expected to be housed in a luxurious guest room. The servants’ wing would have been more than adequate.
“Madame—” Maëlle is about to say as much, but when the housekeeper pauses in the doorway and meets her eyes, she simply says, “Thank you.”
“Oh, one more thing. Are you familiar with electric lights?”
“They have installed some electric lightposts in Angers. But... not in a home.”
“I thought not. You move this switch, thusly, and the lamp is lit, just that quickly. You see?” She demonstrates, moving a toggle attached to the wall. The overhead lamp comes on immediately. It is bright, almost glaring, even though it is still light outside.
After Madame Boucher bustles off down the hall, Maëlle puts her clothes away in the armoire, fragrant from cedar and small sachets of lavender hanging on the rod.
She knows she should go outside with her checklist to be sure that every box transferred from the train to the steam traction engine has arrived safely at the château. But she hesitates, sitting on the edge of the bed. Exhaustion overwhelms her. She lies back, closing her eyes for a moment and breathing deeply. The mattress is so soft it feels as if she is floating on a cloud; it reminds her of a painting of napping cherubs she saw in the cathedral in Angers. Scents of rosemary and wild thymewaft in on the breeze through the open window, and the coverlet smells subtly of soap.
It is far too good for her, but she will relish it.
She will close her eyes for just a few moments, and then she’ll get to work.
Her last thought before falling into a deep slumber was to wonder where Léon would be sleeping tonight, which pillow would be lucky enough to cradle his handsome head.
But when she dreams, it is not of Léon’s kisses. Instead, she has a vision of the carousel come to vibrant life, whirling around to the tune of the band organ, delighting all who see it.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
PRESENT DAY
CHÂTEAU CLEMENT
Cady
The next morning, Cady dressed in jeans, a thick sweater, and boots, slung her Nikon around her neck, and headed downstairs.
Fabrice was shuffling around the kitchen, keeping one hand on the counter to steady himself.
“Bonjour,”said Cady to Fabrice.
“Bonjour,”he said, seeming vaguely surprised to see her. His voice was croaky, as though he was unaccustomed to speaking.
The dog got up from her bed near the now-cold fireplace, stretched languidly, then came over to Cady with her tail wagging. Cady caressed Lucy’s back and scratched her ears. At leastsomebodywas happy to see her.
“Want me to make breakfast?” Cady offered, setting her camera on the counter. “I got a good feel for this kitchen last night. With a little tutoring, I could probably even master your espresso machine.”
Fabrice did not answer, much less pause in his actions.
Coffee people. Cady understood. Those addicted to caffeine often had these morning rituals, putting one foot in front of the other till they reached the kitchen, then measuring out the grounds and tampingthem down, pouring the boiling water over them, inhaling the delicious aroma, and readying themselves for the first restorative sip.
Then again, Fabrice often responded with a grunt. Perhaps it was simply his way.
Cady got herself a small plate and cut a piece of bread.
“Who is ‘Anon’?”
