The Lost Carousel of Provence

by Juliet Blackwell

  “We can try again in a day or two, if you’re still in town,” he said as he put the iron poker back in its stand. “For now, we should go.”

  As they made their way back down the narrow stone corridor, Jean-Paul asked, “Do you have a place to stay?”

  “Yes, I rented a room in a house on rue des Frênes. I’ll be there for a few days.”

  “That’s not far. You know how to get there? I could lead you there.”

  “No need. Honestly. I have the directions in the car. Go on, I’ll be right behind you.”

  Jean-Paul opened the door, but lingered in the threshold. The rain had turned into a downpour, fat drops falling from a slate gray sky.

  “You don’t know the area,” Jean-Paul pointed out.

  “I’m a grown-up, Jean-Paul. I made it all the way to Paris by myself, and now here,” she said, feeling suddenly tired, her lids growing heavy. “I’ll be fine.”

  “All right, then, if you’re sure.” He hesitated another moment, then said, “I imagine our paths will cross again. This is a very small town, and there’s only one boulangerie.”

  “Good night. Thanks for everything.”

  “I didn’t do anything. Thank you for the drink.”

  He dashed through the rain to his car and drove off.

  Cady ran to her rental. Only when she got closer did she realize the tires had been slashed.

  All four of them.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  PRESENT DAY

  CHTEAU CLEMENT

  Cady

  Now, that’s Oakland, Cady thought. Dammit.

  Now what?

  Jean-Paul’s taillights had long since disappeared down the drive. Climbing behind the wheel to escape the rain for a moment, Cady checked her cell phone, but it had spent so much time diligently searching for a signal that the battery had died. She hadn’t expected to be driving in France and didn’t have a car charger with her.

  There wasn’t much of a choice. Cady climbed out of her car, ran back through the rain, and banged on the door. Could Fabrice even hear her, wherever he had disappeared to in this huge mansion? The only sound was the far-off noise of a dog barking.

  She waited a couple of minutes. No one came.

  Finally, remembering they hadn’t locked the door, she eased it open. And yelled: “Fabrice?”

  More barking. At long last, Fabrice yelled back: “Casse-toi!”

  Cady wasn’t sure what that meant, but Fabrice’s tone didn’t sound like “Come on in and make yourself comfortable.”

  She glanced at her Renault, sitting sad and deflated like a fallen soufflé. The storm was building, the sheets of rain blown sideways by a howling wind.

  “I can’t! There’s . . .” Cady didn’t know how to say “slashed tires” in French. “There’s a problem with my car.”

  At last she heard a clanking and a shuffling, and Fabrice emerged from the kitchen down the hall.

  “Please excuse me, Monsieur Clement,” she said, still in the doorway.

  “I told you to call me Fabrice.”

  “Fabrice, then.” Cold water was dripping from her hair and running down her collar. “May I please come in and use your phone?”

  He grunted and started walking down a different hallway as Cady closed the door and followed him. Another pause. The stone corridor was no warmer than outside, but at least there was no wind. Still, she yearned for the warmth of the kitchen.

  “I don’t have a phone,” he said when she caught up with him. He opened a door that led into a sitting room. It wasn’t as cozy as the kitchen, but at least it wasn’t as chilly as the hallway. It smelled of cigar smoke and must, and contained more piles of newspapers and books, an ancient television, a worn swayback couch, and a plaid recliner.

  “Oh . . . really? No phone?” Cady could not remember the last time she had met someone who didn’t have a phone. But then again, Fabrice was a recluse. “Could I . . . if I could plug in my cell phone, I could make a call.”

  “Who are you going to call?”

  “A, um . . . a service station?”

  “Closed.”

  “What time do they open?”

  “Normally early in the morning.”

  “Well, that’s good. I’ll call first thing in the morning.”

  “Can’t. Arthur takes his saint’s week off every year for vacation. Won’t be open for a week.”

  “Oh. Then what—maybe . . . I’ll call Jean-Paul and ask for his help.”

  He cast a jaundiced eye over her.

  “What’s he going to do about it at this hour? He’s probably sitting down to dinner with his mama and a whole pack of relatives. And before you ask, no stations will be open in Avignon, either. This isn’t New York.”

  “I realize that.” Her teeth were chattering, and she crossed her arms over her chest for warmth. “Maybe I could call a taxi, or an Uber, get a ride to where I’m staying, and figure things out in the morning.”

  “Taxi,” he snorted. “Out here?”

  Cady felt a flash of annoyance and counted to ten. “I’m not familiar with how things work around here, in your lovely Provençal countryside. What would you suggest I do?”

  She heard a dog barking again. Closer this time: not a yap, but a deep woof.

  Fabrice studied her for a moment, and she felt herself standing tall, failing to breathe, feeling like a little kid at the adoption fair, hoping prospective parents would find her acceptable. What was that intangible quality everyone was looking for, which no one found in Cady? Was it her appearance, her posture, the color of her eyes?

  “A trade.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I need someone for my dog.”

  “Okay . . .” Cady wasn’t sure she had understood him. The French word for “dog” was chien, which she occasionally confused with chêne, oak tree. Could Fabrice be asking her to trim an oak tree?

  “As you can see it’s a little hard for me to walk him lately,” Fabrice snapped. “If you take him out, you can stay here for the night.”

  “Oh. You want me to walk your dog? Yes, sure, I can do that,” she said. As loath as she was to go back out into the wind and rain, she didn’t see that she had any other option. Besides, a man of his age, with an injury no less, shouldn’t be walking a dog at all, much less in this weather.

  “Are you good with horses?” Fabrice asked.

  “You have horses, too?”

  He opened a wide oak door. Standing there was the biggest dog Cady had ever seen. Espresso brown with patches of white on her chest and the tips of her paws, she looked like she weighed more than Cady did.

  “Her name’s Lucy.” Fabrice’s sharp eyes watched Cady as he handed her the thick leather strap that served as a leash. “She’s Great Dane and Irish wolfhound, maybe a little greyhound mixed in there.”

  “Um, great. Hi there, Lucy.”

  “Don’t let her run. The estate isn’t fenced. Usually she sticks around, but sometimes she goes too far afield, chasing rabbits. If she gets into the neighbor’s vineyard they’ll complain. I don’t need the headache. You can go out this way.”

  Cady took the leash. The dog sniffed at her hand and wagged her tail, but Cady was still on edge.

  Next to the door was a coatrack. “You can wear this,” Fabrice said, handing her a bright yellow raincoat with a hood, the kind crossing guards wear. “And here are some boots.”

  She wasn’t really a dog person, but to Cady’s wary eyes Lucy seemed nice enough. She wasn’t snarling or anything. Cady pulled on the rubber boots, which were much too large, and slipped on the old raincoat. At least it’ll keep me warm, she thought.

  “Ready?” Fabrice held the door, which opened onto the rear courtyard.

  “Okay, let’s go, pup,” Cady said as she headed back out into the forbidding night. “All
ons-y, Lucy.”

  * * *

  • • •

  Seemingly oblivious to the storm, the dog pulled Cady this way and that, stopping and sniffing here and there for no apparent reason, pawing at who knew what. The raincoat and boots protected Cady from a further soaking, but by the time Lucy did her business and Cady managed to maneuver the large canine back to the château, she was beyond exhausted. She grabbed her suitcase from the car and hurried inside.

  Fabrice was waiting for them in the sitting room. He greeted Lucy like a long-lost daughter, cooing to her and drying her with a fluffy yellow towel.

  Cady shrugged out of the raincoat and pulled off the muddy boots, fascinated by this glimpse at the softer side of Fabrice Clement. She was also hoping he might hand her a towel.

  Instead, Fabrice pointed to a set of narrow stairs in the corner. “Go up the servants’ stairs, down the main paneled hallway, down the green stairs, through the room with all the books, then up the other stairs and down the red hallway.”

  He handed her a flashlight.

  Cady repeated the directions to herself, then asked: “Is the electricity off?”

  “No. But no use lighting up the whole house, assuming you could even find the switches. Take any room you want off the red hallway; they’re all about equally dusty. Sheets and towels are in the trunk at the end of the hall. You look cold; you should take a hot bath, warm up, or you’ll catch your death.”

  He turned and walked out of the room, Lucy trotting behind him.

  Exhausted almost to the point of weepiness, Cady hauled her bag up the narrow stairwell and pulled it down a wide, impressively paneled hallway. The bag’s wheels squeaked softly, and she feared she might be dripping on the inlaid-wood floor.

  She shone her flashlight beam this way and that, illuminating a strange mix of elegance and decay: old oil paintings in elaborate gold frames hung on cracked plaster with peeling wallpaper. Intricate wood moldings on doorways and passageways led to half-remodeled rooms with dust-covered paint cans and dropcloths scattered about. Cozy built-in benches sat below boarded-up windows. One beautifully paneled room was furnished with nothing but a grand piano and a bucket that caught a drip from the ceiling. Folding TV tables mixed with beautiful carved armoires; bare bulbs vied with crystal chandeliers. Piles of books, magazines, and newspapers were everywhere: atop side chairs and tables, and filling corners.

  It was like making her way, at night, through a poorly tended museum.

  Cady found the green staircase, which consisted of six short steps down into a room crammed with laden bookcases and a hodgepodge of furniture, then went up another set of stairs to a red hallway.

  Still soaking wet, she shivered.

  She reached out to open the first door.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  1900

  EN ROUTE TO AVIGNON

  Maëlle

  Other than the trip from her coastal village to Angers, Maëlle has never ridden the train, and she has certainly never crossed all of France. Though she is excited, the jocular teasing of the workmen, released from the civilizing influences of the master and Monsieur Maréchal, puts Maëlle on edge. Her nerves make her queasy; or perhaps it is the persistent rocking of the too-hot train. She did not have this reaction when she first left home. She prays she is not coming down with ague, or whatever has afflicted young Philippe.

  Léon reaches out one long leg and nudges her ankle from across the aisle. She glances up at him, and he winks. A thrill runs through her. She feels a tingly sense of anticipation, like the bubbles in the glass of champagne he had once bought for her.

  Maëlle thinks back to that day, several weeks ago, when she was walking listlessly through the intricate gardens in Angers’s former castle moat. It was Sunday, and the factory was closed. She had attended church in the morning, but the rest of the long day yawned out in front of her; all she wanted to do was to carve, but Monsieur Bayol forbade his crew to work on the Sabbath.

  “Bonjour, mademoiselle,” said a familiar voice. “Isn’t it a beautiful day?”

  She turned and saw Léon. Her heart pounded, her cheeks flushed. She glanced around to see whether anyone else accompanied him. He was alone.

  “But . . . what are you doing here?”

  “I am appreciating the Renaissance gardens, same as you,” he said with a smile. Then he dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper: “And this way that old cow, Madame Bayol, won’t have an opinion.”

  Maëlle pretended to laugh, but although Madame Bayol is stern, she had taken Maëlle in, allowed her to live in her home. Maëlle felt uneasy about anyone speaking ill of her only female friend.

  But this was Léon.

  Léon. And the two of them were alone, for once, without the eyes of all upon them.

  They walked silently through the carefully laid-out gardens, with topiary shaped like cones and balls, and box hedges cut into curlicues, framing bright plantings of geraniums and pansies. Maëlle tried her best to act casual, but though they weren’t touching she could almost feel the warmth of his skin; he is a flame, and she the moth, drawn to his heat and light.

  When they stopped to admire the tinkling of a fountain—a cherub pouring a never-ending stream of water from an ewer—Léon leaned toward her.

  “Mademoiselle—or may I call you Maëlle?”

  “Of course,” she replied, breathless.

  “Maëlle,” he repeated, as though he liked the feeling of the letters on his lips and tongue. His sea-colored eyes studied her for a very long time, seeming to drink in every aspect of her face, every detail. Maëlle wished fervently that she had taken more time that morning with her toilette; she wondered whether her hair was smooth, whether he liked what he saw.

  “Sweet, talented Maëlle. You are . . . unique, so very special. Do you know that? I have never met a woman like you. I have asked you many times, and you have always said no. But now, with no witnesses except God, I ask you again: Won’t you please ease my heart, and join me for a drink?”

  He held out his hand. It was long-fingered and scarred, like the hands of every sculptor she knew. When she clasped it, it was as fresh and warm and welcome as the first day of spring.

  Later, he drank absinthe and ordered a glass of champagne for Maëlle. It was her first.

  * * *

  • • •

  The trip is an odyssey. Everything must be transferred in Paris. As much as Maëlle likes to think herself the equal of men, she is glad she does not have to negotiate the crowds on the platform in order to move the shipping containers onto the train bound for Avignon.

  She had thought Angers was big, but it is nothing compared to Paris. There are more people than she has ever seen in one place. Maëlle tries to take in all she can, but she cannot glimpse the Eiffel Tower from her position on the train, or on the platform. There is no time to leave the station in search of it, though Léon disappears for half an hour while the others are working. Maëlle is in charge of the paperwork, making sure that each carefully numbered box gets shifted from one train car to the next.

  She smells absinthe on Léon’s breath when he returns. She feels like pouting, annoyed that she can’t see the Tour Eiffel, irritated at Léon’s frequent disappearances, and mostly irked at the thought that as a man Léon can go where he wants while she is forced to stay with the carousel. Léon teases her and whispers that on the return trip, perhaps they will disappear in Paris for a few days, losing themselves in the famous cafés and cabarets and alleyways of the City of Light.

  The possibility takes her breath away. She knows it is impossible, and wrong . . . but it takes her breath away.

  For the rest of the ride, he makes eyes at her, trying to make her blush in front of the others. She finds it annoying and yet irresistible; all she can think about is the feeling of his lips on hers. The first time they shared a kiss it was . . . transformative.
Surely she was not the same person after a kiss like that; it felt as if her soul had met its mate and surged up through their lips. She felt whole. She felt wild and passionate and daring, able to take on the world.

  It was akin to the sensation she felt right after her brother had helped her onto the train to Angers: reckless and free and so very, completely, alive.

  So now the merest glance, the brush of a hand as they pass, simply being close enough to him to breathe in his scent, sends her into paroxysms of joy and desire, a sensation of being thoroughly, and finally, a woman.

  When, at long last, they arrive at the Avignon station, Maëlle hates to admit that she is so tired she could sleep for days. Monsieur Bayol has arranged for a steam traction engine to haul the pieces of the salon and the carousel on the final leg of the journey.

  While the men are packing the engine, Léon slips into a café.

  “C’est la fée verte,” says the apprentice named Romain, noticing Maëlle’s eyes following Léon as he disappears behind the façade of the restaurant.

  “What do you mean by ‘the green fairy’?” Maëlle asks.

  “Absinthe,” answers Guy, another of the men, with a knowing smile. “The military used to issue it to the troops in Africa, to prevent malaria. But it has a way of grabbing a man and not letting go.”

  Maëlle watches the doors of the café until it is time to go over the paperwork, checking off each box as it is unloaded from the train and transported to the steam engine.

  The train trip has been one long, grueling disappointment. But surely Château Clement, she tells herself, will make up for everything. There, she and Léon will work side by side with no one to disapprove.

  At the château everything will be different.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  PRESENT DAY

  CHTEAU CLEMENT

  Cady