The Lost Carousel of Provence

by Juliet Blackwell

  “That’s what happened, you know. His grandmother, Josephine—my own father knew her, as did his father. Too well. She had an affair with an apprentice named Léon Morice while he was there to install the carousel. Haven’t you noticed that Fabrice looks like none of us? The Clement family resemblance is strong. Josephine ruled that château as though she belonged as well. Another foreigner.”

  “Where was she from?”

  “Bretagne.”

  “Isn’t that . . . part of France?” Cady’s gaze flickered over to Jean-Paul, who nodded.

  “It is like a different world there, with different ways,” said Gerald. “In any case, she was so proud of herself, marrying a Clement, becoming lady of the manor. She held herself above the Provençal people. For years she and Yves had no children, and then a handsome apprentice arrives on the scene, and voilà. Nine months later, a baby is born.”

  “I heard they used to have celebrations, and invite the whole village to ride the carousel,” said Cady.

  “Of course, they wanted to lord their wealth and good fortune over the whole village. There was a huge celebration to announce Josephine’s condition, and the arrival of the carousel. My own father remembered riding it as a boy.”

  “Really? Did he tell you which animal he rode?”

  He looked taken aback at her question, but then answered, “It was a, uh, pig. With its tongue sticking out.”

  “You remember that after all these years?” asked Louise.

  Cady imagined she would remember riding the sea creature in Tilden Park for as long as she lived.

  “What about the music? Did he say anything about that? Or the steam engine? What about bellows?” Cady continued. “Did he mention if any of the animals made lowing sounds?”

  Gerald seemed nonplussed to have his rant against Fabrice’s legitimacy derailed. “Why are you so obsessed with that carousel?” he demanded.

  She shrugged. “It’s my thing.”

  “Cady’s a photographer,” said Jean-Paul. “She came to Paris to photograph historic carousels for a book.”

  “Then she ought to go back to Paris.”

  “Papa—,” said Louise.

  “Grandfather—,” said Jean-Paul at the same time.

  “It’s fine,” Cady assured Louise and Jean-Paul. She smiled and popped a couple of almonds in her mouth, holding Gerald’s gaze. “Honestly. I think Monsieur Clement and I understand each other. But I’m not ready to go back to Paris yet, as I want to clean up the carousel a little, see what’s there and whether it’s salvageable. Unless Fabrice asks me to leave beforehand, that’s my plan.”

  “Thank you for the wine, Maman,” Jean-Paul said, standing and pushing in his chair. “I think we’ve subjected Cady to enough of a trial for today. Cady, ready to go?”

  “Oh, sure,” she said, standing and trading kisses with Louise. “It was so nice to meet you. And Monsieur Clement.” After a brief hesitation she leaned over to give him the double kisses as well. “I wish you a good day.”

  Jean-Paul ushered her out a side door. The late-afternoon air was chilly, but the sun was warm and welcome on her skin.

  “That went well,” said Cady.

  Jean-Paul glanced down at her, an amused look on his face. “It was pretty cheeky of you, asking him about the missing carousel animals.”

  “You think he has some of them?”

  “Very possibly. Or at least he knows where they are. He seemed to remember the pig pretty well. I’ll find out.”

  “Thanks. Anyway, I figured it was worth a try. As I said, I’m used to people not liking me, and since he was already inclined that way, I figured it couldn’t hurt.”

  “Why do you think people don’t like you?”

  “They don’t.”

  “Fabrice does. I do.”

  She smiled. “That makes me wonder, sometimes. Jean-Paul, why did you offer to buy my rabbit, sight unseen? And then every time the carousel came up in conversation, it seemed like it bothered you.”

  He blew out a long breath. “I’ve tried to approach Fabrice about the possibility of saving the château, from several angles over the years, including the idea of using a restored carousel as a tourist attraction. I came back to Saint-Véran, thinking I would try one more time to talk to him about the possibilities, but you saw how he greeted me. And then he let you in, not only to the house but apparently into his heart. I’m happy for him, but it’s also been a little . . .”

  “Galling?” she suggested.

  Jean-Paul nodded, leading the way around the house to the ground floor, where a picturesque stone veranda sat under a pergola. A vine twisted its limbs around the posts, bare of leaves but covered in small green buds, promising greenery and flowers to come.

  He opened a set of French doors and waved her in.

  “This used to be a storage area and wine cellar, but I made this entrance and converted it into an apartment for when I come to visit.”

  Inside, golden gray stone walls formed a backdrop to simple furniture: a kitchenette with a small table in a dining alcove, a bedroom area with a bath beyond. There were fine built-ins and niches with artifacts on display, and a few bright oil paintings livened up the muted walls.

  “It’s lovely,” said Cady as she took it all in.

  “It’s not easy to shoehorn things like plumbing and electrical into old stone walls,” Jean-Paul said as he showed her around the small unit. “But the historic character makes it worth it.”

  “So this is how you know so much about restoration?”

  “I do a lot of historic redesign with my architecture firm. And I love old buildings—the history, the romance, the craftsmanship. Which is how I know exactly what I would be getting into with the family château.” He shook his head. “I’ve gone over it and over it in my head, and it just doesn’t make any sense to try to take it on. Not alone, anyway.”

  “Aren’t there any other family members interested in taking part?”

  “No, they’re all busy with their lives, and it’s a massive undertaking.”

  She noticed a roll of blueprints alongside a sheaf of papers with familiar-looking handwriting and drawings.

  “Are these by Fabrice?” she asked, picking up the stack. “They look like the maps he draws for me, of the village and the wine cellar.”

  “Yes, they are. When he came back to live at the château with his father in the seventies, Fabrice intended to renovate it. Apparently he and his father repaired some of the woodwork and redid a few of the rooms, but their grand plans fell by the wayside eventually.”

  “And the blueprints are of the château?”

  He nodded. “My ex-fiancée and I did some work on them.”

  “This was back before she decided small-town life wasn’t to her liking?”

  “Exactly.”

  “So, it would take a whole fleet of help to get the château into shape?”

  “Or at the very least”—Jean-Paul fixed Cady with a look she had come to know, a look with a sort of puzzled, intrigued, yet ever-so-slightly-annoyed smile—“a really committed partner.”

  “I can’t get over the way you look at me.”

  “How do I look at you?”

  “As though you don’t want to like me.”

  After a momentary pause, he said, “You’re leaving soon.”

  “So you keep reminding me. I told you, I canceled my ticket back.”

  “You mean you’re never leaving?”

  “Of course I am. But it’s open-ended at the moment.”

  They fell silent. They were standing in the middle of the apartment, facing each other, each caught up in thought. Cady reached out and placed her hand on his chest. He looked down at it, a carefully neutral expression on his face.

  “Oh yes,” Cady said in a quiet voice as she let her hand drop. “I remember you
told me you weren’t good enough for your ex-fiancée. I’m pretty sure my ex felt I wasn’t good enough for him, too. But the truth was, I was way too good for him. Of course, I didn’t know that at the time. That’s part of the knowledge that came with growing up.”

  “Are you suggesting I haven’t grown up?”

  She laughed. “Not at all. You look grown-up, and you have a very grown-up-sounding job at the ‘firm’ in Paris.”

  “Where I’m not working at the moment, as I play around in Saint-Véran.”

  “Is that how you see yourself?”

  He gave a wry chuckle and shook his head.

  “To tell you the truth,” he said, “I don’t know what I’m doing. I seem to be at something of a crossroads in my life. The only thing that makes sense to me lately . . . is you.”

  They gazed at each other for a long moment.

  “What you need,” Cady said finally, “is to spend a little time fixing up an old carousel.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  1900

  CHTEAU CLEMENT

  Maëlle

  “You do not think me wicked?”

  Josephine takes a moment to respond, as though choosing her words carefully. “To be perfectly honest, I might have, a few years ago. But now . . . it is easy to see that women are afforded a different lot in life than men. We all have passions, do we not? Why is it that the men are allowed to express theirs, whereas we are expected always to be such paragons?”

  Maëlle shakes her head and keens into her handkerchief. “I th-thought he loved me.”

  “Of course you did,” says Josephine, rubbing Maëlle’s back.

  “I’ve never before . . .” She hiccups. “I mean, I’ve hardly even kissed a boy before.”

  “Not even the two men who offered you marriage?”

  “Not even them—just quick pecks. Nothing like with Léon . . .” She can still feel the sensation of his mouth on hers. “He talked of taking me to Paris, of showing me the world. He said we would sculpt together, traveling from château to château to work under the patronage of wealthy art lovers. But now . . . what do I do, Josephine?”

  Josephine gives her a sad smile. “Could you go back to your family, in Bretagne?”

  “How could I? I ran off to the city, and now I come back unmarried, with a baby? My mother’s not alive; we would simply be a burden on my father.”

  “If he loves you, he won’t see it as a burden.”

  “My brother is sick as well; I have been sending half my wages home.”

  Josephine makes a tsking sound. “And your wages are a scandal. For a talented, intelligent woman like you?” She frowns and shakes her head.

  “And . . . how could I work? The world is not kind to an unwed mother—or to the child that comes of such.”

  They sit in silence for a long moment, each lost in her own thoughts, gazing into the fire that pops and hisses in the hearth.

  “Let’s look at this another way,” Josephine says after a moment. “What would you have done if you hadn’t found yourself in the position you’re in now?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Pretend you’d never met that crétin Léon Morice. Would you go back to Bayol’s workshop in Angers when you’re done with the carousel?”

  “I did learn a great deal there, it’s true,” Maëlle begins, not wanting to be ungrateful. “But it’s difficult. I am the only woman, as you can imagine. And I feel . . . Well, Monsieur Bayol and the others call me ‘little girl.’ It has been a revelation to be here at Château Clement, to be in charge. It is the one blessing that came of Léon’s irresponsibility.”

  “What is in your heart of hearts? If you had been born a man, for instance. What would you most want, in this whole wide world?”

  Maëlle gives a shy smile.

  “If I were a man? Promise you won’t laugh? I had a fantasy that you might ask me to stay on at Château Clement, to carve your lintels.”

  “My lintels?”

  “Your doorways, and window frames. Fireplace mantels and columns . . . they’re beautiful wood, but so . . . plain. Rather severe, even. Can’t you imagine them covered in the leaves and berries of the woods that surround the château?” Maëlle blows quietly into the handkerchief again, but she is no longer crying. “And the birds that your husband loves so well?”

  “Whenever you speak of carving, your whole face lights up,” says Josephine.

  “Ever since I was very young, I’ve been happiest with wood under my fingers, cradled in the palms of my hands. I feel as though the very spirit of the wood calls to me, asking me to release its figures. I love the sharpness of the knives, the pointiness of the awls and veiners, the way the planers smooth things out. I even love sanding—and no one likes to sand.” She shakes her head. “It makes no sense.”

  “I beg your pardon, but it makes a great deal of sense.” Josephine’s voice gentles. “But here is what I find interesting: I think most women, when asked what they dream of, would mention a kind husband, and having children. Making a family.”

  “I know it sounds . . . unnatural.” Maëlle hesitates. “But all I’ve ever wanted to do was carve. I helped raise my younger sisters, and I love them, but I don’t feel the same urges some women do. I never wanted this. To be a mother.”

  “Like I do,” says Josephine. “Personally, I grow weary of people telling me what is ‘natural’ for a woman. Are we not humans with varied emotions, just as men are?”

  Maëlle begins to cry again, whimpering into her already damp handkerchief. “How can the fates be so cruel? How is it that I should find myself in this condition, while you . . .”

  “Remain childless.” Josephine’s voice is flat, but she grabs the iron poker and stabs at the fire with vigor, sending up a spray of orange sparks. “The fates are cruel, indeed. But it occurs to me, Maëlle, that the fates are a little like the winds that sweep over these lands.”

  “How so?”

  “There is a local story about negotiating with the wind known as the mistral. It seems impossible at first glance, but . . . perhaps the fates can be negotiated with.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  PRESENT DAY

  CHTEAU CLEMENT

  Cady

  The next morning Cady got to work on the carousel bright and early, excited to try out some of the products Élodie had given her.

  Johnny showed up, as sullen as ever, but right on time. And then Jean-Paul appeared, wearing torn jeans and a sweatshirt over a stained white T-shirt.

  “Guido’s expecting us after lunch,” Jean-Paul said. “He’s not sure he’ll have much time to spend with us, but he says you are most welcome to use his darkroom.”

  “That’s great,” said Cady, her eyes traveling over his outfit. “I notice you’re wearing work clothes.”

  “I assumed fixing a broken-down old carousel might be dusty work.” Jean-Paul looked around the building. “This is . . .” He trailed off with a shake of his head.

  “C’est un saloperie,” Johnny said, referring to the building as a pigsty, essentially.

  It did look like a chaotic muddle. But now more than ever Cady was able to envision what it could be. Last time she and Johnny had started to organize the figures according to level of need. The old poles were still scattered about, some still attached to the platform while others lay like kindling on the floor. The scenery panels, rounding boards, and mirrors from the original structure were black with soot, but appeared largely intact. She had no idea how to fix the motor or reconnect all the cranks and pistons to make it whirl around again, but that would be a later step.

  First things first: to reclaim the art.

  Johnny insisted on broadcasting the playlist on his phone—including songs by Johnny Hallyday and Johnny Cash, both of whom he claimed to be named after—so they listened to a mix of American favorites and E
uropop while the three of them got to work.

  Cady showed Johnny how to clean off the ornately framed mirrors, taking care to avoid any broken glass, while Jean-Paul rolled up his sleeves and started tinkering with the engine and the sweep mechanisms; he had researched carousels the night before, trying to understand how the basic machinery worked.

  Cady found an old ladder and climbed up to check out the rounding boards, where flat decorative panels took turns with three-dimensional shields boasting jesters’ faces. Using cotton balls soaked in the specialty cleanser Élodie had given her, Cady carefully wiped soot and grime from the painted sections.

  Inch by inch, she uncovered delicately detailed landscapes and wild animals, tigers and lions as well as mythological creatures: a unicorn and a hippogriff. Thanks to the cleaning solution, the process was straightforward enough for Johnny to handle it, with the instruction to proceed slowly and gently. Cady was eager to move on to her true love: the carousel figures themselves.

  She climbed down from the ladder to check out Johnny’s progress with the mirrors, then went over to see what Jean-Paul was up to: He was on his back and had crawled under the platform with a flashlight.

  “What are you looking for?”

  “Just wanted to see how it works,” came his muffled reply. “We could probably reinstall those poles without too much effort, as long as all these pistons are still working. But of course the poles will wait until you’ve got the pieces in good shape.”

  “Do you suppose there’s any way to track down all the missing figures?”

  He crawled out from under the carousel floor. Cobwebs stuck to his hair, and dirt and soot smeared his sweatshirt. He looked . . . adorable.

  “It would take a lot of detective work,” he said, jumping to his feet and putting his hands on his hips. “And even if you tracked them down, if they wound up in the hands of collectors they would cost a fortune. How would we come up with the money to pay for them?”

  “Good question.”

  “As I told you, I’ll make sure there are no others left in family hands. But beyond that, would they have to be originals?”