by Adele Whitby
Too late, I remembered my pledge not to mention Camille to my cousins. My voice trailed off unexpectedly at the look of concern that flickered through Cousin Colette’s eyes. But perhaps I’d imagined it, because in half a heartbeat, it was gone.
“I am glad to hear it,” she said stiffly. “I would expect nothing less from our staff. Beginning next week, your schedule will start to fill. Your lessons shall begin, and I think I’ll have my dressmaker fit you for some new gowns for the summer season. In fact, perhaps . . . perhaps you might like to accompany me to the floral society luncheon today?”
I didn’t know what to say.
Under ordinary circumstances, of course I’d love to join Cousin Colette, and I knew that it was deeply kind of her to invite me along.
But the current circumstances were anything but ordinary. I’d made arrangements with Camille, and I was loath to break them.
Cousin Colette must’ve sensed my hesitation, because she quickly added, “But only if you feel comfortable appearing in society so soon after the loss of your parents. It wouldn’t be unheard of, but I know you’ve been through a great deal.”
“Thank you, Cousin, you are very kind,” I said. “If you don’t mind very much, I think I’d prefer to stay here.”
“Of course!” Cousin Colette replied quickly. “It was an insensitive suggestion; forgive me. You are still in mourning, I know. But do tell me, is there anything from life at the American Rousseau Manor that you should like to do here?”
I thought for a moment, my fingers fluttering to touch my black armband as they always did when Mother and Father were on my mind. How could I tell Cousin Colette about the way Mother let me help her get ready for her evenings out, even asking my opinion on which jewelry best suited her gown? Or the way Father taught me new French vocabulary every week, incorporating the words into such silly stories that I’d double over from laughter—and never forget them?
To ask this of Cousin Colette and Cousin Henri would be more than an inconvenience.
It would be an imposition.
“Everything here is just as it should be, thank you,” I replied. “I can think of nothing else that I need.”
A smile lit Cousin Colette’s face. “I am very pleased,” she told me. “And if there is anything else we can do, you need only say the word.”
She turned around to rummage in one of her drawers, retrieving a pair of silk gloves.
“You’re leaving already?” I blurted out. I’d thought that Camille had said Cousin Colette would be attending a luncheon, but we’d just finished breakfast.
Cousin Colette tilted her head and looked at me in a funny way. “Yes. We’ll be touring some of Paris’s finest gardens to view the spring blossoms,” she told me. “Unless . . . you’d like me to stay here with you?”
“I’ll be fine,” I told her. “Enjoy the gardens! I’m sure none of them will compare to the gardens at Rousseau Manor, though. I’m very fond of them already.”
“In that case, you and I shall have a picnic in the garden someday soon,” Cousin Colette declared. “I’ll have Bernadette make all the arrangements.”
I followed Cousin Colette into the hallway, then pretended to keep walking in the direction of my room. As soon as she had descended the stairs, I hurried back down the hall to the front window, where I watched the footman help her into the carriage. The clop-clop-clop of the horses’ hooves echoed back to me as they departed.
She’s gone, I thought, whirling around to return to her dressing parlor. A guilty conscience prickled at me—some part of me knew, of course, that it was wrong to sneak into Cousin Colette’s dressing parlor when she was away, but I couldn’t stop myself. Not when I knew that Cousin Claudia’s diary, filled with such enticing secrets, might be hidden there.
And apparently Camille—good, kind Camille, who was more cautious and careful than I’d ever been in my life—must’ve felt the same way, because she was approaching the door as well, carrying a basket of cleaning supplies.
“There was a—,” I began, but Camille put her finger to her lips, so I didn’t say another word until we were safe inside Cousin Colette’s dressing parlor, with the door closed behind us.
“—tour of the gardens,” I continued in a whisper. “That’s why she left early.”
Camille nodded, her cheeks unusually flushed. “I told Josephine that I’d tidy in here in her place so that we could start searching right away. And I took the liberty of searching Monsieur Henri’s study while you were occupied. I hope you’re not upset.”
“Not at all!” I assured her. “What did you find?”
“Nothing, I’m afraid,” she replied. “All his papers are so organized that it made short work of my search.”
I glanced around at Cousin Colette’s dressing parlor. There were so many drawers and cupboards, jewel cases and hatboxes. The hiding places were endless. I wasn’t sure where to begin, so I tried to help Camille, who was dusting Cousin Colette’s vanity. But she quickly shooed me away.
“We don’t have that much time,” she said. “I’ll clean. You search.”
I worked quickly and quietly, taking extra care to replace everything exactly as I’d found it. Cousin Colette had many fine things, and I marveled at the sight of them. Her hats, trimmed with tulle and lace and silk flowers and colorful plumage from exotic birds, captivated me the most; I found that looking into each hatbox for the lost diary was a bit like opening a birthday present!
Finally, though, I reached the last box on the shelf. I shook it a little before I opened it, hoping to hear the telltale thud of the diary shifting around.
But all I heard was silence.
I opened the box anyway, but it wasn’t a hat I found inside.
It was a stack of papers.
I unfolded one with trembling hands. It began: “Dear Mama—”
“Camille!” I cried as loud as I dared. “Come here!”
Camille was by my side in an instant. Together, we began to read.
9 September 1898
Dear Mama,
I implore you to reconsider the decision that you and Father have made regarding the fate of my child. I can see no way to part with her (I am certain I will have a daughter), despite your arguments. She is my child—mine—and she must stay with me here at Rousseau Manor. It is her birthright and her destiny. How could I ever turn my baby over to strangers? For strangers are all that Nicolas Rousseau and his American wife are to me. I am sure you are right that my father’s cousins are fine people, but I cannot give them my child. I will not do it.
It is not too late to tell the world the truth: that in one season I was wed and widowed; that my great grief over my husband’s death shall be soothed by the greater joy of our child’s birth when the December snows come.
Please, Mama, think on this request and come to me with your understanding and compassion. Where my child goes, I will go too—even if I must leave my home once more.
Love,
Claudia
I tried to speak, but the words stuck in my throat.
“But Nicolas Rousseau was my father,” I managed to squeak out, pointing at the name with trembling fingers.
“So, Madame Claudia’s baby came to live with you?” she said, gasping.
I shook my head. “I don’t think so,” I replied. “We would’ve grown up together—but I was the only child at the Rousseau Manor in America.”
Camille’s eyes shone happily. “Madame Colette and Monsieur Henri must’ve changed their minds, then!” she cried. “They relented and allowed Madame Claudia to keep her baby!”
“Did they, though?” I asked slowly. “Or did they find another home for the poor little one?”
“I do hope Madame Claudia was able to keep her baby for as long as she lived,” Camille said in concern.
A new idea struck me then, and I sat up straighter. “Do you think Claudia left again?” I asked. “Like she warns in the letter? And took the baby with her?”
“But we kn
ow Madame Claudia died,” Camille said. “So where is the baby now?”
It was a mystery that we just couldn’t solve with the little information we had.
“Someone knows,” I finally said. “Someone, somewhere, knows what happened to Claudia’s baby. In fact, I can think of at least two people.”
“Monsieur Henri and Madame Colette,” Camille whispered.
“We have no choice but to ask them,” I said. It was as simple as that.
But Camille did not agree. “No,” she said, more firmly than I’d ever heard her say anything. “We mustn’t.”
“But why not?”
“I won’t speak of it!” Camille said, and then she clamped her lips shut.
Her short words felt like a slap. “Oh,” was all I could say. Then I folded the letter and returned it to the box. I didn’t want Camille to see that my feelings were hurt, but I was hopeless to hide it.
“Claire . . .”
“We should go,” I said, glancing at the porcelain clock.
In the hallway, Camille tried again. “Don’t be upset,” she said. “I didn’t mean to say it like that. I just—I wish I didn’t have to tell you this, but I don’t think I have a choice.”
“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”
“I think you need to know.”
We stopped walking. Camille glanced around to make sure no one was nearby before she continued speaking.
“That day when you went into Madame Claudia’s room for the first time,” she began, “I didn’t tell you everything. The truth is . . . The truth is that I was the one who put Claudia’s old things in her room. I thought it would be the perfect room for you. I didn’t know about Claudia then, and when I showed the Rousseaus what I’d done, they took it very poorly.”
“What do you mean, ‘poorly’?”
Camille closed her eyes, as if the memory were too painful to bear. “Madame Colette wept and Monsieur Henri flew into a rage. The shock was so great, yet not as great as their grief for Madame Claudia. That is why no one speaks of her, you see.”
“And I suppose that’s why no one is permitted to enter Cousin Claudia’s old room,” I said thoughtfully. I could see now why Camille was so cautious of doing anything that might upset Cousin Colette and Cousin Henri. How peculiar, I thought. All I wanted was to remember Mother and Father and all the love that we’d shared, and yet it seemed that my cousins wanted only to forget.
But I couldn’t forget Cousin Claudia. Not after seeing her things and her pretty room; not after feeling such a strong and strange connection to it—a connection that I still couldn’t understand.
And not after reading her diary and her letter. Not after learning that her child was supposed to grow up alongside me, like the sister I’d always wanted.
What has become of that little baby? I wondered, and I was about to ask Camille what she thought we should do next when, suddenly, I heard it. It was faint but unmistakable: the delicate sound of Father’s violin.
And it was coming from the direction of my room.
I broke away from Camille and ran, ran as fast I could. If there was any chance, any chance at all—
I threw open the door so fast that it banged against the wall.
Only to discover that my room was empty; the violin safely tucked in its case, just the way I’d left it.
I was more disappointed than I cared to admit. I squeezed my eyes shut tight so that the tears welling there wouldn’t have a chance to fall. Camille had followed me, but I didn’t realize it until I felt her hand on my shoulder.
“I heard it too,” she said.
Are you all right?” Camille continued quietly.
“Of course. I’m fine,” I replied in a rush, but the truth was that I felt unbearably foolish, standing in my bright and cheerful room with the sunlight streaming through the windows. What was happening to me that I could entertain such a silly thought? There were no such things as ghosts. Even as my cheeks reddened, a smile flickered across my face as I thought about how Father would’ve chuckled to hear this story. His laugh was so deep and rich that he never laughed alone. Just thinking about him made me feel a bit less foolish.
“I think I’d like to take a walk outside,” I said as I fanned my blushing face. “Would you care to join me?”
“I wish I could, but I need to help Mama in the kitchen,” Camille said wistfully. “She’s planned an especially elaborate dessert for tonight—though why she wants me there to get in the way, I don’t know.”
“Don’t say such things,” I chided her in a friendly way. “I’m sure your mother is glad to have your help. I know I always am!”
“If we finish early, I’ll look for you in the gardens,” Camille promised.
“Camille?” I asked hesitantly as she moved toward the door. “We didn’t imagine hearing that music, right? Do you know where it could have been coming from?”
Camille paused and stared into the distance, deep in thought. At last she spoke. “I’m not sure. There’s a phonograph in Monsieur Henri’s study, but I wouldn’t think that we could hear it all the way up here. Besides, he should still be in the stables.”
“Maybe one of the housemaids was cleaning it and . . . and it started to play on its own,” I said, grasping for a theory that might make sense.
“Maybe,” Camille replied, but she didn’t sound convinced.
We walked into the hallway together, but soon after we descended the stairs, Camille and I parted ways. She went in the direction of the kitchen, while I pushed through the double doors and stepped into the warm spring sunshine. I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly as I walked, trying to quiet my mind. My thoughts were such a muddle, as if tossed about on a stormy sea.
From the haunting music wafting through the halls—
To the letter filled with Cousin Claudia’s heartfelt pleas—
To the unknown fate of her little baby—
And, of course, the missing diary—
How would I ever sort it all out?
For reasons I didn’t understand, I simply had to find the answers. It will do me good to sit a spell in the flower garden, I thought, surrounded by the blossoms that Mother loved best. She always did know how to help me calm my mind.
But as I approached the tranquil gardens, a harsh voice shattered my reverie.
“That’s not good enough. I want to know exactly where you were.”
I ducked behind a tall hedge and held myself still as a statue, listening to every word. The voice that answered was mumbled and hard to hear until—
“Speak up, son!”
“I—just—it—”
“A simple question deserves a simple answer, Alexandre.”
The groundskeeper’s son! I thought, remembering how Camille and I had seen him in the hallway outside my room yesterday. But I pushed the memory out of my mind so that I could focus on what his father, Phillipe, was saying.
“Just a few weeks we’ve been here, and already you see fit to shirk your duties! Do you think the Rousseaus will look kindly on that? Do you think they will allow us to stay if—”
“Father, I’m sorry,” came Alexandre’s reply. He sounded miserable. “I—here, give me your trowel. I’ll finish the weeding myself, no matter how long it takes—”
“Alexandre! Your fingers!”
What’s wrong with his fingers? I wondered curiously, wishing that I could see through the dense hedge.
“It’s nothing, Father.”
“But why are they so red? Have you been in the stinging nettles? I don’t see any welts—and only the left hand is afflicted. . . .”
Suddenly, it all made sense. Papa’s fingers—the fingers on his left hand—always turned red and tender whenever he played his violin after a long absence. Now I knew where the music had come from and even why we’d seen Alexandre in the east wing.
“Come. We’ll go to the kitchen and ask your mother for a poultice,” Philippe said. “Not a word to her of your dillydallying;
it would break her heart to hear that her son was acting like a layabout—”
But Alexandre didn’t need a poultice, not if his fingers were red from playing my father’s violin. And I didn’t want to waste this opportunity to ask him my questions.
“Excuse me,” I said brazenly as I stepped around the hedge, startling both Philippe and Alexandre. “I am sorry, Philippe. I owe you an apology.”
“Me?” Philippe echoed in disbelief. He immediately removed his cap and clutched it in his hands. “Mademoiselle Claire, you are mistaken, I am sure—”
I shook my head vehemently. “Not at all; you see, it was I who called Alexandre away from his work.”
Alexandre looked at me in astonishment, and for just an instant I was ashamed to be caught in such a bold-faced lie. But surely he would appreciate my efforts if it spared him a punishment.
“He has been most kind, introducing me to the native plants of France and teaching me their names, at my request, of course,” I continued. “This is my homeland now, and I want to know everything about it.”
Philippe looked from me to Alexandre and back to me again.
“But I see now that my desire to learn about French plants has interrupted Alexandre’s duties, and for that I apologize,” I said. “It won’t happen again.”
Philippe cleared his throat. “Not at all, Mademoiselle Claire,” he said in a much calmer, kinder voice. “It will be Alexandre’s pleasure to teach you about plants whenever you desire.”
“Wonderful!” I said brightly. “Might we continue now? There’s a flower that I’ve been so very curious about.”
“Of course,” Philippe replied with a slight bow. Then he turned to his son. “I’ll be in the topiary garden when you are free.”
“Yes, Father,” Alexandre replied, speaking for the first time since my interruption.
We stood together in silence while Philippe left. The moment he was out of view, I spun around to face Alexandre.
“Have you been playing my violin?”
“Just—once! Twice. I swear it was only twice! I played so softly, I hoped no one would hear me,” he explained in a panic. “Forgive me, mademoiselle. It will never happen again!”
