Claire’s Story, 1910

by Adele Whitby

  “There’s no need to ask for forgiveness,” I said right away, surprised at his outburst. “But why is it a secret? You play very well—as well as my—”

  But I couldn’t finish the sentence.

  There was a long, uncomfortable silence until Alexandre finally spoke. “My father does not approve,” he said, staring at the ground. “In our old home there was a musician who lived in the apartment above ours. He used to give me lessons on the violin, and all I had to do in return was feed his cat on the nights when he played with the symphony.”

  I waited quietly for Alexandre to continue.

  “I loved it, more than anything,” he said at last. “But Papa said it was a waste of time. We’d never be able to afford a violin, or even proper lessons on a regular schedule. Then the Great Flood came. . . . We lost our home, and so did my music teacher. Papa said I should count it as a blessing—that it was time to put away such foolish pastimes.”

  “That’s nonsense,” I said hotly, but caught myself quickly. “You seem to me to be quite talented.”

  For the first time, something close to a smile crossed Alexandre’s face, but he quickly shook his head. “I haven’t played in months, Mademoiselle Claire,” he said. “But when I heard you playing in the garden the other day—”

  “That was you!” I exclaimed, forgetting my manners as I interrupted him. “I thought there was someone near.”

  “I was on my way to water the roses when I heard your violin,” he said. “Just a few notes made my fingers start to tremble. I longed to play again, and I couldn’t get the thought out of my mind.”

  “So that’s why you snuck into my room when I was not there,” I realized.

  He nodded, but he refused to meet my eye. And was that sunburn that made his cheeks look so pink, or was he blushing from embarrassment? “It was wrong of me, I know. I should’ve asked your permission, at the very least. It will never happen again.”

  “That’s what would truly be wrong,” I replied. “You are always welcome to play Father’s violin. In fact, now that I know you enjoy playing so much, I will leave it near the door of my room so that you can play whenever you want.” It would be the perfect solution!

  “Thank you, Mademoiselle Claire, but such a thing would be impossible,” he said. “Father watches me all the time, and I fear that he will keep an even closer eye on me now.”

  I pursed my lips, unhappy to see Alexandre so resigned to a life without music. For Father, there was nothing in the world like playing his violin—nothing at all. It brought him such joy, and not only that, it brought joy to all who heard him. If Alexandre felt the same way—and it certainly seemed that he did—it would be a crime to keep him from it.

  Right then and there, I made a silent vow. I will find a way for you to play, Alexandre, I promised. No matter what!

  But all I said to Alexandre was, “We shall see about that.”

  Then I began walking toward the flower garden. “I was telling your father the truth, you know. I have been quite curious about some of the plants here, particularly a flower that was very dear to my mother. Do you think you might help me identify it?”

  “Why, certainly,” Alexandre replied as he fell into step beside me. “If I can, of course. I began apprenticing with my father only when we came here, so I’m really just learning all about plants myself.”

  We walked beneath the bower, and I led him right over to the sweetly scented blooms. “This one here,” I said. “Do you know what kind of flower this is?”

  Alexandre shook his head. “ ’Fraid not,” he replied. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out a slim volume, yellowed with age. “But this might help.”

  “What is it?” I asked curiously.

  “It’s the last groundkeeper’s journal,” Alexandre explained as he began to flip through the dirt-stained pages. “Mostly, he wrote about how to care for the topiary garden. But I’ve found other notes in it too, and even some drawings.”

  We sat together for quite some time as we looked through the journal. I didn’t see any sketches of Mother’s favorite flowers, but the groundskeeper’s notes were very charming to read.

  A favorite of Little C, he wrote next to a sketch of poppies.

  Little C has asked for a peacock in the topiary. What will she think of next!

  “Who’s this ‘Little C?’ I wonder,” I said.

  “Camille, I’m sure,” Alexandre replied offhandedly. “This was her father’s journal.”

  My mouth dropped open in surprise. “Her father?” I repeated. “Her father was the groundskeeper here?”

  Alexandre nodded. “For many years, I’m told, until he died of influenza. Father and I found his journal after we took over the groundskeeper’s duties.”

  “Might I borrow it?” I asked impulsively. “I think Camille should have the chance to read it.”

  “Of course,” Alexandre replied. “But I’ll need it back before too long. We’ll be starting the elephant next.”

  “I shouldn’t need to keep it for more than a day or two,” I told him. It was a very slim volume, after all.

  And the last thing I wanted was for Alexandre to get in more trouble.

  I bade farewell to Alexandre and went back to Rousseau Manor so that I could show Camille her father’s journal. I knew she would be delighted to read all the little notes he’d written about her! First, though, I decided to stop by my room so that I could leave my parasol and gloves there. As I passed by Cousin Henri’s study, I heard three voices talking over one another with such agitation that they carried all the way through the closed door. I simply had to pause and listen.

  “We have no choice but to tell them—”

  “I told you this would happen—”

  “The question is, how much do they already know?”

  Two of the voices were familiar to me—Cousin Henri’s and Cousin Colette’s, of course.

  But who was the third?

  “We cannot assume that—”

  “Would you please be so kind as to lower your voice!”

  Drat, I thought—though I couldn’t help smiling; Cousin Henri’s words had carried through the door even as he implored the others to be quiet. Sure enough, after that all I could hear were muffled whispers.

  Who are they talking to? I wondered. And perhaps even more pressing: How can I find out?

  I scanned the long hallway as I tried to figure out what to do next. It would never do to stand right outside Cousin Henri’s study as though I was eavesdropping, and I didn’t dare interrupt such a serious and urgent conversation.

  Then I spotted it: a large potted plant near the end of the hall. If I could hide behind it and if the people in the room went the other way down the hall when they came out, I would be able to see who else was in the study with my cousins. Just as I tucked myself behind the waxy leaves, I heard the door open. I held my breath, pressed myself even flatter against the wall, and peeked through the leaves.

  Cousin Henri entered the hall first, holding the door open for Cousin Colette. She stepped out of the study and paused to say something to the person behind her. My impatience was an agony as I waited—waited—waited—

  Then the third person stepped out of the room, and even through the leaves I could see her clearly. She looked familiar—I’d met her when I first arrived at Rousseau Manor—but for the life of me, I couldn’t recall her name.

  Suddenly, Cousin Colette reached out and took hold of the woman’s hand. “Thank you, Marie,” she said fervently. “The decisions ahead will not be easy ones, but we are so grateful for the warning you’ve given us.”

  Marie! Of course! The pastry chef—and Camille’s mother!

  “Of course, madame,” Marie said, but there was a stiffness to her shoulders, as if she was trying to control her emotions. “Please let me know what you decide.”

  Then Marie disappeared down the hall—in the opposite direction from me, fortunately—while Cousin Colette and Cousin Henri retreated back into
the study, closing the door firmly behind them.

  I breathed a sigh of relief that no one had seen me, but my relief was all too quickly replaced by intense curiosity. What did Cousin Colette mean? What difficult decisions were ahead? And what had Marie warned them about?

  All I knew for certain was that I had to talk to Camille at once. I had to tell her everything! Another mystery at Rousseau Manor, and this time Camille’s own mother was involved. Perhaps Camille already knew what they were talking about, and if not, I couldn’t think of anyone else I’d rather solve it with.

  I set off for the kitchen, reminding myself to act normally if I should see Marie there. Luckily, Marie was occupied at the stove, and Camille was in the process of bringing Baby Sophie back to her mother; I was able to catch Camille’s eye and gesture for her to join me in the hall without attracting anyone else’s attention.

  “I’m sorry I couldn’t join you in the garden!” she said right away. “As soon as I finished helping Mama, it was time to look after Sophie. I would’ve brought her in the pram, but the wheel needs fixing.”

  I shook my head. “Never mind that,” I replied. “You won’t believe what just happened.” And then I proceeded to tell Camille everything I’d heard. She stared at me in disbelief.

  “I haven’t the faintest idea what they were talking about,” Camille said. “But I’ll keep my ears open, and if I find out—”

  “Couldn’t you just ask your mother?” I asked, letting my impatience get the better of me.

  “How?” Camille pointed out rationally. “Mama would want to know how I found out about their conversation.”

  I grinned sheepishly. “Yes, you’re right. It would never do to tell them that I was listening at the door,” I admitted. Then I sighed. So many unsolved mysteries, so many unanswered questions. It seemed to me that one forthright conversation would do wonders to clarify everything!

  “Don’t worry, though,” Camille assured me. “Mama always says that the truth will come out, and she’s never been wrong yet.”

  A door down the hall opened then, and Bernadette entered the hallway. She started at the sight of me. “Mademoiselle Claire! What are you doing down here?” she exclaimed. Her voice was so loud that everyone in the kitchen looked over at us. “Have you come for something to eat?”

  “Eat?” I repeated.

  “You missed lunch,” she said pointedly. Bernadette would never dare to reprimand me, of course, but I could tell she was displeased.

  “Missed lunch!” Marie cried from the stove. “No, that will never do. Mrs. Plourde—”

  “Yes, of course,” the cook replied as she started fixing a tray.

  All this fuss for me! I felt terrible. “I’m so sorry,” I told them. “Please don’t go to any trouble.”

  “It’s no trouble at all, but you should have a little something to eat now,” Bernadette said. “Not too much, though. It won’t be long until dinner is served. In fact, I was just on my way to help you dress for dinner.”

  “Goodness, I didn’t realize it was so late already,” I replied. “Thank you, Bernadette.”

  Bernadette nodded and then glanced at Camille. “You worked very hard today,” she said. “I know your mother was grateful for your help.”

  “Thank you,” Camille said, ducking her head. “I tried my best.”

  Bernadette and I took our leave then, and she accompanied me back to my room. It wasn’t until we arrived that I realized I was still holding the gardening journal under my arm. In all the excitement, I’d completely forgotten to show it to Camille. I suppose it can wait until later, I thought with disappointment as I put the book on my bedside table. All the while, as Bernadette helped me dress and fixed my hair, I couldn’t stop thinking about what Camille had said: The truth will come out.

  But how? And when?

  An hour later, I joined my cousins in the dining room for dinner. I was still deeply distracted by my curiosity about what I’d heard earlier, yet Cousin Henri and Cousin Colette were perfectly composed, as though nothing unusual had happened.

  “And so I think perhaps next year we will tour the gardens a week or two later,” Cousin Colette was saying. “The unexpected freeze last month meant that some of my favorite flowers were not yet in bloom.”

  “Pity,” remarked Cousin Henri.

  I tried my hardest not to fidget. Under the table, where no one could see, I knotted my napkin in my hands, but it did little to relieve my agitation.

  Then they both turned to me.

  “And how did you spend your day, Claire?” asked Cousin Colette.

  I swallowed hard. And then I began to speak. The words that tumbled out of my mouth shocked even me.

  “What happened to Claudia’s baby?” I blurted out.

  There was a tinkling of silver on china as Cousin Colette dropped her fork, but after that the room was silent. Perfectly, utterly, and horribly silent. My cousins stared at me.

  “I want to know,” I pressed on. “I need to know. The baby was meant to live with me—in my father’s safekeeping—and yet, as far as I know, it never came to pass. Where is the baby?”

  “Excuse us, please,” Cousin Henri spoke at last, but his words weren’t directed at me. Instead, he was addressing the footmen, who wasted no time leaving the dining room.

  Tiny beads of sweat dotted Cousin Henri’s forehead; he wiped them with his handkerchief before he turned back to me. “Claire—,” he began, then stopped. He tried again. “Claire.” But he seemed unable to say more than my name.

  “How do you know all this?” Cousin Colette asked. She was clutching the tabletop for support, and her eyes seemed especially shiny in the candlelight, but her voice was calm and steady. Strong.

  I braced myself. This was the problem with rushing off and doing something without thinking it all the way through. How many times did Mother warn you about this? I chided myself. But it was too late now; I couldn’t take back what I’d said. And if I was hoping for honesty from my cousins, it was the least I could offer them in return.

  “I found Cousin Claudia’s diary, and I read part of it,” I said, keeping Camille out of it. “But it disappeared from Claudia’s room before I could read the rest, so I’ve been searching for it.”

  I paused to take a breath. This next part would be even harder to say, but I had no choice. “I looked in your dressing parlor, Cousin Colette, and I found Claudia’s letter to you. The one where she begged to keep her child here at Rousseau Manor.”

  Cousin Colette pressed her hand over her eyes before I could see her reaction to my words.

  Such a long silence followed that my curiosity melted away, replaced by something altogether more troubling: anxiety. The questions racing through my mind were suddenly very different: What if my cousins were too angry to let me stay? What if they sent me away? Where would I go if I wore out my welcome here?

  Why did I always have to rush forward without thinking through all the consequences?

  At last Cousin Colette lowered her hand. She and Cousin Henri exchanged a long glance, full of meaning that I couldn’t understand. But they could, and that was the important part, I suppose, because Henri finally began to speak.

  “I am sure that my cousins Nicolas and Annabelle raised you better than this, dear Claire,” Cousin Henri said. His reproach wasn’t born of anger, but disappointment, and suddenly I was filled with tremendous shame. Cousin Henri was right; I never would’ve dreamed of snooping in Mother’s dressing parlor like that, and it was horrible that I’d done such a thing to Cousin Colette.

  “I’m sorry,” I whispered.

  “This is your home, and you should feel comfortable and at ease here,” Cousin Henri continued. “However, we do expect you to respect our privacy as well.”

  “It won’t happen again,” I promised them both.

  Cousin Colette rose abruptly. I followed her with my eyes as she circled the table and, pulling out the chair to my right, sat beside me. Cousin Henri moved his place, too, so t
hat he was directly on my other side. My heart started beating harder, faster. Something was about to happen. Something of the utmost importance.

  And I could scarcely wait to find out what.

  “But your questions and curiosity are understandable, my dear girl,” Cousin Colette said as she reached for my hand. “And we will do our best to answer them. In truth, we’ve been carrying this secret for far too long, and I, for one, shall be glad to be free of it.”

  Cousin Henri nodded his agreement.

  “Claudia’s baby did go to America with Nicolas Rousseau,” Cousin Colette said. Her green eyes never wavered, never left my face. “It was you.”

  I blinked in astonishment. Surely I had misheard—

  Surely I was mistaken—

  “It was you,” Cousin Colette repeated, and the first tear escaped from her eyes, trailing down her powdered cheek in a silvery streak. Her grip on my hand tightened. “It was you.”

  I was Claudia’s longed-for daughter?

  Claudia was my mother?

  My whole world changed forever in that instant. I pressed my fingers to my temples as I tried to understand. If Claudia was my mother . . . then Cousin Henri and Cousin Colette were my grandparents. Not my cousins at all! No wonder, then, that they had so readily agreed to be my guardians when Mother and Father died, despite all our friends and business connections in America. And Mother and Father—I had not been born to them. They were my grandfather’s cousins.

  I shook my head. I was still a Rousseau; this shocking revelation didn’t change that. In fact, I was a Rousseau who had been born in this very house, to a mother who had wanted me very much.

  When I finally spoke, I nearly choked on the words. “You sent me away from her? All she wanted was to keep her baby, and you sent me away? From my mother?”

  The tears were streaming freely down Cousin Colette’s face now, but she made no effort to wipe them away. “Do not think it was an easy thing to do,” she told me. “Do not think that I haven’t wondered, every day of my life, if we made the right choice.”