by Adele Whitby
Still, though, I couldn’t understand how this had come to pass. “Claudia wrote that she would take me away if you tried, but—”
“But she died,” Cousin Henri interrupted me. “Claudia died giving birth, and all her dreams with her. Including mothering you, which she wanted to do more than anything.”
“She would’ve been a wonderful mother,” Cousin Colette said. “And I doubt that, in the face of her motherly love and devotion, we would’ve been able to follow through with our original plan.”
“But she died,” Cousin Henri repeated. “And you were very much alive and in need of a family. Colette and I—how could we care for you properly when our hearts were broken beyond repair? How could we raise you in a house that had descended into the depths of grief?”
Cousin Colette spoke up. “Then there were Nicolas and Annabelle to consider. They longed to be parents but had not been blessed with children. If we turned you over to their loving care, we could make their dreams come true. We could give you a chance at a childhood that was not shadowed by grief. I will show you, Claire, the letter they wrote after I asked if they would raise you as their own. I have kept it all these years because the sheer joy they experienced at the mere thought of you coming into their lives—”
She paused to wipe my tears with her handkerchief, and that’s when I realized that I was crying, too.
“They loved you very much, you know,” Cousin Henri said. “You were everything to them.”
“How do you know that?” I dared to ask.
Cousin Colette rested her hand on my cheek. “Because they wrote to us every month to keep us informed of your progress,” she told me. “So you see, though you don’t know us very well at all, we have been following your life for years. It was the next best thing to having you here. And when I would doubt our decision, all I had to do was read one of Annabelle’s letters to be assured that you were leading a very happy life indeed. It was a happy life, wasn’t it?”
I thought of Mother and Father and the richness of our life together: grand adventures in the city and cozy nights at home. Holidays and celebrations and, most of all, the ordinary days, when Father’s music would drift through the garden as I helped Mother tend her flowers. “Yes,” I said, smiling through my tears. “Yes, it was.”
“And it will be again,” Cousin Colette promised me. “Henri and I shall see to that.”
Something wonderful and surprising happened then: All the stiffness and distance between us seemed to melt away in an instant. Without that long-kept secret standing between us, there would be a chance now for us to become family . . . the way we were always meant to be.
I looked up. “May I call you Grandmother?” I asked hesitantly. “And Grandfather?”
They exchanged another glance, but it was easy, this time, to know what it meant.
“Nothing would please us more,” my grandmother said.
Grandfather Henri rose from his chair. “Are you hungry, my dear?” he asked kindly. “Thirsty? I’ll send for the footmen—”
“I don’t think I could eat a single bite,” I said.
“That’s perfectly understandable; you’ve had quite a shock,” Grandmother Colette said. “I’ll have Bernadette bring a tray to your room later, in case you recover your appetite.”
“Thank you,” I said. I climbed the stairs two at a time, but I didn’t go to my room. Instead, I went directly to Camille’s room. The only thought in my mind was telling Camille this tremendous news at once!
I rapped on the door and waited impatiently for an answer. It was Marie who opened it a few moments later. She took one look at me and motioned for me to come in.
“Mademoiselle Claire!” she exclaimed. “What’s the matter? Is everything all right?”
“It’s—” I paused and placed my hand over my chest, where my heart was thundering wildly—partly from running up the stairs and partly from the shock I’d had.
“Come. Sit,” Marie said, wrapping her arm around my shoulders as she led me over to a comfortable settee. I caught a glimpse of my reflection in a gilt-framed mirror. My eyes were watery; my cheeks were flushed; even my hair was disheveled. No wonder Marie was so concerned; I truly looked a fright!
Just then Camille came into the room. “Claire!” she said, clearly surprised to see me.
I jumped up from the settee at the sound of her voice. “Camille!” I cried. “It’s me! I’m Claudia’s baby!”
A stunned silence descended over Camille and her mother. I pressed ahead, the words tumbling out of my mouth almost faster than I could think them.
“I asked my cous—I mean, they’re my grandparents now, you see. I asked Grandfather Henri and Grandmother Colette about Claudia’s baby, and they told me everything! I’m the baby she wanted to keep, but she died and they were so sad that they sent me to live with the American Rousseaus, who had no children of their own!”
“Oh, Claire!” Camille exclaimed as she rushed forward to hug me. “I can hardly believe—”
“Neither can I!” I interrupted her. “To think, I’ve been so consumed by this mystery, not ever dreaming that I was a part of it.”
“It’s almost as if you knew in some way,” she said.
I shook my head. “I wish that were true, but I had no idea,” I told her. “None at all. I keep wanting to pinch myself. None of this seems real.”
“And yet it must be,” Camille said.
“Everything is changed now,” I continued. “I mean—Mother and Father—I’ll always, always love them. They will always be my parents.”
“Of course! Nothing can change that,” Camille assured me.
“But I had another set of parents too. Another mother. Claudia. I wish I could’ve known her. I’d give anything to . . .” I trailed off.
“Did Madame Colette tell you if she has the diary?” Camille asked suddenly.
“No. She didn’t mention it. Why?”
“Because you simply must read it now,” Camille said. “It’s more important than ever. Think of it! Madame Claudia’s own words! Remember what she wrote? About how excited she was to meet you?”
“Yes,” I whispered as a lump formed in my throat. I blinked back fresh tears. “I do.”
“There’s still a chance to get to know your mother, Claire, at least a little,” Camille told me. “And all you have to do is find her diary.”
“Please excuse me,” Marie said abruptly as she rose from the settee. Only then did I realize how quiet she had been since my big announcement. Without another word, she rushed across the room.
“Mama?” Camille asked, her voice full of concern.
But Marie was already gone.
The next day was such a busy one for Camille that she didn’t have a moment to spare for me until after dinner. Marie needed her help at every turn, keeping Camille in the kitchen for the entire day! Every time I snuck downstairs to check if Camille was still busy, I felt a strange sense of longing when I saw the way she and her mother worked together. It made me miss my mothers—both of them—very much.
At last dinner had been served and eaten, and Camille had the evening to herself. She came to find me at once, and we wasted no time in retreating to Claudia’s room. It was still light outside, though the sun had begun to set; impulsively, I opened the heavy drapes so that the last golden beams of sunlight could enter Claudia’s room.
“Are you sure?” Camille asked. She glanced nervously at the door. “Someone might see—”
“This was my mother’s room,” I replied. “Until Grandfather Henri or Grandmother Colette tell me I’m not allowed to be here, I have every intention of spending as much time in it as I possibly can.”
“Of course. I understand,” Camille said quickly. “I wish you could get the diary back. It seems so wrong that it was taken from you.”
“I wish so too,” I said. “But I’m glad to be here, in this room, with all of Claudia’s favorite things, at least.” I still didn’t know what I should call her; it felt
wrong to call her Mother when I was still missing my other mother, the woman who had loved and raised me. Grandmother Colette had assured me that in time I would grow used to this new way of looking at the world. But for now it felt very strange and unfamiliar.
I reached for one of the wind-up animals on the bureau, a peacock, and twisted the metal key in its back. It strutted in a circle as the clockwork mechanism inside it spun around. Soon Camille and I were racing to wind up every animal until they were all moving at once. The marching peacock . . . the monkey with its cymbals . . . the kissing swans . . .
“It’s getting dark,” Camille said. “Would you like me to fetch a lamp?”
“I suppose,” I said as I walked over to the window and looked out at the grounds. “Let’s enjoy the sunset first, though.” Most of the gardens were cloaked in dusky twilight, but the topiary garden sat on a bit of a hill so that the last beams of sunlight still illuminated the animals. The majestic peacock, the silly monkey, the graceful swans—
That’s when it hit me, all of a sudden; and I was so shocked that I gasped.
“Camille!” I cried.
She looked up in alarm. “What? What is it?”
“The topiary animals! They’re the same as the ones in Claudia’s wind-up menagerie!”
In a blink, Camille scooped up all of the toy animals and brought them over to the window. Sure enough, each toy had a matching topiary in the garden outside.
“That is no coincidence!” Camille said excitedly. “I can’t believe I didn’t notice it before. My papa must’ve done it on purpose—sculpted all those bushes to match Claudia’s favorite toys!”
Camille’s father. The groundskeeper. Of course. The topiary menagerie was all his doing.
And his journal was still in my room!
Somehow, in all of yesterday’s excitement, I had completely forgotten to give it to her.
“Camille, wait here. I’ll be right back,” I promised. Then I ran all the way to my room, where I grabbed Pierre’s journal and a lamp that one of the housemaids had already lit. The flame flickered as I hurried back down the hallway, reminding me to walk slowly and carefully. Camille was standing by the door of Claudia’s room, waiting expectantly for my return. She closed the door right after me; it was clear that Camille was still worried that we’d get in trouble for being there.
“Oh, good. You brought a lamp,” Camille said. “I was just about to get one.”
“That’s not all I brought,” I told her as I held out her father’s journal. “Here. This is for you.”
“Papa’s journal!” Camille cried. “Yes. Alexandre showed it to me before you arrived. He and his father are using it to fix the topiary garden. I didn’t get much of a chance to look at it, though.”
“You should,” I told her. “I asked Alexandre if you could borrow it, and he said yes.”
“I’m so grateful to you,” she said. “My papa has been gone for a long time now. Reading this will be like having the chance to talk to him again. Come. Let’s look at it together.”
We sat side by side, just as we had with Claudia’s diary. Camille marveled at everything about the journal—the entries written in her father’s hand, the smudges of dirt in the shape of his fingerprints, and especially the notes about ‘Little C.’ But as we read, a new thought occurred to me. What if ‘Little C’ wasn’t Camille after all? I thought. What if ‘Little C’ was Claudia? It would make so much sense, especially if the topiary garden had been planted to charm Claudia by matching up to her favorite toys.
I looked at Camille out of the corner of my eye. Should I tell her my suspicion? I had no proof, and I would hate to hurt her feelings when she was so delighted by her father’s journal.
As it turned out, there was nothing I needed to say, for Camille glanced up with a thoughtful look on her face. “You know, Claire,” she began, as if she were still puzzling out whatever was on her mind, “I think perhaps Little C might have been your mother.”
“Oh,” I replied. “Yes, I suppose so.” I watched Camille carefully to see if this would upset her. But instead of sadness settling over her face, all I saw there was joy.
“Just think of it!” Camille exclaimed. “My own papa, toiling in the garden to make your mother happy when she was a little girl!”
Suddenly, there came a knock at the door. Beside me, Camille froze, and a look of fear careened across her face.
“Don’t worry,” I whispered. “I’ll see to it that you won’t get in trouble for being here.”
Then I strode across the room and opened the door. Bernadette was waiting on the other side of it.
“Madame Colette thought I might find you two here,” she said with a quizzical look on her face. “Please come with me. She has requested an audience with you both.”
I turned to Camille, who looked paler than usual. “Come along,” I told her. “Everything will be fine.”
But behind my brave face, I was starting to worry. My grandparents had never said that I couldn’t visit Claudia’s room, but they hadn’t said that I could, either. And after how upset they’d been with Camille . . .
When we reached Grandmother Colette’s dressing parlor, Bernadette excused herself. I squirmed with discomfort at the memory of the last time Camille and I had visited this room: in secret, sneaking about to search for Claudia’s diary.
If we’d only known then what we were about to uncover!
Grandmother Colette will surely scold us, I thought with dread. Beside me, I was certain that Camille was thinking the same thing. We exchanged a glance and a wobbly smile, and then we stepped into the room together.
Grandmother Colette was sitting at her dressing table when we entered. In the mirror, I could see her reflection as she looked up at us. I braced myself, waiting for the reprimand I expected her to deliver.
But instead of speaking harsh words, Grandmother Colette’s lips parted in a smile. “Good evening, girls,” she said. “I thought I might brush your hair tonight.”
“Together?” Camille cried happily. My confusion must’ve been all over my face, because she quickly turned to me and explained. “Sometimes when Madame Colette stays in, she will send for me and brush my hair before bed.”
She began to walk toward the bench beside the dressing table, but I hesitated. This is a special time for Camille and Grandmother Colette, I thought. It’s not right for me to intrude.
As Camille sat upon the bench, though, she beckoned for me to join her. Since she didn’t seem to see my presence as an intrusion, I crossed the room to sit beside her.
Grandmother Colette unpinned Camille’s hair from its plait. Then she began to brush it with long, even strokes. “I see you girls have become fast friends already,” she remarked.
Camille and I smiled at each other—as best we could, anyway, since Camille couldn’t move her head while Grandmother Colette was brushing her hair.
“Yes,” I answered Grandmother Colette. “I wish I’d known that Camille was here when I first set foot on the steamer. It would’ve made the journey from America so much easier to bear.”
“I’m glad of it,” continued my grandmother. “I suspected that you might get along. It is not an easy thing to feel alone in the world. It’s my hope, now that you know each other, that your hearts will never be burdened by such feelings.”
I felt Grandmother Colette’s brush against the back of my head then, and I closed my eyes.
“Such short hair!” she exclaimed. “I can’t say I’ve ever brushed hair so short. Perhaps long ago, when Claudia was very small and her hair had just begun to grow. I must say it suits you, Claire, and is very stylish. Camille, have you ever fancied having short hair?”
“No. I can’t say that I have,” she replied, twirling a strand of her long locks around her finger.
“That’s good, then. We can’t have you girls looking too much alike. I suspect you’ll soon be as close as two peas in a pod . . . if you aren’t already.”
Grandmother Colette co
ntinued to brush my hair for a few more minutes. Then she turned away to place the brush on her dressing table. “All done, my dears,” she said. “Let’s have a look.”
Camille and I rose from the bench and stood before her. There was something unusual in Grandmother Colette’s eyes, some flicker of emotion that I couldn’t quite name.
“Beautiful, beautiful girls, the both of you,” she said.
We curtsied together and turned to go, but Grandmother Colette held up her hand. “One moment, please,” she said. She opened one of the drawers of her dressing table and pulled out a silver-backed mirror. She cradled it in her palms for a moment, staring at it. Then she held it out to me.
“This belonged to Claudia,” she said. “I’d like you to have it.”
I took the mirror from her, turning it over in my hands. The back was covered in elaborate engravings of a wreath of forget-me-nots that encircled the letter C. The weight of the cool, heavy silver felt good in my hands, comforting almost.
“Claire should have the hairbrush, too,” Camille said suddenly. She turned to me. “There’s a matching hairbrush. They were part of a set. It’s in my room. I’ll get it.”
“No.”
Grandmother Colette cupped Camille’s cheeks in her hands and looked deep into her eyes. “I have given that hairbrush to you, Camille, and I insist that you keep it.”
Camille looked confused—no, concerned. Then, for the first time ever, I heard her disagree with my grandmother. “Claire should have it,” she said. “It belonged to her mother—”
“I insist.”
Grandmother Colette’s voice was kind yet firm, and even I knew that there would be no arguing with her.
“Thank you for the mirror, Grandmother Colette,” I said. “I will treasure it always.”
Her smile looked like it could hardly contain all the emotion behind it. “I know that you will, dear girl,” she told me.
Then Camille and I bade her good night and left the room. I couldn’t wait to get back to my own room and find just the right place to display my mother’s mirror. But I knew that there was something important that had to come first.
