by Adele Whitby
“Your father’s journal,” I told Camille. “We’ve got to go get it. After what happened to Claudia’s diary when we left it alone in her room—”
Camille’s eyes widened. “You’re right!” she exclaimed. “I hadn’t thought about it, but if Papa’s journal should disappear too . . .”
Camille didn’t need to finish her sentence. We both started walking faster. When we reached Claudia’s room, I thought, What if Pierre’s journal is gone? It will be all my fault since I gave it to her here. And what if Philippe blames Alexandre for its loss? I was almost afraid to open the door.
But I did it anyway.
At first glance, the room seemed exactly as we’d left it—wind-up animals scattered by the window, my lamp burning brightly on the writing desk, Pierre’s journal sitting in the warm glow it cast. But as I looked closer, I realized that something had, in fact, changed. Pierre’s journal was still there—thank goodness for that—but it wasn’t alone.
Another book had been carefully placed beside it.
I recognized the burgundy cover at once and thought my heart might explode. Camille grabbed hold of my arm.
“Look,” she whispered, pointing. “Isn’t that . . . ?”
“Yes,” I said. “It’s my mother’s diary.”
We both stood completely still for a moment, as if a spell had been cast over us. It seemed so very much like a dream that I was worried any movement or misstep would cause it all to slip away.
But we couldn’t spend the rest of our lives standing like statues, so I hurried across the room and scooped up the diary. It was solid in my hands, solid and real and so precious to me, I knew I’d never be able to find the words to express how I felt about it. I tried anyway, though. “Her hands held this book,” I whispered. “Her words fill these pages.”
“To think it’s been returned to you! I don’t understand how.”
“Someone knew,” I said thoughtfully, still clinging to the diary as if I’d never let go. “Someone knew we were here, then knew we were gone. But we weren’t gone for very long.”
“It couldn’t have been Madame Colette. She was with us the whole time,” Camille said. “But Bernadette—”
“You think Bernadette had the diary?” I asked.
Camille shook her head. “No, actually, I don’t,” she replied. “I don’t think that Bernadette even knows about it. What I meant to say was, if Bernadette knew we were here, then anyone could’ve known we were here.”
“So we’re still no closer to finding out who took it.”
“But that hardly matters now,” Camille reminded me gently. “It’s been returned to you. At last you can read it!”
“We can both read it,” I corrected her. Whatever secrets were written within these pages, I knew that I didn’t want to learn them without Camille by my side. We took turns reading the diary entries aloud.
5 July 1898
Mother and Father say that I cannot keep my baby. It would be a scandal, they say, since my marriage to H— was never formally announced and has been kept secret from everyone we know. Mother has promised to find my baby a wonderful family and a wonderful home, where she will be loved and cared for. But in my heart, I know that I will never allow it. This is my baby and I will raise her. No matter what it takes.
10 August 1898
I continue to make arrangements for my little one’s arrival. I have already knit two sweaters for her and six pairs of booties. They are so impossibly tiny! How I love to imagine the dear little toes they will keep warm through the cold winter months ahead.
I have also made preparations on a grander scale, a secret that I will confess only to these pages. I have specially ordered a beautiful perambulator for my baby! I saw an advertisement in one of the magazines Mother brought me to help pass the hours of my confinement, and I knew at once that I had to have it. It’s very elegant, made of shiny white wicker with a satin pillow and quilt. It won’t be ready until springtime, but that’s all right. Already I find myself dreaming of pushing this beautiful pram through the gardens, showing Baby all my favorite spots.
“That’s the pram I use for Baby Sophie!” Camille exclaimed, pointing at the page. “I’m sure of it! It belonged to me when I was a baby! I never dreamed that Madame Claudia was the one who ordered it!”
A sudden chill ran through me, and I wrapped my arms around myself. It would have been my pram. If only they hadn’t sent me away—
But I didn’t want to think about that sort of thing, so I continued reading the entry.
I had to enlist the help of my only friend here to place my order. He manufactured an errand into town this morning to take my letter and payment to the post office. He told me that if he was successful, he’d leave a red handkerchief at the entrance to the topiary garden to tell me so. Even now I can see just the tip of it, fluttering slightly in the breeze.
Something about those lines felt awfully familiar.
“Wait,” I said suddenly, reaching for Pierre’s journal. I turned the pages quickly until I reached an entry near the middle. “Listen to this: ‘Unexpected trip into town today, but no one is the wiser. A red handkerchief sacrificed to a good cause. Always happy to bring a smile to Little C’s face, especially of late.’ ”
“Do you think that’s my papa Claudia’s writing about?” Camille asked breathlessly. “Do you think that he was her only friend?”
“There’s no date on your father’s journal entry,” I told her, “but I don’t see any other possible explanation.”
“It would make sense, I think,” she said thoughtfully, “knowing what we do about his inspiration for the topiary garden. Oh, Claire! I’m so proud of him! To think that he was kind to your mother when she felt so alone in the world!”
I remembered how alone I’d felt when I first arrived at Rousseau Manor and the kindness from Camille that had brightened my very first day here. “It’s not a bit surprising to me,” I told her. “You two seem very much alike.”
I pressed Claudia’s journal into Camille’s hands. “Here,” I said. “You read now.”
31 August 1898
Another argument with Mother and Father tonight. They simply won’t listen when we talk, so I think I will have no choice but to write them a letter and hope that my words will be more powerful written on the page than when spoken in my voice. It weighs heavily on my heart that we should come to such an impasse—and so soon after I promised myself that I would respect and honor my parents, as is right and fitting. But with every passing day I am more convinced that I will raise this child myself. Under no circumstances will I allow anyone to take her from me.
I must not entertain such upsetting thoughts right before bed, so I’ll write now of something joyful. I have chosen a name for her! She will be called—
Suddenly, Camille stopped speaking. She stared at the page as if she could no longer understand what was written there.
“What?” I asked. Oh, how I hoped that Claudia had named me! It would be one more special connection with the mother I’d never known.
But Camille didn’t answer.
“What does it say?” I asked impatiently.
Camille took a deep breath, but when she spoke, her voice was hushed. “She will be called Camille.”
We stared at each other in silence, unblinking, uncomprehending. I reached over and took the diary from her. Sure enough, there it was, as clear as day in my mother’s hand:
She will be called Camille.
“I . . . ,” I finally said. “I . . . don’t understand.”
“That’s because it doesn’t make any sense,” Camille said. “I suppose Madame Colette and Monsieur Henri could’ve ignored Claudia’s wishes about what you were supposed to be called. It would’ve been wrong and terrible, but I suppose it’s a possibility.”
“Do you think your father and mother let Claudia name you when you were born? Your father loved her so,” I suggested. It seemed a very odd sort of thing to do. Surely a mother would want t
o name her own baby!
Then again, if Pierre was so kind to Claudia, perhaps his wife was too, I thought.
“We should—,” I started to say, but Camille was already on her feet.
“Come on,” she said. “We’ve got to ask Mama.”
I nodded as I closed the diary and tucked it under my arm, along with Pierre’s journal. I wasn’t going to leave either of them alone, not for a second.
When we reached Marie and Camille’s rooms, Marie was still wearing her work dress, though she had taken down her hair. She did not look surprised to see us.
As I closed the door, I opened my mouth to speak, then thought better of it. This was Camille’s mother, and it was her question to ask.
“Mama,” she began.
A long look passed between them.
“Mama,” Camille repeated. “Did you name me? Or was it Madame Claudia who chose my name?”
When Marie didn’t answer, Camille continued.
“We were reading Madame Claudia’s diary, and she wrote about naming her baby Camille. So now we’re confused about why Claire wasn’t named Camille but I was.”
I held out the diary so that Marie could read the entry herself, but she didn’t take it from me. Then, to my surprise, she hid her face in her hands.
Is she crying? I wondered. It was hard to tell. I’m sure Camille was thinking the same thing, but she didn’t stop speaking.
“So did you name me?”
Camille’s question hung there in the air for several seconds. At last Marie lowered her hands. They were trembling a little, but I’m not sure if Camille noticed.
“Come sit by me, dear heart,” said Marie.
Camille crossed the room and sat next to her mother.
“The truth is,” Marie continued, pressing her hands over Camille’s, “that you came to me already named.”
“What do you mean?” Camille asked in confusion.
“It was the middle of December, when night falls early. At that time of year, Papa was always home before me, but this particular day the cottage was dark and cold when I entered. I set about to start a fire when the door banged open, and he entered in a rush, a bundle in his arms. . . .”
Marie closed her eyes at the memory, and I found myself leaning forward, hardly daring to imagine what she would say next.
“He said—and I’ll never forget it, the way his voice was shaking—he said, ‘Sit down, Marie,’ and he placed the bundle in my arms. I pulled back a corner of the blanket and saw the most beautiful little face. So small. So peaceful. So perfect. Many questions filled my mind; I hardly knew which to ask first. But before I could say a word, Papa spoke. ‘I can answer none of your questions about the babe—not today, not ever,’ he said. ‘It’s a girl, and her name is Camille. Can you love her, Marie? Can you raise her as a daughter and claim her as your own?’ ”
Camille sat very stiffly, still and quiet; only her eyes moved as she searched Marie’s face for the answer.
“And I looked at that baby as I’m looking at you now, and I knew then—as I know now—that I could. That it would be an honor and a privilege to raise you, that the rush of love I felt in that instant would only grow. And it has.”
Marie took a deep breath. “So to answer your question: No, I did not name you; nor did I give birth to you. But I give thanks every day for you, Camille. Being your mother is the brightest joy in my life. How lucky I am!”
In a heartbeat, Camille had flung her arms around Marie’s neck, and they held each other, crying softly. I felt that I should leave, to give them some privacy, but I was rooted to the spot.
“Papa told you nothing?” Camille asked, her voice muffled. “Not a thing about—where I came from?”
“Not a word, dear heart,” Marie said. “I’ve never wanted to keep secrets from you, but I swore to him that I would never tell you about your adoption. And I knew so very little else.”
“I have so many questions and no hope of finding the answers,” Camille said. “I don’t know if I can bear the mystery of it!”
My heart clenched when I heard those words, for I knew all too well how Camille felt.
Marie looked troubled. “Don’t despair, dear girl,” she said softly before kissing the top of Camille’s head. “Like I always say, the truth will come out in time. The one thing I do know without a doubt is that love surrounds you—wherever you’ve been, where you are right now, and wherever you shall go.”
“I love you, Mama,” Camille whispered as she rested her head on Marie’s shoulder. Then, I knew, it was long past the time when I should have excused myself. I stood up quietly, not wanting to disturb them, but it was too late.
“Claire,” Camille said. “I’m sorry. I was so caught up—”
“There’s no need to apologize,” I said. “I know this evening has been . . . not at all what we expected.” Had it really been just twenty-four hours since my grandparents had broken such shocking news to me?
Camille walked me to the door. Just before we said good night, I took her hand and pulled her into the hallway. “Listen,” I whispered in a rush. “There is hope of finding the answers. Tomorrow morning, after breakfast, meet me in the parlor.”
“I’ll be there,” she replied. “What do you have planned?”
“I’m not sure yet,” I admitted. “But I’ll think of something. I promise.”
I hurried down the hall as Camille closed the door behind me with a soft click. Another promise to keep, I told myself, remembering the vow I’d made to Alexandre about finding a way for him to keep playing the violin. Of course, making a promise was easy. Keeping it—when you didn’t have the faintest idea how to do such a thing—was the hard part.
But I would not let them down.
I paused briefly at the door to my room, but I didn’t go in. After all, my lamp was still glowing in Claudia’s old room, and her diary was still tucked under my arm.
And I had a long night of reading ahead of me.
True to her word, Camille was waiting in the parlor after breakfast the next morning. She started in surprise when Grandmother Colette and Grandfather Henri entered alongside me. Whatever she had been expecting, it wasn’t this.
“Good morning, my little bee,” Grandfather Henri said to her. He looked at Camille, then at me, then back to her again, as if trying to figure out why we were all gathered together. Or maybe he already had an idea of what we’d be discussing.
“Good morning,” she replied with a curtsy.
“I have the distinct feeling that the girls have been planning something,” Grandmother Colette said lightly, but the smile on her face seemed faint and likely to fade.
“We were hoping to speak with you,” I said.
Grandfather Henri nodded brusquely. “Your timing is excellent,” he said, “for we have been wanting to speak with you both as well.”
When we were all seated, I showed Claudia’s diary to my grandparents. “We found Claudia’s diary. It was returned to us as mysteriously as it disappeared,” I said. “I’ve had the chance to read it now. So has Camille—parts of it, at least. But there are still things that don’t make sense. If I’m Claudia’s baby, why wasn’t I named Camille, the way she wished? And as for Camille—”
“Mama doesn’t know where I came from,” Camille interrupted me, speaking all in a rush. “Do you? Please tell me that you do. Please tell me that Papa didn’t take this secret to his grave, or else I shall wonder forevermore—”
Grandmother Colette crossed the room to us at once. “Oh, my dear girls,” she said as she took hold of our hands. “Henri, we’ve made a terrible mess of things, just as we feared we would.”
“All that’s left to do, then, is make it right,” he replied. His voice seemed more gruff than usual, as if he was holding back his emotion.
“Let us speak first, and perhaps we may answer your questions before you can even ask them,” Grandmother Colette said. “There is no easy way to begin. I suppose we should just come out and say it.
. . .”
Her voice faltered before trailing off into silence. Grandmother Colette was struggling so much to find the words that for a moment I felt guilty for putting her in such an uncomfortable position. But we have a right, I reminded myself. We have a right to know the truth.
Grandmother Colette tried again. “Claire, we told you that Claudia died giving birth,” she began. “What we should have said—the more accurate answer—is that Claudia died giving birth to twins.”
I couldn’t breathe.
Twins?
Twins?
I had a—a—
No. I couldn’t even let myself imagine it, not for a moment. Because if I was mistaken, if I had misheard her, I wouldn’t just be embarrassed.
I would be crushed.
“Claire first, then Camille,” Grandmother Colette continued. “Twin girls, precious and perfect from the moment you were born.”
“Sisters,” Grandfather Henri spoke up. “The both of you. Do you understand what we’re trying to say?”
I shifted in my seat to look at Camille, seeing her through new eyes. Did we look alike? I hadn’t given the matter any thought before, but now—as we stared at each other—it seemed ridiculous that I hadn’t noticed sooner. Her hair was longer than mine, and she had more freckles scattered across her pale face, but her eyes—yes, of course, our eyes were a perfect match. Pale green one moment, pale blue the next, shifting colors like the surface of a lake on a windy day. Right now Camille’s eyes were wide with wonderment, and I suspected that mine were too. I reached for her hand and squeezed it tightly; she squeezed back in response. That’s what it means to have a sister, I realized with a jolt. Someone to sit with you. Someone to take your side. Someone to hold your hand when the truth cracks your world wide open.
“We couldn’t have been more shocked,” Grandmother Colette said. “We’d made arrangements for one baby, not two. And then, before we even had a chance to make sense of your arrival, Claudia—”
“She was gone so fast,” Grandfather Henri said, shaking his head as if he still couldn’t quite believe it.
“The shock and the grief—neither one of us was strong enough to withstand it,” Grandmother Colette said. “We were in no condition to raise one newborn, let alone two. I honestly wasn’t sure if I’d ever be able to look upon you without grieving the loss of my daughter all over again.” She paused and tried to smile at us. “I know now that I can.”
