by Adele Whitby
“Cousin Nicolas could take only one of you,” Grandfather Henri said. “So we entrusted you to his keeping, Claire, and he and Annabelle were gracious enough to name you in the family tradition.”
“The girls on my side of the family have always been given names beginning with the letter C,” Grandmother Colette explained. Then she turned to Camille. “Pierre LeClerc had worked for us for nearly twenty years. We trusted him completely. He was the only one on the staff who ever even knew that Claudia had been expecting a baby.”
“More than that, Claudia trusted him,” said Grandfather Henri. “He had always been so kind to her, even when she was a little girl plucking his best blooms to braid a crown of flowers for her hair. I remembered—and I thought—what a fine father he’ll make—”
“With a sweet young wife who was already adored by everyone at Rousseau Manor,” added Grandmother Colette. “We could never have turned you over to strangers, Camille. Pierre and Marie—well, they were good-hearted and kind and loyal.”
“We asked two things of Pierre,” Grandfather Henri said. “First, that he tell no one the truth of your parentage. And second, that he name you Camille.”
“After all, that was what Claudia wanted,” Grandmother Colette said, dabbing at her eyes.
“So you see, Camille, not even Marie knew a thing—until a few days ago,” Grandfather Henri said. “She happened to pass by Claudia’s room and overheard you two reading the diary and took it. She thought that Claudia must’ve been your mother, Camille. She came to us and started asking questions. We wanted to tell you both the truth that day, but Marie needed to tell you about your adoption first. That piece of the puzzle needed to come to you from her.”
“Mama took the diary?” Camille asked. I was just as surprised as she was; the thought that Marie had Claudia’s diary had never crossed my mind!
“She did,” Grandmother Colette said. She stole a glance at Grandfather Henri. “And so now it’s all out in the open, and we can move forward with our lives.”
Something about what she said—or perhaps the way she said it—unsettled me. But before I could figure out why, Camille spoke.
“As long as I can remember, I used to imagine you were . . . my grandparents,” she said in a small voice. “It feels wrong to say it even now. I used to scold myself for entertaining such a silly dream.”
“It wasn’t silly, and it wasn’t a dream,” Grandmother Colette said, placing her hand on Camille’s cheek.
“So everything will change now, won’t it?” I asked. “Camille is my sister. She is a Rousseau. You can’t—she won’t—she mustn’t be a servant any longer. Not one more day.”
“That is our intention,” Grandmother Colette said quickly.
“In due time,” added Grandfather Henri.
“What do you mean, ‘in due time’?” I asked incredulously. “She’s your granddaughter.”
Camille pressed my hand, but I couldn’t tell if she meant it as a warning or a thank-you.
“Your reaction does you credit, my dear,” Grandmother Colette said. “But it is of the utmost importance that this secret be kept among us. For a little longer, at least.”
“You must understand,” Grandfather Henri spoke up before I could protest. “It is for your own protection.”
My shoulders stiffened. “For our protection? Protection from whom?”
“Are we in danger?” asked Camille.
“Not if you keep this secret,” replied Grandfather Henri.
Silence followed; I don’t think any of us knew what to say.
“Our father—,” I began.
“No,” Grandmother Colette said. “He is dead and gone, and there is nothing to be said about him.”
Grandfather Henri spoke up then. “Claire, I know we are asking a great deal of you. We have only just met, and in this short time you have learned our darkest secrets and most shameful deceptions. You have no reason to trust us—none at all.”
“And yet that’s what we need you to do now,” Grandmother Colette implored me. “Please—if you can find it in your heart—”
With all eyes on me, I squirmed uncomfortably in my seat. I’d set my mind on getting answers today, but they had led to only more questions . . . and more secrets. How could I make this decision? I simply didn’t know enough about the situation, about my grandparents, about anything.
And yet there was someone right here—right beside me—who did.
“I leave it up to Camille,” I said, turning to my sister. We stared at each other for a long moment.
“If you knew them the way I know them, it would be so much easier,” she said. “I trust them. I will keep this secret.”
“Then so shall I,” I declared. “But it’s not right that I should be treated like a pampered daughter of the family while you are a servant, Camille. I don’t see how I can abide by it.”
“I don’t work much like a servant anymore,” Camille told me. “I have hardly any tasks. Helping Mama in the kitchen—well, I’ll always try to be of use to her, no matter what. And I love caring for Baby Sophie. It’s hardly a chore!”
“I told Bernadette and Marie that you were to be relieved of all housework duties once you took it upon yourself to clean the stove that day,” Grandmother Colette told her. Then she rose abruptly, on unsteady feet. “I apologize that I must take my leave. The strain—I—I feel a headache coming.”
Grandfather Henri rose too, a look of concern on his face. “Let me help you, my love,” he said as he took Grandmother Colette’s arm.
But before they left the parlor, Grandmother Colette glanced back at us. “Our conversation is not over,” she promised. “Merely postponed for another time.”
Then they were gone, leaving Camille and me alone. She smiled shyly at me.
“Sisters!” she said, marveling.
“Sisters,” I echoed.
“Nothing in the world could make me happier,” she said.
“We have so much to discuss,” I told her. “I want to know everything about you!”
“And I, you,” she said. But a frown settled over her face. “I have to watch Baby Sophie now, though. This afternoon?”
“Yes,” I said. “Come to my room whenever you are able.”
“I will,” she said. “I agree with Madame—I mean Grandmother—Colette. This is only the beginning!”
I went to my room then, glad for the chance to spend some time alone. Everything I’d learned—everything I’d discovered—had left me feeling scattered and uncertain, like I’d been tossed about on an ocean of secrets, powerless to control my own destiny. I didn’t like it—not one bit.
More than anything, I wished that I could turn to Mother and Father to help me make sense of it all. I fastened Mother’s cameo to my dress and nestled Father’s violin under my chin. Then I tried to figure out where to place my fingers on the strings, but none of the positions seemed right. When I tried moving the bow across the strings, the sound made me shudder.
Dreadful!
I took a long look at myself in the mirror and faced the truth: Playing the violin simply wasn’t one of my talents. I didn’t even like it that much, and there was nothing wrong with that. After all, what I’d always loved was listening to Father play the violin. Not playing it myself. And that’s when I figured out how to keep the other promise I’d made.
With a soft piece of wool flannel, I polished the violin one last time. Then I gently returned it to its case. The buckles latched with a satisfying click.
I tucked Father’s violin under my arm and went outside to the gardens. Alexandre and his father weren’t hard to find; they were busy working in the topiary gardens, using sharp clippers to sculpt an enormous elephant. They stopped at once when they saw me.
“Please pardon the interruption,” I said. Then I held out the violin case to Alexandre. “This is for you. I want you to have it.”
Alexandre and his father stared at me in disbelief.
“I couldn’t—,” Al
exandre began to say, before Philippe interrupted him.
“Mademoiselle Claire, you are too generous for your own good,” he said. “Please, take your violin back into the house. Alexandre’s place is here, learning a trade by my side. A beautiful instrument like that would be wasted on him.”
“It’s wasted on me!” I replied. “Alexandre’s got real talent. I should know; I grew up listening to my father play. It would be such a shame if Alexandre didn’t have the chance to play, considering his passion for it.”
I could tell that Philippe was about to object, so I pressed on. “And the truth is, I would consider it a personal favor if you would allow Alexandre to play for me,” I told him. “I miss the sound very much. It would remind me of my father to hear his violin played by someone as talented as your son.
“Now, I know that Alexandre has many duties here at Rousseau Manor, and I would hate to infringe on them,” I continued. “So, if it’s all right with you, I would be happy to help tend the flower garden to allow Alexandre the opportunity to practice his music. Perhaps Camille could help as well.”
“You don’t have to do that,” Alexandre spoke up.
“But I want to,” I told him. “My mother took great joy in her gardens, and being with the flowers here—especially the ones she loved so much—makes me feel close to her.”
“It doesn’t seem right,” Philippe said, but even as he said the words, he sounded unsure.
“We can ask my gr—cousins if you wish,” I said, “but I assure you they would be more than happy to encourage Alexandre’s musical pursuits. Camille has had all sorts of lessons over the years, thanks to their generosity.”
Alexandre and I both stared at Philippe hopefully. At last he relented.
“Very well,” he said. “Thank you, Mademoiselle Claire.”
“Yes, thank you!” Alexandre cried in delight. “It will be my pleasure to play for Camille. And you, of course. Any time at all!”
“Tomorrow morning, perhaps?” I suggested. “If the weather’s fine, I’d like nothing more than to spend the day in the flower garden.”
“I’ll find you there,” Alexandre promised. “Oh, and the flowers your mother loved? I learned their name. They’re called lilies.”
I smiled gratefully at him. “Thank you, Alexandre,” I said. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Don’t forget to bring the violin. And an extra trowel if you’ve got one!”
I was back in my room later that day when Camille came to visit. She had a basket of buttery, shell-shaped cookies with her, still warm from the oven. “Mama thought we might enjoy a little something sweet,” she said.
“Mmm—delicious!” I cried, taking a bite out of one. Then I gestured toward the writing desk. “Claudia’s diary is over there,” I told Camille. “I stayed up late last night to read it. Now it’s your turn.”
Camille eyed it warily. “I’m not sure I’m ready for any more shocks so soon,” she said.
“There aren’t any,” I told her. “Most everything else she wrote was about planning for her baby. Babies. Us. Anyway, it’s all very sweet and sad. I wish I could’ve known her.”
“So do I.”
“You know, there was one thing in the diary that surprised me,” I said thoughtfully as I flipped to a page near the back of the book. “Take a look at this.”
Camille examined the image on the page. It was the one page of the diary that wasn’t covered in words; instead, it featured what appeared to be a rubbing of sorts—though a very unusual one, with a pair of swans on it and the initials C.R.
“I know that image!” Camille exclaimed. She reached into her apron pocket and pulled out a silvery disc.
“Where did you get that?” I asked.
“I found it in the topiary garden when Alexandre and his father planted a new rosebush by the swans,” she explained, placing the coin in my hand. “I’ve been carrying it with me ever since, for luck.”
As I took a closer look, I realized that Camille’s coin had the same swans, but different letters: H.B. She noticed it at the same time.
“Not the same at all, are they?” she asked. “Though very similar.”
“C.R. . . . H.B.,” I said, deep in thought. “C.R. . . . C.R. . . .”
“Claudia Rousseau,” Camille said suddenly.
“Which would mean H.B. was—”
“Her husband—”
“H— from the diary.”
“Our father!”
Our words were like sparks, making our ideas catch fire. Neither one of us could speak fast enough.
“What was his coin doing in the garden?”
“If Claudia had both coins, why did she make a rubbing of just the one?”
“You know what this means?” I cried. “Claudia’s coin—C.R.—must still be here! Hidden somewhere at Rousseau Manor!”
“We’ll check the topiary garden first,” Camille declared. “Perhaps Claudia buried them there for safekeeping, or asked Papa to bury them for her!”
But my mind had already raced ahead to more pressing matters. “It’s not just the other coin we’ve got to find,” I said urgently. “It’s also our father.”
The seriousness of the situation settled over Camille at once. “But . . . he’s dead,” she said.
“His family, then,” I replied. “Don’t you see, Camille? When I arrived here, I thought all I had left in the world were a pair of distant cousins I’d never met. And now I have grandparents and a twin sister of my very own! Our father may be gone, but what about his parents? We could have another set of grandparents out there somewhere.”
“Aunts . . . uncles . . . even cousins!” she exclaimed as her eyes lit up with excitement.
“A whole secret family we know nothing about!” I cried. “What do you say, Camille? Will you help me search for them?”
“Of course I will,” she vowed. “You’re my sister. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you. And there’s nothing we can’t do together.”
That was the moment when I realized just how important this undertaking would be. Finding our father’s family would be more than a challenge; it was a chance. A chance to set things right after so many years of being wrong. Secrets, as I had learned too well, could shatter families.
But the truth?
The truth could make them whole.
If you like Secrets of the Manor, then check out this other great series,
Read on for a sneak peek at
CHAPTER 1
Creeeak . . .
Thud!
Zoey Webber heard the glamorous thump of glossy paper meeting floorboards, and raced down the hall to the front door to get the mail. Only one thing could make that sound: the newest issue of Très Chic arriving through the mail slot.
Yes!
She scooped it up along with some envelopes and interior design magazines and put everything but Très Chic on a table for her aunt. Then she scanned the cover to see what was très chic for July:
The Long (Dresses) and Short (Shorts) of Summer Style
Dots Are Hot!
25 Fresh Fashion Faces to Watch
Be Inspired . . . by BOLD Colors!
Zoey grinned at the last headline. Oh, she was inspired.
She was also lucky. She was spending her summer days at Aunt Lulu’s house instead of the usual: being stuck at home with her big brother, Marcus, as her babysitter, or stuck at day camp for what felt like the hundredth year in a row. This summer was different. Her brother was busy with a part-time job and her dad finally agreed that she was getting a little old for day camp . . . at least if she didn’t want to go.
Zoey discovered pretty quickly that “Aunt Lulu camp” was better than any day camp. Aunt Lulu ran her interior design business out of her home office, but even when she had to work, she made it fun for Zoey. She let Zoey suggest fabrics and color combinations for clients’ inspiration boards and make collages and paper doll clothes with old wallpaper samples. And if she had to go out for a meeting or something, she actually paid
Zoey to dog-sit—which basically meant watching Aunt Lulu’s fourteen-year-old mutt, Draper, snore.
Plus, Zoey and her aunt loved doing a lot of the same things: getting mani-pedis, baking cookies, reading magazines, watching old movies, and indulging in reality TV shows—they both were hands-down obsessed with fashion design com petitions. Too bad Dad and Marcus couldn’t stand them. “Boys will be boys,” Aunt Lulu always said.
Zoey walked over to the kitchen table without taking her eyes off the magazine cover for a second. She sat down on a chair and then gently let the magazine’s uncracked spine fall open to a random page. It landed on a perfume sample. It was the newest in a popular line of scents by a young fashion designer. Zoey closed her eyes and took a whiff, inhaling the amber and tuberose, and letting her mind wander. . . .
What if I were a fashion designer someday? she imagined. I’d get to look at pretty clothes and read magazines all day long! Maybe I’d make my own perfume too, and it would smell like . . . um . . . gardenias? Yeah. And maybe one day I’d be in Très Chic ’s “Day in the Life of a Designer” section! How cool would that be if it really happened?
It might have just been a daydream, but it sounded pretty amazing to Zoey. She sighed, put the magazine down on the table, and began to flip through the pages, scanning each spread to make sure she saw every square inch of it.
Beep-beep.
Zoey quickly lifted her head. Did she hear a beeping sound?
Yep, that was definitely her phone saying a text had just come in!
“Coming!” she yelled toward the muffled ring-tone. She stood up and looked around the kitchen.
Beep-beep.
She twirled in place. Where exactly was her phone? She was sure she’d left it on the table . . . but it wasn’t there.
