“Of course not.” Madame waved her hands as if brushing the subject aside. “But for now, she’s fine where she is.”
Gilbert stared at the old woman. “You’ll not make the final decision in this matter.”
Madame Herbert shrugged and was not the least bit put off by his expression. “Of course not. You are head of the household. I will need more wood for the kitchen stove. Would you be so good as to bring some inside for me?”
He drained the last of his cider. “I am in charge of this house, Madame Herbert.”
“Of course you are, dear.”
Gilbert’s expression reminded Diane of the time she had brought home a stray cat. Her father had not been happy, and he had demanded the creature leave his house at once. And then he had stared at the faces of his wife and children and known in an instant he had been overruled.
“Write your letter, girl, and I’ll post it when I travel to Le Havre in two days.” He looked at the dog and snapped his fingers as he walked toward the door. The dog did not budge from his spot by Diane.
“Not you too,” Gilbert grumbled. “Damnation.”
The word was barely audible over the slamming back door. “Is he going to send me away?” Diane asked.
Madame Herbert shrugged. “Certainly not during the winter. That would be barbaric.”
“But when spring comes?”
She went back to snapping her green beans. “We will decide once spring comes, eh? You might be quite ready to be rid of us.”
Diane did not want to go into the village, but Gilbert and Madame Herbert insisted. People had already heard whispers about a new girl living at the château, and the sooner they met her at the Sunday service, the sooner they would accept her.
“Are you a Catholic?” Madame Herbert tucked a strand of hair behind Diane’s ear as Gilbert stabled the horses near the church.
“Mama said we were Methodist.”
Madame Herbert frowned and then glanced up at the stone spire of the church behind them. “I will take that as a yes. And if anyone else asks, say yes, and then make the sign of the cross like this.” The old woman touched her forehead, belly, and then on either side of each breast. “These are good people and they are hardworking, but it’s easy to become a little superstitious and untrusting this far from a big city. I’m a healer in town, so as much as they respect me, some fear me.”
“Why?”
Her shrug was casual, and she fussed with the lace on the collar of her Sunday dress. “Who can say? Perhaps I am too good at my job.”
“Can you teach me?” Diane asked.
“To be a healer? Why would a pretty girl like you want such a difficult job?”
“I want to be of use. I want to know.” She wanted to be so needed that they could never think of sending her away.
“It is not easy.”
“I am a hard worker.”
A slight smile tugged at her thin lips. “Yes, you are.”
Gilbert approached them, his long legs eating up the ground between them as his coat flapped open. He’d put on a fine linen shirt and polished his boots. And of course he was frowning. Always frowning.
Church bells clanged above their heads, echoing over the red clay rooftops and stone chimneys that puffed out snow from the fires in the hearths.
Gilbert carefully buttoned his jacket and looked beyond Madame Herbert and Diane toward a group of couples gathered at the church entrance. “There is already gossip about Diane.”
“There is always gossip,” Madame Herbert said.
“Those who wish to work at the château know that I don’t tolerate it, but there are others who aren’t so easily persuaded.”
Diane looked toward the church entrance to discover that several women were staring openly at her. When her eyes met theirs, they turned and hurried into the church.
“Let us go in,” Gilbert said.
He took Madame Herbert by the arm and nodded for Diane to walk beside them. When they stepped under the church’s stone arch, she found herself standing at the back of an ancient sanctuary flanked by tall stained-glass windows featuring scenes detailing the betrayal and death of Christ. Morning light shone through colored glass, sprinkling reds, greens, and golds on parishioners garbed in blacks and browns.
Gilbert allowed Madame Herbert to walk in front of him, and he followed behind her with Diane at his side until they reached the first pew, which was empty. Carved into the pew’s side was the letter B. Bernard. Claire had said once that the Buchanans had their own pew at their church in New York, but she’d never seen such a thing.
She stood beside Madame Herbert, and Gilbert took his place beside her. Madame removed a hymnbook from her purse and opened it to a well-worn page. The minister or, rather, priest came out and indicated that the parishioners sing that very hymn.
“It is always the same,” Madame said.
Diane could speak French, but she’d never learned to read it, so as Madame’s wobbly, loud voice boomed out the hymn in time with Gilbert’s baritone voice, she did her best to mimic the sounds and mumble words a beat or two behind them. Standing in the front, she couldn’t see anyone staring at her but often felt their rapt attention pressing against her back.
The service continued on, and when they were called to the front to stand before the priest, she cupped her hands as Madame Herbert did and ate the wafer. She drank from a cup of wine, swallowing hard as she struggled not to cough. The service continued, and by the time the priest said his final words, she had crossed herself for the tenth time. With great relief, she followed Gilbert and Madame Herbert out of the sanctuary.
They stepped into the bright sunshine, and the warmth on her face was soothing. However, the moment’s peace ended quickly with the approach of two older, thick-waisted women. Both were smiling, but they reminded her more of wolves stalking prey.
“Madame Herbert,” the first said as she kissed her on her cheek. “You look well.”
“But of course. Let me introduce you to my cousin. This is Diane, and she is from Paris. Diane, this is Madame Locard and Madame Claremont.”
“Your cousin?” the woman said, inspecting Diane. “I have known you for thirty years, and you never mentioned a young cousin.”
“Ah, my extended family is large, and I lose track sometimes.” Madame Herbert turned to Gilbert. “Gilbert was kind enough to allow her to visit us for a little while.”
“How long will she be staying?” Madame Claremont asked.
“At least until spring,” Gilbert said.
“Ah, how nice,” Madame Locard said. “How old are you, Diane?”
“Twelve.”
The older woman’s expression sharpened. “I will have to introduce you to my son. He is fifteen. Of course, they would be properly chaperoned.”
Gilbert jerked hard at his cuff. “We shall see about that. For now, Diane is still settling in.”
“Madame Herbert, you made no mention of her visit last I saw you.”
“Didn’t I?” she said. “I must have forgotten.”
“I will get the carriage,” Gilbert said. “I won’t be but a minute.”
The women continued to talk over Diane, and several more women gathered. Some asked about Paris, and another decided that her accent was indeed Parisian. When the carriage rolled up with Gilbert at the reins, she gratefully helped Madame Herbert into her seat and took her place between her and Gilbert.
They waved to the still very curious churchgoers as he drove them out of town.
“Cousin?” Gilbert said.
Madame Herbert arranged a plaid blanket over her legs and Diane’s. “I thought that was rather clever of me. They will accept her faster if they know she is family.”
“And if she stays beyond spring?” he challenged.
“Then my poor distant cousin, her father, shall die a tragic death, and she will have to stay longer.”
He grunted. “You two had better get your stories straight, because the inquisition of ladies will be in full swing by next
Sunday.”
Madame Herbert laughed. “I’m rather enjoying the challenge.”
They rode along in silence for a mile, and Diane found herself relaxing back into her seat as they moved past the green, rolling countryside.
The sharp, panicked neigh of a horse followed by the shouts of a woman cut through the silence. Gilbert was instantly alert, and his grip on the reins tightened. Madame too was on alert and spared a quick glance in his direction. Diane’s thoughts instantly went to Pierre. Had he somehow not believed Max’s lie about them traveling east?
Gilbert snapped the reins, and the horses trotted faster. When they rounded the corner, they came upon an overturned cart. The driver lay on the road, the side of the cart trapping his leg. His horse, tethered to the cart, bucked and pulled, and each time he did so, the cart jolted and the man cried out in pain.
“That is Robert Françoise?” Madame Herbert said.
Gilbert stopped their own horse a safe distance away and set the hand brake before securely tying off the reins.
He jumped down and hurried around the cart toward the panicked horse, which was more a threat to the man than any injury. He approached the animal, speaking in a soothing voice and holding his hands out. The horse snorted and kicked as if to warn Gilbert off, but he held his ground and continued to speak to the distressed animal. Finally, he was able to reach the headgear and unfasten it. He set the animal free and watched it trot down the road.
Madame Herbert tossed off the blanket. “We must go to Robert.”
Diane climbed down off the seat and held out her hands for Madame Herbert, who leaned heavily on her as she too descended. When Diane looked closer at Robert, she saw a bloody gash on his head, and his left leg was twisted at a horrific angle. “What do we do?”
“I always carry a bag of medicines in the back. Fetch that.”
Diane ran around the carriage, located the rucksack, and carried it around, chasing after Madame, who was already marching toward the accident site.
Gilbert inspected Robert’s head and leg. “We shall get you out right away, Robert.”
Robert rolled his head from side to side. “It is like knives cutting into me.”
Gilbert dashed past Diane to his own horse, quickly unharnessed the animal, and tied the reins to wagon wheels that jutted toward the sky.
“What do I do?” Diane asked.
“Talk to him.” Madame had already laid out a blanket and was lining up her potions and odd-looking devices.
Diane rubbed her palms over her thighs and then, drawing in a breath, moved toward him. The coppery scent of blood grew stronger, and her heart thudded so hard against her ribs she was sure one would snap.
Robert rolled his head toward her, his green eyes brightened with panic and fear. “I’m going to die, aren’t I?”
The anguish in his voice gave her courage to drop to her knees beside him. Her hands trembled, and she was afraid to touch him.
“Keep him calm,” Gilbert ordered. “This might hurt.”
“I don’t want to die. I have a wife. Children.”
Diane laid her hand on the man’s shoulder and found what she guessed must look like a wobbly smile. “You are not going to die today,” she said.
“I am. The pain is too great for me to survive.”
She remembered how Madame LeBlanc could sound so sure when she lied to her customers. What had seemed so terrible to Diane then now seemed the best course of action. “I know for a fact you are not dying.” She reached for his palm and traced the lifeline. “This line tells me that you will live to be a very old man.”
The fear tensing his body eased a small fraction. “Only a witch would know that.”
“I don’t know about witches,” she said. “But I know lives. And yours is going to be very, very long.”
“Ready?” Gilbert said.
Diane tightened her grip on Robert’s hand, which was rough with calluses and fresh blisters. “Yes, we need to get this cart away so this dear man can get on with his life.”
“She says I’m not going to die, Gilbert,” Robert said.
“Then you will not.” Gilbert took his horse by the reins and moved slowly forward. The cart rocked. Robert tensed and screamed. Gilbert’s jaw tightened as he kept walking until finally the cart rose above the man.
Diane grabbed the man by the shoulders. “You must help me, Robert.”
He screamed in agony.
She pulled and tugged against what felt like deadweight. She could see that one leg was broken, but the other appeared intact. “Push with your good leg.”
Groaning in pain, he pushed with his good leg as she pulled, and together they were able to move him clear of the wagon.
“We are clear!” she shouted.
Gilbert kept coaxing the horse forward, pulling the wagon until it rocked back and forth and then tipped forward onto the three remaining working wheels. Madame Herbert lowered her old bones down to the ground beside Robert and studied the injuries. Her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes.
“The witch girl says I have a long life,” Robert said. “Gilbert agrees.”
“Then it is not my place to contradict,” Madame Herbert said. “Diane, we must see that your bold prediction comes true.”
“Yes, Madame. What do I do?”
“You and Gilbert hold his shoulders down while I set the leg.”
She and Gilbert each pressed on a shoulder as the old woman moved around the body. She unlaced the man’s boot and removed it, along with his woolen sock. “I shall count to three, Robert.”
He closed his eyes, gritting his teeth. “Aye. Three it is.”
Diane and Gilbert exchanged glances and pressed with all their weight.
“One.” As Madame spoke, Robert’s body tensed, and he strained against their combined weight. “Two.” As he drew in a breath, the old woman pulled hard on the leg, and the twisted bones cracked back into place. Robert screamed, his eyes rolled back in his head, and he lost consciousness.
Diane’s breathing was quick, and she thought for a moment she too would swoon. “Is he dead?”
“No,” Madame Herbert said. “But we must get the leg splinted before he wakes up. Find me two large branches, and I will bind them to his leg.”
Gilbert rose and extended his hand to Diane. “You did well.”
She brushed the leaves off her skirt. “Thank you.”
As he found a long branch and snapped it in two, he regarded her with a raised brow. “Let us hope that Robert forgets that you read palms and can predict the future, Witch Girl.”
“I’m not a witch!” she said quickly.
“Whether you are or not is of no concern to me. I’ve no opinion on witches one way or the other. But the good folks of the village might think differently. I suggest you practice your hymns and the timing of your crosses before Sunday service next week.”
When spring arrived after the long winter, Diane’s prediction came true. Robert did live. And though she worked hard to learn the hymns and speak vaguely about her “family” in Paris, rumors about her persisted. No one called her a witch to her face, for all feared Gilbert. Several young girls who came to see Madame Herbert asked if Diane made love potions. Madame Herbert chased them all away.
In mid-April a letter arrived from Claire. Diane was thrilled to hear from her big sister. Claire informed her she had found a position for her in the Buchanan house. Diane was to be her assistant, and Claire would wire her money for the passage.
At first Diane was excited, but as she sat in her bed rubbing Oscar’s head, she realized deep down she did not want to leave. Diane did not want any part of helping dress the young and very selfish Victoria Buchanan.
She had grown to love this farm, and she now helped Madame with all the chores. And when Madame’s bones ached on rainy days and her hands were too sore to knead the bread, she taught Diane how to do it. At first, her bread was rather hard and chewy, but as the weeks passed, she showed considerable progress.
Tension rippled through her shoulders as she kneaded the dough. She did not have the courage to look at him. “I would like to stay here,” she said.
Madame Herbert drew in a breath but did not speak as a long silence passed. Gilbert studied her. Finally, he reached for an apple tart and centered it on his plate. “Then you shall stay.”
“Truly?”
“If you grow tired of us, you may leave at any time,” he said.
The apples were ripening nicely in the summer’s warmth. Gilbert and his farmhands would be harvesting them in two months. And each day Diane brought lunches to them all, just as Madame Herbert had done for decades.
Claire wrote to Diane, begging her to return to America, but with each passing week, Diane found it easier and easier to refuse all her sister’s offers.
Life settled into the mundane. As always, she saw little of Gilbert. She worked in the house, taking care of Madame and the dog, baking bread, and cooking meals until one day, without anyone saying a word, she found herself in charge of the household.
Claire had written several times, insisting Diane return to the United States, but Diane always found an excuse why she could not leave. In the end she told Claire she did not wish to return, and finally Claire accepted her decision.
Madame LeBlanc’s murder, which had been such a sensation, had nearly faded from her memory. However, from time to time, she would still dream of Pierre, and each time she did, she would wake with a start. She had not forgotten Pierre, and she feared he had not forgotten her.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Megan
Friday, March 9, 2018
Cape Hudson, Virginia
8:00 a.m.
Lucy loaded the coolers containing the pies Megan had finished baking the previous night at 11:00 p.m. in the back of Megan’s truck. She slammed the tailgate closed, settled behind the wheel, and turned to Megan. “Helen knows we aren’t going to be at Spring House today, right?”
“Correct.” Megan pressed her fingertips to her temple. “Turns out she had to get back to Norfolk to check in with her grandmother-in-law. But she’ll return in a couple of days to inspect Mr. Tucker’s work.”
Spring House Page 20
