by Chloé Duval
“He told me Mr. Bourgeois would be there on Monday, and then he would be traveling and the bookstore would be closed for three weeks starting Tuesday evening. Which means there is only one thing I can do.”
“What would that be?”
“Go to Angers first thing Monday morning.”
I smiled teasingly.
“Want to come with me?”
“Let me think about it…no.”
Chapter 12
Gabrielle
Castle of Ferté-Chandeniers
November 1899
The next morning, after a very brief night’s sleep and a frugal breakfast by her father’s bedside, Gabrielle gratefully accepted Hélène’s offer to stay by Maurice’s side. She was impatient to return to the library. Her father had approved her mission—carry out the library inventory until his health improved.
She hummed on her way there, retracing the previous night’s steps up and down the galleries. The memory of the evening—or rather, the night, she thought with a blush—still lingered in her mind…and in her body.
She had read for a long time after Mr. D’Arcy—Thomas—had asked her to. For obvious reasons, she had chosen Jane Eyre. She had cracked the book open and flipped pages toward the middle, choosing her favorite passage, and in her lilting voice had narrated the unusual yet moving story of these two solitary souls brought together by fate. Once she had fallen silent, he had stared deep into the embers of the fireplace and asked her, “Do you think Jane was right?”
“What about?”
He’d shifted his attention to her.
“Do you think beauty is truly in the eye of the beholder? Do you think one can really love…a monster?”
“A monster? What do you mean?”
“People who have a repellent appearance, who are misshapen. People who make others recoil in horror. Monsters.”
For the second time that evening, the way in which he had intoned these words had deeply upset Gabrielle. She had wondered whether he really saw himself as such—as a hideous man. As a monster.
“Of course she was right! I believe with all my heart that each and every one of us deserves to be loved!” Her fervor had taken even herself aback. “I believe that we do not love faces, but what is behind. Take Jane, for example.” She’d waved the book. “She does not fall in love with Edward’s looks. She falls in love with him because she can see beyond appearances. She sees his heart, and his soul, and she recognizes that they mirror her own. She sees him as the one who completes her, who is the light to her darkness and the darkness to her light, both her opposite and her equal. She sees him as he is, with no adornments. She sees his flaws, his imperfections, and only loves him more. He might be imperfect, but he is perfect for her. Because in the end, there are more things that they share than there are that drive them apart. They may not be from the same world, he may be rich and she poor, he may be someone while she is no one, but beyond that, they are the same. Soul mates. Better still, they are one soul. In Wuthering Heights, Catherine declares that she is Heathcliff, because she loves him so that she can no longer tell the difference between herself and him. It is the same for Jane. She is Edward. And…is that not what love is? Accepting the other unconditionally, wholly, both the good and the bad, and wanting the same in return?”
She’d broken off, cheeks pink, aware that once again she had let herself be carried away by her romantic ideals. One day, she would learn to restrain herself.
One day.
“My apologies. I did not mean to sound so passionate. You really should not raise such topics with me,” she had added self-deprecatingly. “You would be well within your rights to call me unhinged and far too romantic for my own good. You would not be the first.”
“I would never say such a thing.”
She had glanced down then back up again.
“I know,” she had said softly. “But to answer your question… Yes, I believe that even those who think they are monsters can be beautiful and deserving of love to the right person.”
Thomas had nodded silently, a gleam in his eyes. The strange swooping feeling in Gabrielle’s stomach had come roaring back and had refused to leave—neither when they had talked for hours, nor when he had walked her back to her room, their hands brushing against each other.
* * * *
When she reached the library, Gabrielle paused in front of the door. She had not felt so feverishly excited in a very long time. With a deep sigh, she gripped the door handle and pushed the heavy panel.
In the daylight, bathed in sunlight pouring through the vast windows, the library seemed even more impressive than it had been a few hours ago. Once again, Gabrielle walked in and spun on the spot, unleashing her enthusiasm, laughing wholeheartedly.
This place was simply perfect.
And for a time, it was hers and hers alone.
She decided that the first thing to do was to explore every nook and cranny.
Thus, she proceeded to do so. She leafed through botanic and medicine books, grimacing at some of the images. She examined a bestiary of fantastical creatures, each more astounding than the last. She read her way through a few of Perrault’s fairy tales that she hadn’t opened in years. She recited Shakespeare monologues, Baudelaire poems, Ronsard sonnets.…
Once her curiosity was, if not sated, at least quenched a little, she moved toward the shelf where Maurice had left off and took down the next books. And so, stepping lightly with her arms loaded with culture, she took her father’s chair in front of the huge oak desk, opened the first book in the pile, a gorgeous ornithology study, and went to work.
Quietly and utterly happy.
* * * *
She had been happily doing inventory for nearly two hours when there was a knock on the door and Thomas came in. Gabrielle’s lips stretched into a smile of their own volition, and her heart leapt in her chest.
With as much composure as she could gather, Gabrielle rose to her feet and greeted him.
“I see you found the library again without any help,” he remarked.
“I did. But have no fear. I packed supplies in case I became lost.” She affected utter seriousness. “And I left a trail of small white pebbles behind me. Did you not see them?”
He shook his head. “I must have been distracted.”
“Were you? And what could distract you so?” she teased, immediately falling back on the banter they had exchanged the previous eve.
“I was thinking of what I am about to tell you.” He smiled imperceptibly. “I have something to show you. I think you will enjoy it.”
“Did you meet a friendly ghost?”
“No. Don’t try to guess; I will say no more,” he added with a mischievous smile when she opened her mouth. “You shall have to follow me and see for yourself.”
It was freezing outside.
Gabrielle shivered and hugged herself in a poor attempt at warming herself up, following behind her host.
Seeing her tremble, Thomas took off his coat and laid it over her shoulders.
“Put this on. It will keep you warm.”
“Thank you.” She slid her arms into the sleeves. “I should have taken my shawl when I left the library.”
She reflexively turned the collar up and hunched into the coat. Every centimeter held Thomas’s smell, the heat of his body. She closed her eyes for a second, discreetly breathing it in. It almost felt as though she was in his arms again.
“Are you warm enough, Gabrielle? Do you want to return inside?”
She opened her eyes immediately, meeting Thomas’s gaze under his frown.
“No, no, I’m perfectly fine.” She turned the collar even further up to hide her pink cheeks. “Lead the way.”
Side by side, they crossed the inner courtyard, the bridge over the frozen moat, and walked up the snowy path to a small cluster
of trees. There, Gabrielle turned, curious to see the castle from the outside.
Her breath caught in her throat.
Covered in snow, the castle rose in all its magnificence against the pale blue sky. It was a dream vision. A painting by one of the great masters. A picture straight from the fairy tales her parents used to read to her as a child.
“It’s beautiful,” she breathed, awestruck. “Absolutely beautiful.”
Realizing she had stopped, Thomas turned back and came to stand behind her, his presence enveloping her even more surely than his coat did. Her senses suddenly on alert, Gabrielle could feel Thomas’s breath on her hair, his body against hers. And she had to check herself not to lean back against him.
Everything around was calm and quiet. She could almost hear their hearts beating.
She felt good in that moment, so good. Her father’s health was improving, she literally had her hands on a collection of amazing books, she had met some exceptional people and, for a little longer at least, she lived in what had to be the most beautiful place on earth.
She breathed in deeply, savoring the moment, committing every rock, every tree, every snowflake to memory so she would always recall it when she had to leave this place and return to her everyday life.
The idea cast a shadow on this gorgeous day, and she immediately put it aside.
That day had not come yet.
She breathed in again, focusing on the crisp, cold sensation in her lungs, on Thomas’s presence behind her.
“Doesn’t this make you want to stay?” she asked.
He was silent for a few seconds.
“Yes, but no,” he finally replied.
“Hmmm. It’s a shame but…I understand.”
“Really?”
Gabrielle nodded gently.
“I don’t know what estranged you from your father, but for you to leave for England, it must have been serious. Stones and paintings, precious though they may be, cannot be enough to forget what has harmed you.”
She turned to him. The light in his eyes told her she had struck true and that he suffered greatly.
“You are very discerning,” he murmured.
He gazed at her in consideration for a second, wordlessly. Then he changed the subject so fast she almost reeled in shock.
“Shall I show you my surprise?”
Chapter 13
Alexandra
Chandeniers-sur-Vienne
Present day
The Chandeniers cemetery was surprisingly large for a town of this size. Lined with massive trees that were probably at least a hundred years old, it was a peaceful place that seemed to stand outside of time. Solemn silence reigned, barely disturbed by my footsteps on the gravel and leaves rustling in the wind.
I had woken with the sudden idea of visiting my ancestors’ burial vault. Probably from spending too much time digging through the birth register of the barons de Saint-Armand.
The previous day, after leaving Éric’s house—or after he more or less kicked me out, same thing—I had returned to the inn, where I had spent part of the afternoon working on my genealogy, trying to fill in the blanks with the information from Marc Lagnel’s files. Very reluctantly, Éric had agreed to loan me the precious documents as long as I promised that I would watch over them like a hawk. I had sworn, hand over heart, that they would not leave the inn. I’d even suggested he could ask Marine to supervise if it comforted him. He’d grunted that there was no need, but the look on his face kind of undermined his words.
So I’d gone to work in the inn’s garden, laptop in front of me and documents spread all over the table, with a pitcher of iced tea beside me, courtesy of Marine. I had plunged into the past, carefully entering the names of the various barons de Saint-Armand into my family tree.
Once done, I had returned to the note I’d found that morning and leaned back into my chair thoughtfully. Now that Éric had “translated” his father’s handwriting it was easier to decipher. I’d reread it, especially the part about the journal. Did it really exist or was it just a hypothesis? Did “G.” mean Gabrielle? Was Maurice her father?
There was a way to check, but it meant forgoing the pleasure of digging through the archives in person, a small treat I had been saving for my visit in Angers. I had hesitated—for thirty seconds at least. Then I had given in to my curiosity and looked up the birth register on the town’s website.
After very, very long minutes of research on a several-hundred-page PDF written in chicken scratch, I had finally located Gabrielle’s birth certificate, which immediately confirmed my suspicions—Maurice Villeneuve was indeed her father. I had almost jumped for joy right there in my chair. I had only barely held back from driving straight to Angers, even if I had to sit in front of the bookstore until Mr. Bourgeois arrived.
Restraining my impatience with great difficulty, I’d screenshot the document and written down the reference and page number, determined to retrieve a copy on Monday after I visited the bookstore.
I had closed my laptop, mind reeling. I felt jittery and yet I knew that I was probably building my hopes up. The diary might not even exist, and I was especially afraid that it might have been written before Gabrielle met Thomas, in which case it would hold no information about him. Even if I was very interested in knowing more about my ancestor—she had been, after all, the entire reason my search had begun—I was growing ever more curious about the mysterious Thomas D’Arcy every time I uncovered a new section of his life.
Who was he? What lurked behind the scratches and blots on his birth certificate?
Marine, returning from a date, had put an end to my wonderings. Impatient to share my findings, I’d invited her to sit down with me. She’d eagerly accepted and we’d spent the rest of the evening together, laughing and chatting away. We’d spent a fair bit of time talking about my ancestors, obviously, and about the hypothetical diary—she told me Marc Lagnel had never mentioned it to her—but also about local art and history. I’d asked about the celebration that was to take place next week, which had led to her briefing me about the history of Chandeniers. The town had been built a thousand years earlier, at the same time as the castle, by a rich lord, and it had grown over time from a hunting lodge to the charming little town it was today.
As we had grown pleasantly tired, she’d told me, in a voice full of nostalgia and longing, how Éric’s father had come to own the castle.
It was both a tragic and romantic story, one that had begun many years ago when Marc Lagnel had met Laura, Marine’s aunt.
Laura had always had a passion for the Chandeniers castle. And Marc had quickly come to have a passion for Laura. So one August night with shooting stars streaking through the sky, Marc had asked for Laura’s hand in the ruins of the castle.
Laura gave it to him, and they lived happily for many years after…until one winter night, a few years after Éric’s birth, their car had skidded over a patch of black ice. When Marc woke a couple of days later, he was a widower and Éric had lost his mother.
Years had passed, and Marc had begun to gamble at the lottery every week. Laura had loved gambling, so he’d taken up her favorite number combination—their birth months and years, their wedding date, the birthdate of their son Éric. And one day the incredible had happened—he’d won the jackpot. He’d used the money to buy the castle and stop investors from making it into a holiday resort. And he’d started to do anything he could to save it. He’d pieced together the castle’s history with some help from Marine and a few other people. Unfortunately, he’d passed away before he could accomplish his mission, leaving his son with the heavy task of saving the castle.
“And we’re not even close to finding a way yet,” Marine had admitted unhappily. “Éric enrolled in Doctors Without Borders a long time ago—he’s very good with children, you know, he’s a great pediatrician”—I’d raised an incredulous brow—�
��so he’s rarely ever here, and all the lottery money got swallowed up by taxes and inheritance. There’s almost nothing left.”
I’d stayed quiet for a time, taking in all that Marine had just told me. Sadness had washed over me, making me rail quietly against the tragedy and unfairness of life. Poor Éric, I’d thought.
But before I could say anything, Marine had changed topics abruptly, steering the conversation toward lighter subjects. The evening had resumed its pleasant course, full of laughter and banter.
But deep inside, I kept thinking of Marc, Laura and Éric, and my heart was heavy on behalf of these people I didn’t know.
Voices next to me brought me back to the present. A family was laying a bouquet on a tiny grave a few steps away. My heart clenched when I saw the dates. Barely two years apart.
I walked away as quietly as I could, unwilling to disturb them. I looked around for the Saint-Armand family vault. It wasn’t difficult to find—given its size, it was rather a challenge to miss it.
It was a white stone building, a sort of small square tower. The Gothic architecture echoed that of the castle.
I automatically flipped my sketchbook open and started to draw, detailing the sculptures on the mausoleum, the moss creeping on the walls, nature slowly asserting its rights over the place. And as my hand flew over the paper I let my mind wander to my ancestors, the castle and Éric.
A part of me still couldn’t wrap my mind around the fact that I was descended from French aristocrats. Aristocrats who had owned a real castle, had experienced wars, balls and French History with a capital H. It was incredible, and not at all the kind of thing that usually happened to me. And yet it had. I had the proof right here in front of my eyes and in the thick file waiting back at the inn.
I wasn’t sure yet what it meant to me, or even if it was going to change anything about my life. But somehow, I had the feeling that this discovery gave my life a new value. As though all of a sudden I deserved my place on earth because I had famous ancestors.
A familiar voice and bark rose from a few alleys over, bursting my bubble. I looked up to see Éric and his dog Max stop in front of a gravestone. Éric crouched down, broad shoulders hunched under an invisible weight, and remained there before what I guessed was his father’s grave.
