Carolyn Jourdan - Nurse Phoebe 03 - The School for Psychics

by Carolyn Jourdan

  In less than five minutes a man’s voice asked something in French. He sounded calm. Phoebe took that as a good sign. J.J. spoke to him, identifying himself and explaining something, and they had a brief exchange. There was an audible click and the tall gates began to swing open.

  Abracadabra.

  J.J. scooped Phoebe up into his arms again and set off toward the house with her guiding his trajectory. The snow was deep here and he faltered a couple of times. She could feel him shivering, but was unsure whether it was from cold or a tremor of exhaustion in the muscles of his arms. She was awed by the physical heroism men so often displayed in emergencies.

  Of course women’s travail in childbirth was hardly noticed, too. The roles given by nature might be covered over by civilization when things were going well, but in dire situations, the gender differences were obvious.

  J.J. slogged the last fifty yards and they were met at the door by a beautifully-dressed elderly man. Phoebe wondered if he was a butler or a caretaker. He welcomed them in.

  J.J. apologized for the awkward intrusion and the man spoke back kindly, then said something that ended with the word English.

  “Please forgive us for waking you,” J.J. said, switching languages.

  “Don’t worry,” the man replied with an accent, but it wasn’t a French accent. “You didn’t wake me. As I get older I find I need less and less sleep. These days I don’t sleep very much at all.”

  Another elderly man came down the hall wearing an elegant silk dressing gown and embroidered velvet slippers. He’d obviously had been sleeping. The man who’d let them in said, “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Peter Botsaris. This is Armand.” He turned and said something to Armand in French and the man turned and went back down the hall.

  “Where are we?” Phoebe asked.

  “Menars,” he said, “That is the name of this place.”

  Armand returned with a modern lightweight, low-profile wheelchair. Blankets were piled in the seat. Phoebe wondered which one of the men had needed a wheelchair recently. She decided Armand must be the butler, and Peter was his boss. Armand helped them remove their windbreakers and down jackets, shook the snow off, and hung them on a coat stand beside the door to dry. Then he handed each of them a blanket and helped Phoebe sit in the wheelchair.

  She maintained a death grip on the wrapped bundle she’d been concealing inside her coat, but getting to sit down snuggled in a blanket was a tremendous relief. They were safe now. Or at least she hoped they were.

  Phoebe took a moment to elevate her foot using the footrest on the wheelchair. This immediately relieved some of the pain as well as the strain of gravity on the damaged circulatory system in her ankle. She hoped it would help some of the swelling to go down.

  “Let’s go to the kitchen and get you something to warm to drink,” said Peter. “Then perhaps you will tell me what has you out on such a night.”

  The old men guided them through the huge residence to a fabulous kitchen. The appliances were covered in a gorgeous pale Provençal blue enamel and had satin chrome fittings. There was an industrial-size blue stove, a blue refrigerator, an oven, and a special rotisserie unit with a glass door. Rows of bottles were visible in two different types of coolers set against the wall.

  Peter seated J.J. at a table that easily accommodated Phoebe’s wheelchair and went to work. Within minutes the men produced coffee for J.J. and a delicious hot chocolate for Phoebe. Peter spoke in a cultured, exotically-accented British English.

  * * *

  Their host insisted they have something to eat, and he put in a breakfast order for them both. While Armand cooked, J.J. gave a highly redacted explanation of their predicament. Everything he said was true, but he left out the controversial parts. In this version, they were couriers for a monastery who had been stranded by the unexpected blizzard.

  Peter listened politely. He was silent for a long time after J.J. stopped talking. Then he went across the room and picked up a phone on the wall. He punched a button and had a brief one-way conversation with someone. Then he repeated the process and had another brief chat with someone else.

  He returned to the table and took a seat. “My chauffeur will go out immediately and retrieve your car. I requested that he tow it to a place where it won’t be seen. I sent another gentleman for the doctor. He should be here within the hour.”

  J.J. started to say something, but Peter put up his hand and stopped him. “Let’s enjoy our meal. There will be time for talking later.”

  They were just finishing the sumptuous breakfast when the doctor arrived. He was a small, delicately-built man with a gentle manner and a shaved head. Peter spoke to him in French, apparently describing the situation and then introduced the doctor to Phoebe. He knelt and examined her ankle carefully. He was the quietest doctor Phoebe had ever seen.

  “Our docteur, Frère Théo, was a Trappist monk for many years,” Peter explained. “He hasn’t yet recovered the talent of conversation.” Then he repeated what he’d said in French.

  The doctor smiled as he wrapped Phoebe’s ankle with a compression bandage and then laced her into a thin, but sturdy ankle splint that she would be able to wear inside her shoe.

  He gave her two pills, “For pain,” Peter translated. Then Frère Théo showed Phoebe a syringe in a rigid carrying case and said something that Peter translated as, “For emergency only. This is what the military and professional athletes use when they must continue at all costs. But this if for use only in an extreme emergency, as it can greatly hinder recovery.”

  He showed her where to inject it should she have to. He’d brought a simple wooden cane as well and left that for her use. Then he turned toward J.J. “My friend is blind,” Phoebe said, “but he speaks French very well.”

  Frère Théo said a few words to J.J. and helped him remove his shoes and socks. J.J.’s feet were badly blistered and probably frostbitten. The monk remained on his knees and examined each toe and the spaces between them. Then he sighed and patted J.J.’s knee and said something.

  J.J. nodded and the monk cleaned his feet with an antiseptic, covered them with an ointment, and bandaged them. Armand produced some dry socks and a pair of Wellington boots that would fit J.J. Frère Théo nodded to Peter and Armand, waved goodbye to Phoebe and J.J., and left.

  Now that they were warm, relaxed, fed, and had their injuries attended to, their host suggested they take a look at the house.

  Chapter 20.

  “I have been waiting for you for a very long time,” Peter said, as he led them toward the side of the house that faced the river. “I feared I might not live long enough to see you arrive.”

  “We weren’t sure we were going to make it, either,” J.J. said, only half joking.

  “But, then, here you are.”

  They smiled at each other.

  “Shall I tell you about my home?”

  “Please,” said Phoebe.

  “The château contains 200,000 square feet of living space and is set on grounds of 118 acres. There are fifty bedrooms.”

  Fifty bedrooms? That blew Phoebe’s mind.

  “The most famous owner of this house was Jeanne-Antoinette Poisson, Marquise de Pompadour. In 1760 she paid a million livres for it by selling some of her jewelry. She died young, of tuberculosis, just four years after buying it. She left the property to her brother, Abel-François.”

  “By the terms of her will, all of her estates except for this one reverted to the crown. She owned several great houses. Some of them were destroyed, some have survived. Her Paris home, the Hôtel d'Evreux, is now the Palais de l'Elysée, the official residence where the French President lives, like your White House.

  “All of her other estates were razed, or damaged, or extensively remodeled after her death. Only this one was preserved intact. Her brother was an expert in construction, of course, as Directeur-général, Bâtiments du Roi, and he had access to all the best artists and craftsmen. He knew her intentions for this place and oversaw the
completion of much of the work that was in progress at the time of her death.”

  “I saw it from across the river and had to come,” Phoebe said. “The house exerts a strong attraction, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes, it does,” he said.

  They viewed a sequence of grand salons that had been made inviting and livable, rather than flashy or intimidating.

  “I have never married and have no family left. But I have a great fortune and it has been my great pleasure to spend some of it restoring the château. It has taken me many years, but the work is finished now, if it is possible to ever finish a place such as this.

  “The only exception is that, although I had her personal suite cleaned and repaired and stabilized, I have left it undecorated. There are three rooms, the ground-floor apartments that were her private domain. I could not bring myself to finish them. I do not think I am qualified. It seemed to me that only she should make such personal choices.”

  Phoebe could tell he was deeply moved. When he turned toward her his eyes were swimming with tears. “I have been in love with her all my life,” he said. “I read about her when I was a small boy and fell in love with her and, after that, I never wanted anyone else. I saved her last remaining house and I have waited faithfully for her to return. That sounds sad, perhaps, but I have not been sad. I have had a wonderful life.”

  He smiled and looked at Phoebe for understanding.

  “I’ve never married either,” she said. “I know what you’re saying. Some of us are content to wait until the right person shows up, no matter how long that takes.” She didn’t mention her feelings for Nikola Tesla. There was no need to. They understood each other.

  “I’ve been waiting for you as well, of course,” he said, “in the event that Madame didn’t return in time.” He looked out on the dark, snowy landscape through the long row of French doors. He seemed lost in thought. Neither Phoebe nor J.J. spoke. Eventually he sighed and said, “I have something for you.”

  He pushed Phoebe’s wheelchair and J.J. fell into step behind him as he led them through more of the rooms arranged enfilade, their interior doors aligned in a long straight row so you could see from one end of the house to the other. Because of the way the interior doors were place near the windows that gave onto the vast terraces, it made moving from room to room a bit like walking down the aisle of a spacious train.

  They moved toward the southeast corner of the house. Eventually they arrived at a closed door. Their host turned the knob and gently pushed the door open, but he didn’t go in. He stepped to one side and indicated they should precede him.

  * * *

  Phoebe propelled herself over the threshold from the furnished part of the house into a gloriously proportioned space that had been lovingly restored, but not decorated at all. The walls and ceiling had a great deal of carved trim, but it was all painted a delicate, ethereal white.

  Peter escorted them slowly through the set of three rooms that faced the river. It was like looking at the elegant bones of a lovely face without any makeup. As in death, there was no expression animating the physical beauty, but the eloquent architecture spoke for the woman who’d designed it.

  “I will leave it after I die, just as it is, waiting for her to come back and do with it as she sees fit,” their host said. He wore an infinitely sad smile.

  They were silent as they moved through the immaculate empty spaces. When they arrived at the corner room, he said, “The renovation took $100 million dollars, but there is more than enough remaining in my estate to preserve her legacy for a long time.”

  Phoebe pondered the extraordinary house being transferred from hand to hand down the centuries, from sister to brother, and eventually to this man.

  He turned toward Phoebe and said, “I hope she approves.”

  Phoebe smiled and said, “I’m sure she loves it. How could she not?”

  The signal had gotten progressively stronger as they walked toward the corner of the château. Peter closed the door that connected this last area, the corner room, to the long row of interior doors that marched the length of the house. When he did this, he exposed the part of the wall that would normally be concealed by the open door.

  “The workmen discovered this when they were repairing the boiserie, the carving on this section of the wooden paneling.”

  He pressed against a bit of whitewashed ornamentation and a door opened. It was the second time in twenty-four hours that a wall had popped open unexpectedly in Phoebe’s face. She said for J.J.’s benefit, “Mr. Botsaris has just opened what appears to be an 18th century wall safe.”

  Stacked inside the secret cache were a few leather boxes, several leather bound books, and something in a velvet sack tied with a drawstring. Phoebe told J.J. what she was seeing.

  Peter reached in, removed the leather boxes, and handed them to Phoebe. She held them in her lap. Next he took out the books, touched J.J.’s hand, and gave them to him to carry. Then he removed the velvet bag and closed the panel in the wall. They took one last look around the beautiful chamber and slowly strolled back to the inhabited part of the house.

  The velvet bag that Peter carried was emanating signals to Phoebe like a wild animal thrashing to get out of a sack.

  They returned to one of the salons where Peter directed J.J. to a seat on a couch. Phoebe placed her leather boxes on the coffee table as well as the books J.J. had been carrying. Their host gently set the velvet sack with its mysterious contents beside the rest and took a seat. The three of them sat facing each other around the low table.

  No one was speaking. Phoebe looked at Peter with a questioning glance. He nodded to indicate she could examine the objects.

  “J.J. I’m gonna look at the objects that were in Madame P’s safe. I’ll describe each of them as I go.”

  She reached for the box that rested on top of the stack. “There are three leather boxes in different sizes. They look like jewelry boxes, but let’s see what they are.” Phoebe opened the box. “The smallest box contains what appears to be a diamond ring.”

  “If I may,” Peter said, “I believe it is a ring given to Madame by Louis XV. The shape, the navette-cut, meaning little boat, is also sometimes called a marquise-cut. According to legend the shape was commissioned by Louis XV to resemble the mouth of Madame de Pompadour and thereafter the style is named for her.”

  Phoebe closed the ring box and set it to one side. She reached for the second box in the stack and opened it. “This box is a little larger than the ring box. It contains a cameo attached to a band. From the length of the band, it looks like a bracelet.”

  Peter again supplemented the description. “The carved image is of Louis XV. Madame wore the cameo of the king on her wrist. You can see it in some of the portraits of her.” He looked at the piece with sadness, and said, “Frederick the Great of Prussia described Louis as, ‘a good man whose only fault was that he was king.’”

  The three of them sat quietly thinking about the burden of kingship on a decent person, and the potential for it to inflate even the most benign character defects. Phoebe wondered what had it done to a five-year old.

  There, but for the Grace of God, go I, thought Phoebe.

  The third box contained a large, blue stone. “It is a diamond,” Peter explained. “It is the other half of the stone that was cut down to make what in the U.S. is called the Hope diamond. It is known many other names, Le Bijou du Roi, the King's Jewel, or Le bleu de France, the Blue of France, or the Tavernier Blue. It is a forty-five carat dark blue diamond.

  “The stone is not simply of historical interest or monetary value. It is also important in a geological sense because in certain conditions it will emit a red glow. Under short-wave ultraviolet light it gives off an intense phosphorescent luminescence. It will actually glow in the dark and the effect will persist for a time even after the light source has been switched off. Some people believe this bizarre characteristic is proof that the stone is cursed.

  “Nowadays this phenom
enon is used to test the quality of blue diamonds. The naturally occurring stones will glow red, the artificial ones will not.”

  “That’s all the jewelry,” Phoebe said, struggling to appear calm. “Now we have four books.”

  Chapter 21.

  “There were over three thousand books in her estate,” Peter said. “They all went to her brother. But these four were maintained separately.”

  Phoebe took the top one off the stack. “The first one is about five inches tall, by four inches wide, and about two inches thick,” said Phoebe. “It has a plain dark brown leather cover and looks very old.”

  She opened it carefully and glanced through a few pages until she said, “I think this might be Leonardo Da Vinci’s handwriting. It’s pretty distinctive and some of it is mirror writing. The drawings are in the style of his other work.”

  Peter nodded, “I agree.”

  “The second one is also leather bound but the cover is red and stamped with three shapes like crenelated towers, or a rook in chess. These images are stamped in gold.”

  “That was her coat of arms,” Peter explained.

  “The pages have drawings of what look like planets and orbits and stars. It appears to be a work of astronomy or astrology.”

  “It is by Marsilio Ficino. He’s a 15th century Italian Renaissance scholar. Amon other things, he coined the term platonic love. He got into trouble with the Catholic Church for this particular book.”

  Phoebe placed it gently with the Leonardo notebook and picked up the next bound volume, “The third book is a beautifully illuminated Bible.”

  “The fourth book is….”

  “Something you will enjoy,” said Peter, speaking to J.J. “It’s an original Fama.”

  J.J. rocked back in his seat, obviously startled.

  “Yes, it is an original Fama Fraternitatis Rosae Crucis, the Rosicrucian manifesto.”