“Shall we go see Madame Jarnot?” Valerie asked, startling Alec out of his reverie. “Do you think she might be able to shed some light on any of this?”
“I hope so, although if she knew something, she would have spoken out at the time, don’t you think?” he asked, getting back into the coach.
“Maybe someone wanted to keep her quiet,” Valerie replied, pondering the situation. “If someone had really killed Rose and tried to make it look like suicide, they might go to great lengths to keep it quiet, and Madame Jarnot might have been too afraid to speak out.”
“Yes, I suppose that’s possible. There’s only one way to find out.”
Chapter 55
The Jarnot farmhouse sat on a slight hill surrounded by lush pasture and newly reaped fields, golden haystacks filling the air with their lovely smell. Several cows chewed their cud, completely disinterested in scandals of long ago, while chickens pecked in the dirt of the front yard under the vigilant eye of a fat orange cat, which meowed with displeasure as a plump middle-aged woman smacked his behind in order to get him off the bench and make room for her laundry basket. She shielded her eyes from the sun, watching the sleek coach rolling toward her home. The road wasn’t well-traveled, so visitors were probably rare.
Alec had been very quiet since they left the grave site, lost in thought, his fingers drumming a steady tattoo against the side of the coach in agitation, his body thrumming like a taut spring. Barras’s account cast a whole new light on what might have happened to Rose, and if Madame Jarnot had nothing to tell them, would leave things even more convoluted. Valerie almost wished that they’d never spoken to Mousier Barras and just left as planned, but now the situation had changed, and Lord only knew what new revelations would come to light. Alec finally stopped his drumming and turned to Valerie, a look of understanding on his face.
“I have to do this,” he said stubbornly. “I know you don’t want me to, but I must. This woman might have nothing of importance to tell us, but I can’t leave without speaking to her. Even if all she can do is tell me about Rose’s mindset during those days, I might be able to piece together something of what she might have been going through. Bear with me, Valerie.” He squeezed her hand, rearranging his face into a warm smile as the coach pulled up in front of the house.
The woman called out a friendly greeting, asking if they needed directions as they stepped from the coach. Valerie had expected some dried-up old nun, but this woman had a broad, open face with round, blue eyes that sparkled with good humor, and two deep dimples that appeared in her plump face when she smiled. Her dark hair was liberally streaked with gray, but her face was unlined, her skin as supple as that of a young girl. She had that rare quality that made people feel instantly drawn to her, and considering the nature of their errand, it was a great start.
“Madame Jarnot, I wondered if we might have a word with you,” Alec began, not wanting to just blurt out the purpose for their visit. “Maurice Barras thought you might be able to help.”
“Why, of course, Monsieur. Do come in. I don’t have much to offer you as I wasn’t expecting guests, but I have some fresh bread just out of the oven and some goat cheese and pate. Please make yourselves comfortable.”
The farmhouse was a low structure made of gray stone with small, muslin-curtained windows overlooking the yard. It consisted of one large room with a hearth, table and benches on one side, and a large bed shielded by a curtain on the other. Several tools hung neatly on nails to the left of the hearth, and a pine cupboard held an assortment of cups and plates painted in gay colors. It was swept clean, a jug of wildflowers in the middle of the scrubbed table adding a little cheer to the dimness of the cottage. Madame Jarnot put out a plate of thickly-cut bread, butter, cheese and pate on the table, as well as a bowl of apples. The table looked like a still-life hanging on the wall of some museum. Valerie was taken aback by the woman’s hospitality. She hadn’t even asked them what they wanted, but was willing to share whatever she had with them, making them feel very welcome.
“Is beer all right?” she asked, putting out three cups and a pitcher covered with a cloth.
“Now then, how can I help you? Do try the pate. It’s rather good,” she added with a proud smile. No doubt she made everything herself from fresh ingredients produced on the farm.
Valerie spread a piece of bread with pate and took a bite, chewing slowly. It was very good, better than anything she’d tasted so far. She wished she could participate in the conversation, but Madame Jarnot spoke no English, making it impossible for Valerie to follow. Alec would give her an account of what had been said once they left the farmhouse instead of translating sentence by sentence. It wasn’t wise to interrupt a person in the middle of their narrative; it gave them time to regret sharing too much.
“Madame Jarnot, I believe you knew my sister, Rose Whitfield,” Alec began, watching the woman’s face as he said the name. She paled visibly, her hand stilling in the act of peeling an apple.
“Mon dieu, you’ve come,” she said. “I always thought you would, but I must confess, I was expecting you somewhat sooner. Rose spoke so lovingly of you. She said you were the best of men.” Berenice Jarnot put down the knife and the apple, wiping a tear from her cheek. “She didn’t deserve what happened to her.”
“The convent never saw fit to inform us of Rose’s death or Genevieve’s existence, and I was secure in the knowledge that my sister was safe and at peace in a house of God,” Alec said by way of explanation. It obviously never occurred to Madame Jarnot that Rose’s family knew nothing of her death or her child, casting a new light on events that were already murky at best.
“Will you tell me what happened?” Alec asked gently. Berenice nodded, emotions passing over her kind face like clouds racing across a summer sky. She was obviously thinking of how to phrase it best in an effort to spare Alec the pain of hearing the details of Rose’s death. She finally began speaking, her voice low and laced with sadness.
“You see, Rose and I came to the convent at about the same time. We were novices together. Particular friendships are not encouraged in that type of life, but it’s hard not to become fond of people, especially when you are both young and more than a little scared. Rose said that she’d longed to become a nun since she was a little girl, but I had my reservations. It had been my mother’s dying wish that I join the order. She’d had a very difficult life, and thought I would be spared some of the harsher realities of life as a nun.”
Madame Jarnot looked away for a moment, her eyes full of tears. It must have been a painful time in her life, having to leave home soon after the death of her mother, thrust into a life she hadn’t chosen for herself. She didn’t seem like the type of woman who would ever willingly renounce the world; she was too much a part of it. She finally turned back, continuing her story.
“Back in those days there were more nuns than there are now, so Rose and I had to share a cell, which we secretly liked. We whispered long into the night, talking of our families and our devotion to God. I’d never been away from my family before I came to the convent and I felt lonely and cut off, frustrated by the fact that this feeling of isolation would likely stay with me for the rest of my life. Rose was lonely too, and still grieving. She felt some guilt about the way she’d left you all, especially young Charles. How is he?” Berenice asked suddenly.
“He’s very well. He lives in Virginia with his wife and children. He loved Rose very much and was devastated when she left,” Alec replied, leaning forward in his eagerness to hear the rest of the story.
Berenice took a sip of beer and went on with her story. “Rose met Father Marc in Calais. She’d made her way to France, but once she’d arrived, she wasn’t sure where to go or how to get there on her own. He happened to be staying at the inn where she took a room, and told her of our convent. Rose took that as a sign from God that that’s where he wanted her to go. She said Father Marc was the kindest, most devout man she’d ever met, and they had some wonderful conv
ersations on the way to Loudun. It was a great relief to her to have a trustworthy traveling companion who took her under his wing.”
“Did you know him?” Alec asked, instantly suspicious of the priest.
“Oh, yes. Father Marc was our parish priest for years, and he came regularly to perform Mass and hear our confessions. He was always very kind and understanding — and too charming and handsome for a man of his calling.” Madame Jarnot giggled prettily, revealing a glimpse of the young girl she must have been when she joined the order.
“Was Rose ever alone with him?” Alec asked, his voice tight with suspicion.
“Yes, during confession and when they walked in the gardens from time to time. He took time out to talk to all of us, especially the novices, since he was preparing us to take our vows. I had been alone with him as well, more than once.”
“Did my sister still want to take her vows?” Alec asked.
“Oh yes. She was eager to take her vows and devote her life to God. She asked to speak to Father Marc on several occasions, and he came to see her. She always seemed uplifted after his visits, almost ethereal. I must admit that I envied her unwavering faith. She seemed so sure of what she wanted, whereas I would have been much happier had I been allowed to marry my Jean, which I would have done, had mother not insisted that I go to the convent.”
“Did you know Rose was pregnant, Madame Jarnot?” Berenice looked away in embarrassment before answering.
“I noticed that she didn’t seem to get her menses, but I didn’t dare ask. Sisters weren’t encouraged to speak of physical matters, only spiritual, and we never undressed in front of each other, even though we shared a cell. I thought she might be ill, especially since her appetite was much diminished, and she was paler than usual. It never occurred to me that she might be with child. It’s not something that comes to mind when dealing with a person who took a vow of celibacy. I only found out when her pains began. She tried to keep very quiet and begged me not to call anyone. She kept saying that he would come, and everything would be all right.” Berenice took another sip of beer, her face flushed with the memory of that night.
“I couldn’t be sure if she was referring to the baby’s father or God. She had become even more devout in the months before the birth, often speaking as if God was right there with her, privy to her every thought. She kept saying that she would make him proud and give him a son just like Mary. I delivered the baby. I’d seen plenty of babies being born, so thankfully I knew what to do. She was so small; I thought she might have been premature. Rose cried as she saw the baby and asked to hold her right away, although she kept referring to the baby as “him”. She whispered to her and kissed her head. She didn’t look like a woman burning with shame, but she didn’t seem fully aware of the fact that she’d just given birth to a baby girl. She seemed almost vacant; her spirit a million miles away.”
“What happened then?”
“The child began to cry, and Sister Marie-Jeanne came to check on us; then all hell broke loose. Mother Superior ordered me to take the baby and leave the cell. She questioned Rose for a long time. She must have gotten what she wanted because she called for old Monsieur Barras. She needed him to deliver a message.”
“Who did she send a message to?” Alec asked. Valerie could see the tension coursing through him, his desperate need to know what happened. She couldn’t understand most of what Madame Jarnot was saying, but she knew that her account was the closest that Alec had gotten to finding out what happened to his sister, and that this new information had the power to change everything.
“I don’t know. Monsieur Barras had gone to his daughter’s house that night, so Mother Superior went out herself, which was highly unusual. Three days later Rose was dead.” Berenice was crying softly now, her round face a mask of misery. “She didn’t drown herself; I’m as sure of that now as I was then.”
“Is that why they asked you to leave?” Alec asked.
She just nodded, wiping her eyes with her apron. “I helped prepare the body for burial and saw the marks on her neck and wrists. She didn’t do that to herself, I’m sure of that. Someone killed her. I asked to speak to Mother Superior, but she tried to dismiss me, feeding me the usual platitudes about the will of God. I said that I would go to Father Marc with my suspicions. That’s when she flew into a rage, ordering me to leave immediately since I clearly did not understand the meaning of obedience and humility. She said that I wasn’t suited for the life of a nun and that no one would believe me anyway, she’d make sure of that. She said that Rose brought shame on herself and the order and deserved to die a horrible death.”
“You married your young man?” Alec asked, watching Berenice Jarnot intently.
“I did, and I must say that despite the terrible circumstances that led to my dismissal, it was the best thing for me. Jean and I have had a wonderful life and raised three children. I was never cut out for the barren life of a nun.”
“And what of Genevieve?”
“Father Marc approached a young couple who’d recently had a child of their own and asked them to care for the baby. He must have offered them an allowance of some sort for the support of the child. Mousier and Madame Collot raised Genevieve until she was three years old, and from what I heard, offered to adopt her, but Father Marc had other ideas. He wanted her to be raised at the convent where she would get a good education. If she’d stayed with the Collots, she would have likely grown up to be an illiterate farm girl, although she would have grown up with kindness and love, which is in short supply at the convent.”
“Madame Jarnot, do you think Father Marc is Genevieve’s father?” Alec asked, his voice shaking.
Madame Jarnot shrugged her shoulders in a typically Gallic gesture. “To be perfectly honest, Monsieur Whitfield, I don’t know. Rose never named Father Marc as the father, and believe me, I asked, as I’m sure Mother Superior did. Father Marc had the opportunity, but I had been alone with him on several occasions and there was never a hint of inappropriate behavior, but then again, maybe he simply didn’t find me appealing.”
She shrugged again, looking from Valerie to Alec.
“There isn’t a person in Loudun who doesn’t suspect that Father Marc is Genevieve’s father, but they would never speak the truth for fear of Le Mayor’s wrath. Did you know that he is Father’s Marc’s father? He’s a hard man, and to cross him can be hazardous to one’s health, physical and financial, but I’ve kept this secret for over twenty years, and I’d be damned if I didn’t tell what I know now. You see, Rose wasn’t the only one. There was Martine as well.”
“Was she also a nun?”
“No, Martine was the daughter of the cobbler. She was a beautiful young girl who spent a lot of time in church, praying for her sins, although I can’t imagine what sins a pious fourteen-year-old might have had other than nursing a secret love for the handsome priest. She died in childbirth before her fifteenth birthday, the child with her. Everyone believed the child to be Father Marc’s.” Berenice took another sip of beer, obviously distressed by the memories of that time, and the injustice of young girls dying in shame while the priest escaped unscathed, protected by his powerful father and the Church.
“What happened to Father Marc after Rose died?” Alec asked.
“Father Marc left shortly after. He’s a cardinal in Paris now, but he comes to Loudon all the time. He still visits the convent, and he always took a particular interest in Genevieve.”
“Thank you, Madame Jarnot. You’ve been truly helpful. I’m glad that things worked out well for you.” Alec took a slice of bread, spreading a thick layer of pate. He seemed suddenly hungry after days of hardly eating anything.
“I’ve made a good life for myself here, for that I am grateful. It gladdens my heart to see that Genevieve finally found her family and has someone to look after her interests and welfare. She was such a lonely child. I would have gladly adopted her myself had Father Marc allowed it, but I suppose I’d be the last person on Earth
he’d want as a guardian for Genevieve. I know too much.”
Berenice moved the plate of cheese toward Alec, glad to see him eating. She seemed like the kind of woman who got pleasure from feeding others, equating food with love. Alec gratefully took a piece of cheese, chewing thoughtfully as he considered the next step. This was a bitter-sweet victory, finding answers that only led to more questions and renewed feelings of guilt and pain, but at least he now had something to go on.
Madame Jarnot placed her palms squarely on the table, leaning in and rising from the bench reluctantly, ready to return to her chores. She’d told them all she could, and the relief of having shared her suspicions after all these years was obvious in her face.
“Thank you again, Madame Jarnot,” Alec said, shaking her hand as she walked them to the waiting carriage.
“What will you do now, Monsieur?” she asked, brushing a stray lock out of her face as the wind picked up, moving the trees above their head with a sudden force.
“The only thing I can do — find Father Marc and make him pay for his sins.” Alec handed Valerie into the carriage, giving Berenice Jarnot a final wave as the carriage rolled away, swaying in the gathering wind.
September 1777
Staten Island
Chapter 56
The room was bathed in the soft light of an autumn afternoon, surprisingly cool and airy as both windows were open to allow for ventilation. Several cots were set against the walls, spaced with geometrical precision, and neatly made. They were all unoccupied, except for the one closest to the window. The man on the far side lay silently, his form unmoving; his arms folded over his stomach as if laid out for burial; the even rise and fall of his chest the only sign of life.
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