Jamie’s house was tucked into a leafy corner at the end of a curving street. Built in the 17th century, it had only been in Jamie’s family since his grandfather had purchased it from an impoverished widow, shortly after WWII. It had been shabbily genteel at that point, but its exquisite bones had been restored with love, good taste and money. It retained the soul of a house built during the Golden Age, however, with organic flowing curves and gilded surfaces. If one was very quiet, one could hear the ghostly echo of gold-encrusted coaches rattling past on the cobbled streets, sense the flutter of ancient love affairs conducted in walled gardens, hear the rustle of pale satins and breezy muslins, smell a waft of poudre de mille fleurs borne aloft on a drift of coquettish laughter, and sense the terrible fear that must have gripped the entire city when the Revolution came to tear down the structures of society that had held the aristocracy immutably in place for hundreds of years.
The house itself was pure magic. It was just that sort of house where it was hard to say if the enchantment had been hanging there in the air waiting for the right pair of hands to build it, or if the hands themselves were enchanted that pulled this house out of the airy realm and into that of blueprints, stone and wood, angles and load-bearing walls and trusses, of glass and wrought iron twisted into the shapes of fantastical and grotesque beasts, of steps that went up and then down, that twisted round corners and into nooks, of broad stone sills where a grown person might sit cosily with a book or press a palm to a frosted window pane, hidden behind heavy draperies. Here one could picture a woman waiting for a lover, gazing down at the avenue of lime trees from the octagonal window in the upstairs bedroom. Bare vines rattled against the windows in the November wind, but in the summer their greenery would press against the windows, bringing the outdoors in, making the house seem even more a part of its landscape.
Pamela sat at the desk in the study and watched the sunset lay its water paints over the canvas of bare lime branches and snow, softening the rough trunks and spilling down the twisting drive. It was very peaceful here, so beautifully tucked away that it was hard to believe all Paris was out there, only a brisk walk in the snow and falling light. The twilight stole in softly, pooling on the floor, curling upon the carpets like feline spirals of heavy smoke, slipping over the delicate lip of her teacup and turning its amber contents garnet. It solidified as though smoke took form and sat upon the chairs in ancient costume; waistcoat and brass buttons, silk stockings and embroidered satin. A tendril of twilight slipped off, trailing its finger along her spine, a shiver spreading out in its wake as though a ghost stood behind her and touched her through the veil of two hundred years.
Madame Felicie, the housekeeper in residence, called her for dinner, and she was swiftly returned to the solid world with a dose of hearty Provençal cooking, a beef stew flavored with thyme, garlic, peppercorns and red wine, the latter also in a bottle upon the table, scenting the air with earthy notes. She asked Madame Felicie to eat with her and the woman, after a shrewdly assessing look, acquiesced.
“Have you lived here for long?” Pamela asked, after consuming two full bowls of stew and drinking a glass of the exquisite red wine. No one could ever fault Jamie on the quality of his wine cellars.
“Yes, for a very long time now, Madame. I hardly remember living anywhere else.” The woman laid her work-roughened hands on the table, her lined face troubled.
“I think there are things you have come to search out, Madame, and there are things here that Monsieur left in my care, should you come. I would like you to be comfortable, for the story is not a short one nor entirely easy.”
Pamela poured them each another glass of wine, feeling the fortification was going to be necessary. Around them, the house seemed to sigh as if it had been waiting for this tale as well. The delft tiles gleamed from behind the stone sink and the wavy thickset glass in the windows reflected back the pleasant surroundings.
“I have to go back a bit. You will understand that stories are complicated beasts with many tentacles and when they are true stories, it is only more complicated.”
Pamela nodded to encourage the woman.
“This house originally belonged to Jamie’s grand-père. He bought it for the woman he loved. It was their time out of the world, vous comprenez?”
“Yes, I understand.” It was, of course, Yevgena of whom Madame Felicie spoke.
“To begin with, Jamie’s grand-père was my employer. He hired me for several reasons but the most important one is that I was a nurse. Perhaps just as important was my ability to keep secrets.”
Pamela had a sudden foreboding that this story was one of those kind that changed the constructs of the universe, that once heard it could not be unheard, and one could not go back to the former innocence of the world one had lived in before. She bit back the urge to tell the woman to stop, not to tell this tale, to leave her in her innocence concerning things she could not change. But it was too late for that.
“When Jamie was born, it was not, as you believe, a single birth. The other details of his birth are true, that he was born at home to two parents who loved him, but were not perhaps best fitted for such a gifted boy. But there was also a twin sister, born three minutes after him. She too was lovely physically, but she was not gifted in the ways that her brother was and still is. It was as if the universe, feeling that it had endowed the brother with such gifts, was seeking to balance things by giving the sister none. She was like a beautiful vase without flowers, if you understand my meaning.”
“I understand,” Pamela said through lips that were numb with shock. “Please continue.”
“This, of course, is where my part in the story begins. They spirited her away to Paris after the birth. They were an old family, and it was how such things were often managed in such families. Certainly they were not the first to hide a child away. I think Jamie’s grand-père knew that his son and wife were hardly fit to raise the whole child they had, never mind one that had nothing of wholeness about her. So I was hired and I came here to live in this house with Adele. She was not a difficult child, though now and again we would have some very hard days.” She sighed, hands brushing over the worn table, as though she could clear away the long usage and turn it to a glass that would show Pamela the past.
“They did not tell Jamie of his twin, but he was a curious and very determined young man, and one way or another, when he was sixteen he found out, and so he came here to see her on his own. He was so angry—oh, the fight he had with his grand-père, I thought the roof would come down around our ears before they ceased—it was, what is the saying, ‘anvil and tongs’?”
“’Hammer and tongs’,” Pamela supplied. She had rarely seen Jamie angry but on the occasions that he had been, it was a very unpleasant experience.
“Just so, ‘hammer and tongs’. For Adele, he was never anything but loving and gentle. You will know his grand-mère—his mother’s mother?”
“Yes, I know her.”
“She would come over for a few months each year, and take care of Adele while I went home to Provençe or on holiday and sorted out the affairs of my own life. When Monsieur Jamie visited here he would look after her with such love. I swear there was a light inside her when he was around that did not turn on when he was absent. I think she knew he was the other half, the whole of their particular equation.”
“Once I looked out and they were in the back garden, the two of them. Adele was laughing. It was a strange noise, almost rusty sounding, for I never heard her laugh but for when Monsieur Jamie was with her. On this particular day, the weather was very warm as it sometimes is in Paris in the spring. There were cherry blossoms everywhere, like a snowstorm outside, and Jamie was holding her up so that she might feel the sun on her face. She had that beautiful golden hair just as Monsieur and his grand-père had, and it was filled with petals.” She took a deep breath and pressed her fingers to her eyes. “I did n
ot have children of my own. Adele was my child. I loved her so very much and I only hope that she knew it somehow.”
“I’m sure she did,” Pamela meant the words, for the very house around her was the sort of home in which love had been so long fostered that it had grown of its own accord. She knew such houses, for she lived in one herself.
“Though Adele was in so many ways his opposite, like Monsieur Jamie, animals and insects found her most attractive. You will have witnessed this with Monsieur, no doubt.”
She nodded. She had seen his way with horses, with children, how if he stood still in the garden for more than a few minutes, the butterflies would land on his head and arms, the foxes would come and sit near him without fear, and deer, shy and beautiful, would take food right out of his hand.
“Once he said to me, Madame Felicie you must not worry about Adele, for this is only her body. The rest of her was stolen away by the fairies when we were born. She was so perfect they had to have her for themselves and so they took her, and left me behind. Some day they will come for her body too and she will dance in marble halls and know neither pain nor fear ever again.” Madame Felicie shook her head. “Poor Jamie, to have such gifts and feel that one does not deserve them. The universe, as you know, has seen fit to make him pay dearly for those gifts.”
“Where is Adele now, Madame Felicie?” Pamela asked, though she thought she knew the answer. It was lingering in the very air around them. It was, perhaps, the ghost whose touch she had felt earlier.
“She died just over three years ago, Madame. It was pneumonia; her lungs had never been strong. Monsieur Jamie was with her at the end. As much as she was capable of love, she loved him. There was no better hand to hold hers than his, this he knew.”
Pamela reached across the table and took the woman’s hands in her own. “I’m sorry you lost her but I am certain she knew she was well loved.”
“She was an angel, and angels are not meant long for this world of ours. So we must love them as they pass us and thank the Lord for the blessing, however brief.”
“Do you have any pictures of her?”
“Of course, Madame. I will fetch some.”
Madame Felicie left the kitchen, returning moments later with a photo album bound in pale lavender silk, silver embroidery looping around its worn edges.
The first ones where black and white, a tiny girl in pale-colored pinafores, slight and delicate as a fairy, with a terrible vacant stare. Then slowly she began to grow, and became adolescent, still slight, but tall, as though she would fold up to nothing. The color photos, when they came were startling. She gasped aloud, a thin ache under her heart like a cut from a knife.
“The resemblance is startling, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it is.” There it was, the beautiful golden hair, the slanted green eyes, the profile that was carved, it seemed, with especial care and love by a Master. And yet… and yet, there was that terrible vacancy in the face whereas Jamie’s face was always animated by laughter, by the lift of a sardonic brow, by a supple grace that imbued his every movement and word.
There were a couple of photos of Adele with her grandfather. Jamie and Adele looked a great deal like him. He had been a beautiful man even well past his middle years.
The last four pages of the album were mostly of Adele with her brother, her twin, the golden side of their mutual coin. Jamie always had his arm around her and Adele was often looking up at him, not at the camera. The photos were a little eerie, as though one was truly looking at one person who had been split into two. Jamie’s ease with the girl who had been his twin was apparent, and she felt a sharp pang of longing for his presence.
“Madame Felicie, how does this connect to the reason I am in Paris?”
The woman stood and took an envelope from the pocket of her capacious apron.
“I believe I will let Monsieur Jamie tell you himself.”
Pamela took the letter to the study, still numb with the revelations of the last hour. She went to the desk where she had sat contemplating the grounds earlier and opened the pale grey envelope. There was no letterhead, for Jamie did not like formality with his personal correspondence. She smiled to see his writing across the page, his hand which managed to be precise and sprawling at the same time. She could see him, golden head bent over the paper, measuring his words and writing quickly in one sitting as was his way.
Dear Pamela,
You will know about Adele now and be wondering how this connects to everything else that is going on. The answer is that I don’t entirely know. But if you’re here now reading this letter, it means it does connect and is important. I do not want my secrets used as a weapon against you. However, I fear that is what may happen. I wanted to tell you about Adele but it never seemed like the right time and I didn’t want the knowledge of it to burden you.
Some time ago, I discovered that Lucien Broughton and I share a birthdate—same day, same year, born only minutes apart. I was born in my home, he was born in a home for unwed mothers. Adele was recorded as having died only moments after birth. This of course is not true, but no one was to ever know that. I think the Reverend believes that he was the twin that died that day. Of course, that is not true in any way, but it is what he believes. Why is the mystery. Beyond sharing a birthdate and a geographical location, there is no reason for him to think he is my twin. I don’t know enough of his life to guess what lies at the bottom of all this but I understand that he believes it to be true. He thinks that I have stolen his birthright and sees himself as Fortune’s outcast.
For a long time, because I was young, I saw Adele’s life as a tragedy, and because she was my twin I felt that I had stolen from her, taken the life she might have led. I will tell you this, however, she was mostly happy in her own way and her life was a blessing, as most lives are. I loved her, and for me that was a gift beyond price. She taught me that there is more than one meaning to life for there are as many meanings as there are individual lives.
It was as though she was a princess, her body the glass coffin in the fairytale, her spirit roving elsewhere, crossed over into a far land to which mere mortals did not have access. When I first found her I wanted to bring her home, to have her live at Kirkpatrick’s Folly as was her birthright and so that she might reside in the heart of a family. This was not to be, as you know, and Felicie showed me long ago that Adele was better off in the Paris house where she had always been and things were familiar to her, where she had her routines and touchstones.
Felicie was right, for there was a strange contentment at Adele’s core. Perhaps that was her half of the deal, to have that peace while I took the darkness in exchange for all the other things the universe bestowed. My grandfather told me once that the universe always seeks balance and it seems to be true, as tip-tilty as the world is at times.
If you have to reveal the truth about my sister, then it will have to be. After all, the world cannot hurt her now.
Do what you must with this knowledge, Pamela, and know that you have my blessing as your judgement in this matter is also mine.
Love,
Jamie
She sat for a long time after reading the letter, hearing the soft tick of the clock and the creak of the house around her. She was tired but knew sleep would not come easily tonight. Jamie was right, the world could no longer hurt Adele, but it could still hurt Jamie, a fact of which she was all too painfully aware. Sometimes it felt as though Jamie’s world was one of mirrors and the further one advanced into said world the more distorted and shifty the parameters became. How he had managed for so long to keep the many parts of his life separate and balanced was beyond her imagining.
Much later she made her way upstairs to the bedroom that Madame Felicie had prepared for her. It was a beautiful room, well proportioned, with a set of three stairs that led up to a sitting room of windows and comfortable chairs as
well as a daintily appointed vanity filled with her perfumes and creams.
She changed into her nightgown, cleaned her face and teeth, and brushed out her hair.
The bed was like a scalloped shell, mother of pearl inlaid into the base, the curtains in hazy shades of blue and grey with hints of pearled lavender and moonlit green. The sheets were fresh and matched the bed hangings and were, of course, the finest grade of Kirkpatrick linen. The pillows were heaped high, and when she leaned back into them they released the sweet scent of lime water. Madame Felicie was a housekeeper that missed no detail.
She had brought books up from the downstairs study, for she rarely fell asleep without the panacea of a story, as soothing to her as a sleep potion. Some in English, some in French, for she had been well enough schooled in the latter to read fluently. But even the delights of reading the letters of Madame Sevigne in the very neighborhood in which she had lived could not hold her attention. Her mind’s eye held only the photos of Adele and Jamie, of that strange vacant face which was, like the empty vase that Madame Felicie had compared it to, still a thing of beauty.
The bed was high and she could snuggle deep into the heavy quilts and still see out into the garden. The moon was low, soon to set. It washed the bare lime branches with a soft gilt, tilting over the stone walls, sifting thick in the piles of ivy. It was a beautiful night, clarified in the cold so that the old world hung there visible in the arms of the new.
Flights of Angels (Exit Unicorns Series Book 3) Page 64