by Kailin Gow
And Aaron had shown his noble side when Kristine had tried to drag him into a sorted affair. Despite the wanton way Kristine had thrown me at him, he hadn’t taken advantage of the situation.
The image of Chace’s boyish grin came to mind and I smiled. The way he’d forgiven me for the pain Kristine had caused him was proof of his true nature. It was a wonder he’d remained so kind and generous after his encounter with Aaron, but he’d come out of it even more caring and giving.
“I’m not sure what I feel anymore,” I finally said.
“My dear, before you do anything, make sure you truly know where your feelings lie. Getting out now might hurt Aaron’s feelings, but he’ll get over it. He’s a big boy and he’ll surely see the wisdom of your actions. If you wait until after you're wed, the consequences of your mixed emotions could be unpleasant… to say the least.”
“I understand.”
“Of course if you should realize that Aaron is the man you want, I’ll be more than happy, but take the time to discover what attracts you to either man.”
A long and relieved sigh escaped me as I pulled my hands away. I quickly glanced at her to see if she’d noticed how relieved I truly felt.
“Knowing you're doing the right thing lightens the conscience,” she said knowingly.
With a tug that lifted the karats off my fingers as well as lifting a ton of responsibility from my heart, I pulled the extravagant ring off my finger and held it out to Francoise. “I think it is best I give it to you rather than Aaron. I’m not sure how he would react were I to…”
“I understand perfectly.” Her fingers wrapped around the jewel.
“This isn’t a rejection of Aaron’s proposal. I’m just not ready. I’m still too young and this is such a huge decision.”
“Despite your youth, you're a very wise young lady. While I know of the adoration Aaron holds for you and I know this will come as a blow, we’re all adults. Affairs of the heart don’t always work out like we want them to and when we want them to. Should you one day realize that Aaron is indeed the man you want to spend the rest of your life with, then you can move forward and consider the possibilities of a great future together. Of course your timing may not be in keeping with Aaron’s. You must remember that.”
Though I knew she was right, I felt a sob work its way up my throat.
“I appreciate your tears for my son, my dear. It’s quite evident that you are a loving and caring young woman who wishes to hurt no one. You can’t be faulted for being confused. He’s quite a charmer.”
I gazed at her through bleary eyes.
“Eric,” she said matter-of-factly. A mischievous smile crept up to her dry lips. “He even had an old woman like me falling under his spell.”
The mention of his name sent a shock of electricity through me. Would he ever cease to affect me so? Knowing he was upstairs was unsettling and I suddenly felt jittery and nervous.
“Madame Aragon.” I swiped my hand across my tear-streaked cheeks and tried to put on a smile. “I was hoping to take this time in France to find out more about my family.”
“Oh?”
“My mother grew up in an orphanage in Paris. I’d like to go see it. Perhaps wander the streets that had been home to her.”
With the efficiency of a worldly business woman, Francoise led me to her spacious office and helped me locate the orphanage.
“I’ll have Stephan drive you wherever you feel the need to go.”
“I don’t know how to thank you.”
She was being so incredibly generous. In the short time I’d been with her I felt a kinship to her that was undeniable. “You’re truly a remarkable woman, Madame Aragon.”
“It’s important you find answers, Annette. I think your quest for who you are will be enlightening and you’ll then be able to come to a decision. Though I may not like that decision, I will respect it.”
As we strode through the hall that led to the front door, I gazed at the stairs that led up to Eric’s bedroom.
“Don’t worry about the boys,” Francoise said. “I’ll keep them busy. I think it could do them some good to get to know one another. After all, they have so much in common.”
Chapter 19
Coming upon the orphanage, I was struck with a series of intense emotions for being in the very place my mother had spent her childhood. Sadness filled me as I walked into the bleak building where no child should have to grow up. The stories she’d told me about her time here came quickly to my mind. How she’d learned to sew with her best friend Roberta. How cold the winters could be. The old boots with holes in them – when they had boots.
Guilt for what I’d had added to the sadness. Thinking back to my easy and carefree childhood, I appreciated all the more what my mother had been able to give me. Despite coming from a place of hardship, she knew how to give me everything a little girl needed.
It was difficult controlling the tears that continually tried to work their way to my eyes. But when it came time to persuading the office clerk to give me access to my mother’s records, the tears flowed freely and were instrumental in convincing her of my need to learn about my mother’s past.
The records gave little details and there wasn’t enough for me to tie the lines between Kristine and myself. I stared at the old yellowed pages in disbelief. Maman had been left here by Therese Forcier. Stapled to the page was a police report. Her grandfather Omer Forcier was well known by the police, often getting into trouble with the law for minor offenses.
I had Stephan drive me to l’Hotel de Ville where I was able to find that Omer had been born in Vincennes. Minutes later I was walking up the steps of an old and crumbling church.
Every step told me I was getting closer to the answers I wanted. When I put my hand to the door an unexpected scent suddenly came to my nostrils. I stopped, the odor was so violent.
Logic told me it was simply the musty scent of age. Old stones, moldy wood, damp tapestries. But fear, much as I had sensed my first days at the Met, left me standing at the threshold, frozen in place.
“You’ve come all this way,” I muttered. “Might as well get what you came for.” As I pulled the door back, the stale air almost overwhelmed me. The church doors must have been tightly closed for years to keep captive such a pungent odor. The rush of a breeze behind me left me just enough air to breathe.
I gripped the cross at my neck and stepped inside.
“Can I help you?”
Startled, I turned to the unexpected voice of a young woman. Startled further by the pale face and wide catatonic eyes, I took a step back. “I…” Shaking my head I tried to gather my thoughts. The sight of her rattled me. “I was hoping to find the baptism records of Omer Forcier.”
“We haven’t done baptisms here in almost a hundred years.”
“That’s perfect,” I said. “This would have been around the turn of the century.”
“Forcier, vous dites?”
“Oui.” I felt a glimmer of hope.
With a somber nod she led me down the narrow aisle towards the altar and turned to the left to a dim passageway. Remnants of old stained glass windows lit the hall with intermittent bursts of bright colors. The odor that had greeted me intensified.
“What remains of the archives we have is in here,” she said as she pushed back a door. The small room had a narrow counter on one side with floor to ceiling shelves on the other. Filled with old record books and a few Bibles the shelves strained under the weight of so many books.
I entered the small room and before I could turn to thank her, she’d disappeared. Shrugging off the strange chill she left me with, I scanned the shelf for the Fs.
My heart raced as I set the book on the narrow counter and flipped through the pages.
Forcier. There were over a dozen entries.
Omer Forcier.
There he was. Fils de Pierre et Marie-Anne Forcier.
Now what? One more generation and I should find Kristine.
While I w
as able to find the parents of Pierre Forcier, I couldn’t find the tie to Kristine. Discouraged, tired and dizzy from the stagnant air I left the small room.
“Find what you were looking for?”
Again the young woman startled me enough to have me leaping. “No,” I said. “Well, yes… and no. I was hoping to trace my family tree a little further back, but I’ve hit a wall.”
Shadowed in the corner she stood watching me.
All I could make out was a dim gleam in her eyes and her hands gripping the skirt of her long dress. While I’d originally thought it a robe, I could now see it was a dress from another era.
“Who in particular are you looking for?” Her voice was dead and cold.
A strong desire to run suddenly came over me, but I swallowed it down.
“The archives only have births and deaths,” she went on. “In the basement are books, notes and clippings about many of the residents of Vincennes.”
“Oh.” Intrigued yet unwilling to follow her to a basement, I stared and waited.
“I think you’ll find what you’re looking for.” Her hand reached out of the darkness and pressed against the door beside her. Heavy and reluctant to open, the door creaked and groaned, but the bony hand persisted.
My eyes remained on the white hand and the black hole beyond. Every hair on my body stood on alert and my breath came out in thick visible clouds.
“Pay particular attention to clippings about Narcisse et Herminie de Saintonges. I think you’ll find them interesting.”
Curiosity killed the cat. Curiosity killed the cat. The phrase repeatedly ran through my head. I had to know. I was scared. I’d regret leaving here without having combed through everything. I might regret taking a step down those stairs. My feet carried me to the threshold before I’d even given the order. Cool air rose to my face and the humidity left my skin damp.
Was I really going to do this?
Three steps in and the gloom gave way to a hint of red light at the bottom. Cobwebs and dust covered books, desks and chairs that had not been used in decades.
How was I supposed to sort all this out and find Narcisse and Herminie?
Blindly and with no direction, I rummaged through the desk, tossing aside a series of useless newspaper articles. Then I hit a bundle of clippings, letters and legal notices made out to the name of Narcisse Forcier.
My meager understanding of written French was going to be put to the test. Everything was in French and much of it was handwritten, but I could make out the meaning of the majority of the documents.
The first I came upon was an engagement notice. It was clipped to a yellowed wedding photo. Narcisse had a proud smile under his thick mustache while Herminie was delicate and shy.
I opened a bundle of letters and latched onto every word I could understand. Herminie had elegant penmanship and wrote with a pleasant flourish. Love was mentioned repeatedly and words referring to loneliness were prominent. It appeared Narcisse worked out of town and only saw Herminie occasionally. She worked for a wealthy family and they often treated her shabbily, adding to her loneliness.
Then there was the mention of a pregnancy. Sorrow, regret and pain all surrounded the announcement. Money was short and a new mouth to feed only exacerbated the situation.
With an urgent desire to know more, I scanned page after page, looking for hints and clues to who these people were.
Finally I came upon the birth of the baby – a girl.
A girl!
My breath stayed in my lungs as I quickly scanned the rest of the page. The birth of her daughter had brought Herminie to consider leaving her position at the manor and returning to her home.
Another page. Two days after the birth, Narcisse was in prison for having fatally struck Mathurin Aragon in a brawl. Herminie was distraught and life at the wealthy manor had become unbearable.
My eyes returned to the name. Aragon. Did that family affect everyone in and around Paris? Why was it so prevalent in the life of Kristine? But even as I questioned this, I felt I’d seen the name on other pages. With my concentration focused on Narcisse and Herminie, I’d passed over it without pause.
I turned another page. Found guilty of murder, Narcisse was to be hung.
Grimacing, I thought of Herminie’s heartache. A young bride. A young mother. An intolerable employer. Little money… and now to resign herself to the notion of soon becoming a young widow.
Another page.
There it was!
Preceded with words such as love, beauty, sweet and delight came the word I’d been searching – Kristine. This was indeed her life I held in my hands.
Herminie loved her daughter and spent every moment with her. The child was a delight and brought a ray of sunshine to the most dreary of days. Tiny bright blond curls, an easy smile and a disposition that charmed everyone who met her.
However, little Kristine would never meet her father.
Before her first birthday Narcisse was hung. He was only twenty-three.
I was overwhelmed with a sudden sadness. What a dreadful way to start a life.
My sympathy for the little girl Kristine had been turned to confusion with the next letter.
The letters that had up until now had been addressed to Narcisse were now addressed to Mathurin.
My God. I choked and felt sick.
Filled with love, passion and a clear sense of victory, Herminie spoke only of the future she dreamed of having with Mathurin. If Kristine was mentioned at all, it was as an afterthought. The little girl now seemed to be a burden on Herminie.
The pages flew through my hands with increased speed, desperate to find what had happened to the little girl. Then the letters stopped.
An article mentioning Kristine’s arrival on the Paris stage was tied to another bundle of pages. I was missing the bulk of her childhood.
Feeling like I’d never understand the mystery of Kristine, I pulled the string and released the bundle of clippings. Photos, praise, accolades and prizes. She was the darling of the opera scene and was adored by all.
So beautiful, all men craved her. A delight to befriend, she was well-liked by the women of high society. Her youth drew out their protective instincts, while her wisdom and talent drew their respect and admiration.
Then a full page article showed a picture of the young starlet looking less than happy, and the headline explained why.
Kristine, fille d’un meurtrier.
The article spelled out everything.
The mystery of the opera’s latest star is finally revealed. Kristine has not spent the past seven years in a boarding school as she’s claimed. She has been living on the outskirts of Paris with her mother Herminie.
The widower who was once a young maid to the Aragon manor had claimed to have raised Kristine alone after the execution of her husband, Narcisse Forcier, but it appears a step-father has had a hand in raising the bubbly little girl.
Mathurin, thought to have died at the hands of Narcisse has been secretly living with Herminie all the time. The police have been called to the residence several times to calm quarrels between Herminie and Mathurin, but of late it has been Kristine who has caused some uproar.
Having learned of the circumstances surrounding her father’s execution, Kristine has repeatedly tried to kill the man Narcisse was accused of murdering.
The article was clipped to a number of smaller articles in which Kristine fervently denied the accusations. And though she was ultimately found innocent, her career took a stumble. It would take years before she could regain the public’s love and trust.
I set the page down and stared into the gloom. From all sides, Kristine had so many reasons to hate the Aragons.
Chapter 20
I walked out the back entrance of the church and stepped through the low gate into the cemetery. A thin layer of snow covered the ground in patches. Weeds sprouted out around the majority of gravestones. The day was growing old and a damp chill clung to the ground. Large trees shaded th
e last glimmers of the sun, leaving portions of the cemetery in premature darkness. I pulled my coat tightly around me and sought out Kristine’s stone.
The cemetery was relatively small and finding Kristine should have been easy. But many of the gravestones were faded or stained. Barely legible, the engravings had worn down with time. To a large extent, they all resembled one another.
I turned around, my eyes quickly passing over the nearby headstones then skimming over the rows that went on and on. Suddenly the small cemetery didn’t seem so small. The wind brought a new chill. Perhaps I should return the following morning. My eyes couldn’t focus, whether due to the dimming light or from fatigue it was hard to tell. Or was it the thought of searching through a cemetery at dusk that had me bleary-eyed?
Shaking it off, I scrunched down to try to read the stone in front of me. I pushed aside the weeds which only exposed more faded engravings.
A short faint sound had me bolting to my feet. Several birds fluttered around, but that didn’t explain the odd sound; like metal hitting stone. As though in answer to my questions, the sound came again.
Stepping towards the next row, I noticed movement several rows ahead. At the far end of the cemetery I could make out the shadow of a man. Knelt before a stone, his head was low, though he appeared not in prayer. Respectfully and quietly I approached.
“I’m sorry for all the pain I’ve caused you.”
The man’s voice was deep and clear… and familiar.
“It’s time we move on. You must move on. I know I now need to start a new life.”
“Eric?”
He rose and turned to me. His fingers fidgeted around the stem of a pretty yellow rose a moment before his lips curved into a timid smile. He set the rose on the tombstone. “I had a feeling you might come here.”
My heart tried to understand what he was doing there. Why would he want to see Kristine? I glanced at the stone. Though somewhat faded, her name could be clearly read. A new shiver took over me, bringing a wave of nausea with it. Being here, at her burial place… it was surreal.