by Rose, M. J.
We climbed a still-intact stone staircase. It was in the second upstairs room I visited, that I guessed had been a nursery because of the two small-sized bed frames and wooden cradle, where I first became aware of the scent. The smell of the briny sea air that filled the castle was suddenly replaced by the aroma of smoke and sweet incense. Had someone come in? I turned around. No, I was alone.
I looked at the fireplace, half expecting to see a fire burning. But there was nothing except dust in the hearth. There was simply no explanation at all for the perfume.
In my exasperation, I called out to the connétable.
Trent and one of his men came running.
“Did you find something?” Trent asked.
I shook my head. “Do you smell that scent? Someone has been here recently.”
The men sniffed the air. Nodded. “I smell flowers,” Trent said.
The other said, “Smells like a fire,” then sniffed again.
But there were no flowers and no blaze. So where was the aroma coming from? The room was an ordinary rectangle with but a single door and two long casement windows. The walls were empty save for a large tapestry that had slipped and hung at an awkward angle.
This one was as decrepit as those we’d seen downstairs.
Could something be behind it? A child hiding?
I pushed it aside. Fabric disintegrated at my touch and fell at my feet. There was in fact something behind it. Not a child but a doorway.
Holding my breath, I opened it.
It was a simple closet. And it was empty.
Carefully I ran my hands over the walls, examining them, searching for hidden panels.
“Is anything there?” Trent asked.
“Nothing,” I said. As I turned to go, I happened to glance down and notice the trapdoor incised in the wooden planks. A metal ring nestled in a depression made to hold it. I tried to pull it up, but it appeared too rusted to move.
“Give me a hand,” I said to Trent.
Using his knife, he was able to pry the ring up. I held my breath as he pulled the door open. Together we peered in. There was nothing but dust and the bones of some vermin inside. Rats, I thought from their size.
“We might as well move on,” Trent said, after the disappointing revelation. “There’s nothing here.”
He and the other policeman walked out, but I remained behind. I was still confounded by that scent. Where was it coming from?
I walked around the perimeter of the room once more, examining the stone wall, pressing here and there and trying to find a second hiding place. I didn’t find anything. When I got to the fireplace I stopped and sniffed once more.
Was it my imagination or was the scent slightly stronger here?
It must have taken huge fires to warm these rooms and chase away the damp, so it was no wonder the hearths in the castle were oversize compared to those we had at Marine Terrace or in Le Havre. I actually was able to walk inside the fireplace opening without stooping. Bending down, I touched the iron cradle positioned over the ash box. It was covered with cinders and cold.
How long ago had the last fire burned here? Who had lit it? Had it been decades or centuries? Or was my romanticism getting the best of me? It might have been last week when boys camping out here had roasted themselves some dinner.
Looking up the long chute, I glimpsed a sliver of sky so blue and vibrant compared to the gloomy rooms, it cheered me for an instant. That’s when I realized the scent of smoke and incense was in fact more pronounced here than it had been anywhere else in the room.
The stones inside the fireplace rose straight up for a meter and then stepped back. It was a curious design, and I didn’t understand why it would have been built like that. As I walked around the ash box to better examine the back wall, I dislodged the dregs of that last fire. Puffs of black dust caught the draft and swam in the air. I coughed and rubbed the dust out of my eyes. Able to see again, I shone my torch on the right wall. Then the left.
What I saw wasn’t visible when you stood outside and looked in. Like the back and the right wall, this one rose a meter and then stepped back. Beyond it was a riser and then another tread. It was a stone staircase leading down, presumably to the ground floor and then perhaps deep into the castle’s underbelly.
I did not hesitate and descended, following the scent, ten steps, then twenty, then forty and sixty until at eighty-five I reached the bottom and found myself opposite a heavy wooden door that opened with only a modicum of difficulty.
Inside was a surprisingly uncorrupted room almost untouched by the rot and damp that had ruined so much of the furnishings in the rest of the castle. The tapestries on these walls were still intact, unharmed by moths or mice. Each of the four was a different view of the same garden with animals, including unicorns and phoenix, frolicking with a group of young children. The foregrounds were filled with plants and flowers, many of which I’d never seen before. These tapestries were fine pieces of art, as well made as any I’d seen in Paris museums.
So taken was I with the sight of them, it took me a moment to realize that I’d found the source of the smell I’d been following. The scent emanated from these fabric blossoms and blooms.
Impossible, but true.
I was inhaling smoke and incense, roses and hyacinth and jasmine and something else I couldn’t catch hold of. How was this possible? The longer I stood there, the more confused I became, until I began to wonder if I was getting drunk on the aroma.
I was tired—but shouldn’t I have been? I hadn’t slept the night before. And I was slightly dizzy. But I hadn’t eaten except for an apple Trent had given me that morning. And I’d just climbed down four flights of stairs.
A dog barked. The sound had come from the right. I turned. The tapestry featured a group of canine creatures romping near a waterfall. I heard the barking again. It seemed to be coming from a large black dog who was closer to the size of a goat. He was looking out at me with topaz eyes that seemed to glow. Not with malevolence but intelligence.
My exhaustion and desperation must be affecting my imagination, I thought. I could still feel the grit in my eyes. Maybe it was affecting my vision. I rubbed my eyes once more and then opened them and stared at the tapestry. Now there was a child with the large dog. A little girl with blond hair. She hadn’t been in the scene a moment ago. Or had she?
I shut my eyes. Counted to five. Opened them.
The child wasn’t playing anymore. Now she was crying in pain and reaching out to me. There was a wound on her arm that could have been a dog bite. It dripped blood. Twigs and leaves were tangled in the child’s hair. She had a nasty scratch across her cheek.
I didn’t stop to think. If I had I would have questioned my sanity. I simply raised my arms, reached out to the silken creature and offered her my hands.
Her fingers were not thread but flesh and felt warm in mine.
The dog barked again. Was he warning me? Saying good-bye to her?
“Hold on tight,” I said to the child and then pulled her out of the tapestry and into the room. The effort and release caused me to fall backward. I went sprawling and she fell on top of me.
Her blood was wet on my hands. I had to do something to stop her bleeding. She was pale and her breathing was shallow. The child was in serious danger.
Don’t interfere.
I didn’t hear the voice as much as sense it, almost the same way I did at the séances.
Let her go.
I recognized the voice but couldn’t stop now to question it. The child’s wound had to be tended to. Taking off my jacket, I made it into a pillow and put it under the girl’s head. Then I used my vest to apply pressure to her wound.
This is the chance I said I would give you. Let her go, Hugo. Let the child go.
I didn’t understand what he meant. All my energy was focused on saving Lilly.
Ego misplaced is an opportunity lost. You’re waging a war against the wrong angel.
I kept the pressure against t
he wound.
This is what I am offering you. Don’t you understand? Don’t you want your daughter back?
“Hugo? Are you there?” It was Trent calling from above.
“Yes, but I need help. Quickly. Down here.”
“We’re coming.”
The dog growled and kept growling until the men arrived.
“Oh my lord, is she all right?” Trent asked as he rushed over and knelt down beside us.
“I think she will be,” I said.
“Let me look.” He bent over her, taking charge. I was glad to be relieved of the responsibility. Surely the head of the police force would be better equipped to deal with a medical emergency than I was.
The shouts echoed up the stairs and beyond.
“She’s all right.”
“Hugo’s got her.”
“Hugo found Lilly.”
A roar went through the castle as the news reached all the men.
After a few long, long minutes, Lilly opened her eyes. She looked first at Trent and then at me. She appeared confused, unsure of where she was or what had happened to her. But not in very much pain. She was a stoic child and didn’t whimper or cry but let Trent inspect her wound, take her pulse and listen to her heart.
We were interrupted by heavy footsteps clattering on the steps as the fishmonger came rushing into the room. He uttered a short exclamation of joy and then knelt down by Lilly’s side. Looked at her, touched her hair gently, then gathered the little girl in his arms. He murmured to her, a string of questions that he probably didn’t expect her to answer.
“Are you all right, Lilly? What happened? How did you get here? We were so afraid.”
She buried her head in his chest and her little back shook as she wept, finally letting go now that she was safe in her father’s arms.
Once Trent had checked again and was sure that the bleeding had stopped, he told the fishmonger he could take Lilly home.
Both of us watched them leave.
“Well done, Monsieur Hugo,” Trent said. “We can go now too. I’m sure you want to be getting home.”
I let Trent start up the stairs, while I lingered for a moment. What had happened? I didn’t understand. I waved my torch back over the tapestries. The group of doglike creatures were back to romping near a waterfall. I inhaled, but the scent of smoke and sweet incense was gone. I took a last look around so that I would remember this place, knowing one day I was going to want to write about what had happened. Then I turned my back on the room and began the ascent up the stairs. It went slow because I was spent and dizzy again with the effort or confusion or hunger, or all of them combined. As I climbed, my footsteps echoed in the narrow stone stairwell. That was all I heard until I reached the final tread. And then I heard a distant barking.
Was it a farewell? A warning? I had no doubt which canine creature was trying to communicate with me. It was the beautiful black dog with the topaz eyes. I just didn’t know what he was trying to say.
Twelve
After Jac and Theo and his aunts had finished the main course, Claire brought out an apple tarte tatin. The perfectly browned and glazed confection scented the air with the combination of caramelized sugar and butter. Slices were served along with a dollop of thick cream on the side.
“Jersey cows,” Eva explained after Jac complimented the luxurious taste. “The butter and cream here are better than anywhere in the world.”
“Not that we’re prejudiced,” Theo teased.
Claire walked around the table and poured coffee.
“Theo told me a little about this house,” Jac said to the two sisters, “but I’d love to hear more of its history.”
Minerva looked at her sister. “Why don’t you do the honors? You don’t rush through it the way I do.”
Of the two sisters, Eva did seem like the mistress of the house. Other than making the drinks, Minerva had left everything to her. But she’d watched her make sure everyone had what they needed, fuss with the flowers on the table, smooth the tablecloth and reposition the silverware. And when she wasn’t watching Eva, Minerva was observing her nephew. It occurred to Jac that the woman was monitoring both of them in a clinical way. Keeping tabs on them and making sure nothing was awry.
Eva began the tale. “Our ancestor, Pierre Gaspard, bought the monastery and its surrounding land in 1850. He was a jeweler, who like Tiffany in the United States, had begun working in stained glass and had aspirations to turn this place into a workshop and glass factory for lamps, windows and extravagant vases. He didn’t need much of a house. He was a childless widower who never anticipated marrying again. So he set aside a few rooms to use as living quarters and turned the rest into a showroom. He built a factory on the grounds too. All became his canvas. We have letters where he calls it his version of Ali Baba’s cave. He’d traveled extensively and was taken with the exotic story. There are even a series of windows upstairs that illuminate the famous tale.
“Everything changed though in 1855, when Victor Hugo, who was living in exile in Jersey at the time, introduced Pierre to a young Parisian woman named Fantine.”
“I didn’t realize Hugo lived in Jersey,” Jac said. “I thought he lived in Guernsey.”
“He lived here for the first three years of his exile,” Eva explained. “In St. Helier right by the sea in a house called Marine Terrace. It’s gone now, though, long ago turned into moderately priced housing.”
“Fantine was a perfumer,” Theo said to Jac.
Jac felt as if she had stepped into an irrational alternative universe where too many seemingly unconnected events connected back to one central starting point.
There are no coincidences, Malachai always said.
“A perfumer? What was her name?”
“Well, she married Pierre, so her name was Fantine Gaspard. I don’t know her maiden name,” Eva said. “Do you, Minerva?”
“No. They were married here so there might be a record of it in the town hall. Is it important?”
“My family have been perfumers in Paris since before the French Revolution. I was just curious.”
“Oh, I should have made the connection. House of L’Etoile perfumes? I love Verte,” Eva said, naming a fragrance Jac’s father had created in 1987. “Of course you’d be interested in Fantine, then. The story is she came to Jersey because of problems she’d encountered in Paris. A family crisis, or some kind of scandal. Hugo might have known her in Paris first. How they met and what their relationship was has never been quite clear. But we do know he befriended her and introduced her to Gaspard, who fell in love with her perfumes and then with her. At the end of 1855 they married. He built her a perfume workshop. They had a daughter within the year. Followed by four sons.”
Claire came into the room. “Would you like me to make more coffee?” she asked.
When no one said they wanted any, Eva thanked Claire and then suggested they move back into the great room for after-dinner drinks.
A fire was blazing in the hearth, illuminating brilliant iridescent turquoise, sea-green and lilac tiles framing the fireplace. They were the same colors as the threads in Eva’s weaving.
“Are those tiles Pierre Gaspard’s work?” Jac asked.
“All the tile work and windows in the house are, yes,” Minerva said. “My mother once told me that those were Fantine’s favorite colors.”
All the L’Etoile’s signage included those three colors and had since the inception of the firm. Jac had seen the antique blue, green and lavender boxes and bills in the archives. She hadn’t noted the color scheme before. But the turquoise, aqua and lavender were repeated and echoed in the heavy velvet and raw silk upholstery, rugs and chandeliers. It didn’t seem possible that Fantine could have been a L’Etoile before she married. But Jac would have to call Robbie later and ask him to investigate.
Theo asked if anyone wanted any brandy and then poured glasses for himself, Jac and Minerva. Eva declined.
“What happened to Fantine and Pierre?” Jac asked.<
br />
“They prospered,” Eva said. “Pierre’s stained glass and jewelry were much sought after. Two of his lamps are in the decorative galleries of the Louvre,” she said. “But for the women in our family, Fantine was the hero. She was quite unconventional for her time. Few women then had vocations out of the theater arts. But despite managing her duties as a wife and mother, she created and sold perfumes. She and Hugo remained friends too. He even gave her some drawings. They’re all hanging here and there at the house.”
“He wrote her often after he moved to Guernsey and continued to stay in touch once he returned to Paris. We have some of those letters,” Theo said.
Jac noticed that at the mention of the letters, Minerva frowned and Eva started to play with a red braided thread tied around her wrist.
“Wasn’t the name of the prostitute in Hugo’s Les Misérables Fantine? The woman whose child Jean Valjean takes care of?” Jac asked.
“Yes,” Minerva said. “One and the same. Named for our ancestor.”
“They were very close,” Theo said. “Hugo introduced Fantine to spiritualism.”
Eva turned her head sharply toward her nephew. “We don’t have to go into all that.”
Minerva smiled at her sister reassuringly. “Relax, darling, talking about it really isn’t going to do any harm. We’ve been through this.” She turned to Jac. “Yes, Hugo was involved in spiritualism.”
“I had no idea,” Jac said.
“Yes, his politics overshadowed some of his more esoteric leanings, but he was extremely involved. He had more than a hundred séances at his house while he lived in Jersey. Pierre Gaspard was a frequent guest at many of them.”
“Hugo kept records of all the sessions,” Theo said.
“We have a book of transcripts,” Minerva added and nodded toward the hallway. “It’s in the library if you’re interested.”
Eva was playing with the red braided thread again. Turning it half a rotation to the right, then bringing it back to the center. Then turning it to the left.