by Chloé Duval
“I know.”
“Haven’t there been any attempts to restore it?” I asked.
For an instant, he seemed weary to the bone.
“Do you know how much it costs to restore this kind of place?”
“A lot, I imagine.”
“A fortune. And I’m not made of money.”
“Have you asked for subventions from the state or local heritage societies?”
“I have.”
He didn’t elaborate, but I could tell from the look on his face it hadn’t panned out. I sighed again.
“What are you going to do? Sell it?”
“I hope not, but I might have to.”
“To whom?”
He shrugged. “I don’t exactly have a lot of buyers. I might have to sell to the kind of investors that will tear it down and build a holiday camp or a theme park or some other stupidity.”
A gleam of regret and pain appeared in his eyes as his words made their way through my mind.
“But that’s awful!” I gasped, my accent bleeding through once again. “You have to do something! Go see a bank, write to the ministry that deals with heritage sites, speak to the press, or—”
“I’m doing what I can,” he interrupted shortly. “Look, I let you in for a visit when I didn’t have to, and I answered all your questions. I’ve been patient. But you have no right to tell me how to manage my inheritance.”
Underneath his harsh words, I could feel that his anger wasn’t entirely directed at me. It was rage at his powerlessness.
I stayed silent. What was his history with the castle? How had he come to own it? I knew he wouldn’t answer if I asked. He would tell me it was none of my business. And he would be right.
Yet I could tell there was a heavy weight on his shoulders. And I didn’t know why, but right then, deep down, I wanted to help him.
So I kept quiet and smiled at him politely.
“Thank you for the visit, Mr. Lagnel.” He waved my thanks away. “Good luck with restoring it. I hope you find a way to save it.”
I spun on my heel and walked across the stone bridge. My lips quirked up into a smile as I noticed the dog was still following me.
“Have a nice trip back to America!” its master called.
I looked back. He was leaning on the gate, his eyes on me.
“I’m not leaving just yet. But thanks!” I added with a parting smile.
I walked back down the path, the dog still at my side, until its owner called it back.
Chapter 8
Gabrielle
Castle of Ferté-Chandeniers
November 1899
Dawn found Gabrielle half asleep, curled up in what would soon become “her” armchair. Pale light poured into the room through the window. She’d forgotten to draw the curtains. Maybe that was what had woken her, or perhaps it was the crick in her neck.
She groaned in pain and straightened. Massaging her neck, she examined her father’s face.
The night had been difficult.
Shortly after midnight, his fever had suddenly climbed, spawning nightmares that had left him exhausted and even weaker than he already was. For hours, she had listened to him moan and mumble. One name kept coming back, breaking her heart every single time—Héloïse.
Hands clenched around her father’s, her throat tight and tears in her eyes, she had listened to him call for her mother again and again, praying with all her soul to anybody who might be listening to let him live.
All night, anxiety had been a tight ball in her stomach, an iron band around her chest keeping her from breathing. She felt lost and powerless. She would have given anything to soothe her father’s suffering.
Dawn had broken by the time he’d slipped into a more peaceful sleep—though he still wheezed and coughed.
Gabrielle smothered a yawn and rose, stretching, and tugged on the covers of the bed, careful not to wake her father.
She moved to the window, which looked out onto the inner courtyard. Snow was falling, creating an almost enchanting atmosphere.
She gazed for a while at the snow spinning and dancing with every gust of wind, trying to forget her fears—unsuccessfully.
The morning slipped by, punctuated by Hélène’s comings and goings, attentive to their every need, and by the faces that would peek in to inquire about Maurice’s health.
“Is he better?”
“No…”
At lunchtime, Hélène brought up a tray laden with food and sat across from Gabrielle to make sure she ate enough.
“Would you like some books?” she asked while Gabrielle ate in silence. “I think he would enjoy you reading to him.”
“I know he would, but I don’t want to be a bother.…”
“Don’t worry about it. Mr. D’Arcy himself told me to offer. I’ll let him know as soon as you’re done with lunch and he will bring you a few books himself.”
“It’s very kind of him, but he really shouldn’t feel he has to.”
“He insisted. He’s been asking after you and your father all morning.”
“Oh. Why didn’t he come, then?”
“I think he didn’t want to impose.”
“It wouldn’t be an imposition. On the contrary, I haven’t had a chance to thank him yet for all he has done for us. I’m so grateful to all of you for looking after my father the way you do.”
“You don’t have to thank us, Gabrielle. I told you, we’re all very fond of Maurice. And Mr. D’Arcy has a lot of respect for him.”
Hélène’s words warmed Gabrielle’s heart.
When the housekeeper left, carrying the tray, Gabrielle returned to her father’s bedside. Silence fell quickly, and she rose again to look out the window, retreating to the peace and quiet emanating from the snowy view. A thousand thoughts flitted through her mind. She thought of Mr. D’Arcy and his unassuming personality that masked such generosity. She was growing ever more curious to know him better, eager to discover what kind of man he was. She thought of Hélène and her boundless devotion. Her motherly behavior was a comfort, a source of warmth, and pushed back the sense of loneliness that threatened to engulf her. She thought of her mother, of the pain of her absence that her father’s fevered delirium seemed to have reawakened. She missed her more acutely than ever. She needed her through this trial.
She sighed for the millionth time since she had reached the castle.
Please let him live.
Gabrielle would have known him anywhere, even without the discreet cough with which he made his presence known. Something in the air changed when he entered a room, something she was particularly attuned to. Her heart beating slightly faster, she turned around and stared in surprise at the tall pile of books in Mr. D’Arcy’s arms. Smiling shyly, he was about to speak when alarm stole over his face.
“Mademoiselle Villeneuve, you’re crying! What is it? Is your father…?”
He crossed the room in a few strides, depositing the books in the armchair, his eyes on hers, searching worriedly.
Confused, Gabrielle was about to reply that she wasn’t crying; but when she reflexively touched her cheeks, she realized they were wet, streaked with tears she hadn’t felt escape.
“Oh, no,” she breathed, embarrassed. “Everything is all right. It’s just…old memories.”
Seeing the worry linger on Mr. D’Arcy’s face, she added, “I assure you, everything is fine, Mr. D’Arcy.”
She summoned her bravest and widest smile—under the circumstances—and asked, as much out of curiosity as to steer the conversation away from her:
“That’s a fair number of books. Did you empty your library?”
He gazed at her a little longer, as though to make sure she really was all right, before he replied.
“Hélène told me you’d enjoy something to read. I didn’t
know what you’d like, so I chose a few. I hope you’ll find something that suits.”
“Thank you. It’s very generous of you. I promise I’ll take good care of them.”
“I don’t doubt it.” He watched her skim through the pile.
She was surprised to realize that, apart from Balzac, whom she’d never managed to take to in spite of her best efforts, it only featured authors she enjoyed: Alexandre Dumas, Gustave Flaubert, Chrétien de Troyes, Paul Féval, Jules Verne, Mark Twain, Alexander Pushkin, Jane Austen and the Brontë sisters.
She smiled as she hefted a heavy volume.
“Jane Eyre is one of my favorite novels. I think I know it by heart.” She examined the book with a professional eye.
It was a magnificent collector’s edition. Bound in red leather, embossed in gold with an elaborately framed cover and hand-drawn ornamentations. She had rarely seen so fine—or so expensive. It was probably worth more than she and her father earned in one week from their bookstore.
“Why is that?” Mr. D’Arcy inquired curiously.
“I don’t know exactly. I felt a connection to this book the first time I read it. Maybe because of the hero. I think he’s one of the most moving characters in modern literature. Have you read it?”
“No.”
“It’s the story of a young, rather plain woman, with no relatives or friends, trying to find out who she is. She becomes a governess to Mr. Rochester’s ward. He’s a somber man, rich, rather ugly, cynical and jaded, and he has a hidden past. Jane Eyre is his light and his redemption. In a way, it’s a story of two lonely people meeting, two people battered by life who have a hard time finding where they belong and who find they belong with each other.”
She glanced up, met Mr. D’Arcy’s fathomless gaze resting upon her and, once again, almost drifted away in his steel-gray eyes.
“I’m sorry, it’s probably not very interesting to you.” She looked down. “I can be a bit of a chatterbox when I’m talking about books, especially this one. Anyway, this copy is beautiful. Mine is falling apart, I’ve read it so many times. It…belonged to my mother.”
“Keep it, then. It’s yours.”
Their eyes met.
“I can’t,” she protested. “It’s much too precious.”
“I insist.”
“You can’t give me something this valuable, just like that.”
“Can’t I? Why not?”
“Well… Because I… You don’t know me and…”
“Keep it,” he murmured. “Please.”
Gabrielle gave in. What else could she do?
“Thank you, Mr. D’Arcy,” she whispered, hugging the book to her chest.
He nodded slightly, then looked back at Maurice, asleep, red faced and feverish.
Once more, Gabrielle realized, Mr. D’Arcy’s presence, his gaze, their conversation had almost made her forget about her concerns.
Almost.
“How is he?” Mr. D’Arcy asked.
“Not very well. I’m afraid he’s worse off than yesterday.”
“Should I call for the physician?”
She sighed. “I don’t know. Hélène said we should wait for the treatment to operate, but…”
She broke off, looking away as her voice grew hoarse, clutching the book to her chest. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him reach for her, pause and let his hand fall back.
“What about you?” he asked gently. “Are you all right?”
“Yes. I’m…I’m just worried.”
“Trust Hélène. If someone can help him pull through, it will be her.”
“I can believe that.” She smiled as she thought of the housekeeper’s unwavering devotion. “She is a force of nature.”
“No one can resist her. Not even me.”
“Really?”
He shook his head, smiling slightly.
“I tried, once. I don’t remember why exactly. I thought she was going to grab me by the ear and send me into the corner, or make me write a hundred times ‘I will not disobey.’”
Picturing Mr. D’Arcy’s tall frame hunched up like a scolded child was just too amusing—Gabrielle couldn’t contain a small huff of laughter. He smiled more widely and went on: “Are you sure you don’t need anything? Please don’t hesitate.”
“Thank you, but you’ve already done so much. I don’t know how to thank you.”
“Anyone would have done the same.”
“I don’t believe so, sir.”
He shrugged and started to reply, but someone knocked on the door and it swung open to reveal Hélène for a new round of treatment.
Mr. D’Arcy declared he was going to take his leave, then turned back on the threshold.
“May I return to know how your father improves?”
“Of course. As often as you like.”
* * * *
Three days went by.
Three endless days during which Maurice’s health went from bad to worse, his nightmares recurring every night before he slipped into unconsciousness from which he surfaced only briefly.
Seventy-two agonizing hours during which Gabrielle’s world stopped at the door of the bedroom.
Four thousand three hundred and twenty trying minutes during which she barely slept, fearful the worst might happen while she slumbered.
Two hundred and fifty-nine thousand and two hundred seconds of uninterrupted panic.
The physician had returned once but been unable to do any more. “We must let the body defend itself,” he had said. “We must wait.”
Wait.
Gabrielle did little else.
It was as though her life was suspended, her mind overrun with worry.
During those three days, Hélène managed to be at Gabrielle’s and her father’s side as often as possible. Gabrielle was boundlessly grateful for her care and unending support, a ray of sunlight in a dark and stormy sky.
Mr. D’Arcy returned frequently to inquire after Maurice’s health, replacing his housekeeper as Gabrielle’s companion. He usually kept silent, his mere presence a discreet but strangely reassuring comfort, listening with his eyes closed as she read to her father.
* * * *
On the morning of the fourth day, Gabrielle was alone with her father, curled up in what had become “her” armchair. She was reading the adventures of three musketeers squaring off against the English, enjoying Alexandre Dumas’s humor, when she suddenly realized she could no longer hear her father’s breathing.
Panicked, she dropped her book and rushed to his side, and was surprised to see that he was in fact sleeping peacefully, no longer wheezing painfully. Anxiously, she laid a hand on his forehead. His cheeks were still red, but he was no longer sweating.
She could only accept the obvious—his fever seemed to have fallen.
A wave of relief washed over her. But she didn’t dare rejoice yet. Not before the physician had assured her that her father was out of danger.
Running out of the room, she slammed into a wardrobe.
“Mademoiselle Villeneuve? What is the matter?” Mr. D’Arcy asked worriedly, reaching out to stop her from falling over—just as he had done a fortnight earlier.
“I’m sorry, sir, I wasn’t watching where I was going. My father…I think his fever has receded. Could you—”
“I’ll fetch the physician,” he interrupted before she could even finish.
* * * *
The physician soon confirmed that Maurice was out of the woods and only needed rest now. The news was greeted with great joy from all the inhabitants of the castle.
Gradually, the comings and goings into Maurice’s room ceased as each returned to their daily tasks. Shortly after, Gabrielle found herself alone with her sleeping father.
She closed her eyes and sighed. The weight that had rested on her s
houlders for so long seemed to have vanished, and she felt so light all of a sudden.…
As though out of nowhere, a sob wrenched itself from her throat, taking her by surprise. Tears began to roll down her cheeks, and her breath hitched. And suddenly, unable to restrain herself any longer, she collapsed into her armchair, crying her heart out, one fist clenched tight over her mouth to muffle her sobs.
A moment later, as she tried bravely to recover her breath and blink back her tears, she heard the door open. Footsteps drew closer, and she felt his presence in front of her.
He knelt in front of her, his hands on the armrests.
“Mademoiselle Villeneuve? Is everything all right?”
It seemed to her that he was asking this for the thousandth time since he had come for her in Angers.
“Yes. I… It’s… It’s fine.” She hiccupped. “I…”
She began to sob again.
Wordlessly, Mr. D’Arcy gripped her hands and drew her to him. His arms closed around her, and Gabrielle, try as she might, could not help but cling to him as though her life depended on it.
Many minutes later, Gabrielle’s tears finally ran dry.
Mr. D’Arcy did not release his embrace.
Gabrielle knew she should pull away, but she could not muster the strength. She was so comfortable in his arms. She was safe. A tight cocoon she did not want to leave.
Seconds passed by to the ticktock of the clock and the rhythm of their hearts beating as one. Gabrielle felt Mr. D’Arcy’s arms hold her a little tighter, his cheek resting on top of her head, his breath rippling her hair.
Warmth spread through her, and in spite of herself, she sighed with pleasure.
“You should sleep,” he murmured into her hair. “You must be exhausted.”
“Yes,” she said with a sigh, her face against his chest.
But she did not move.
Neither did he.
“I will watch over your father while you rest. I promise.”
“Yes,” she repeated.
But she still made no move to leave. She couldn’t. Perhaps she was too tired to move; perhaps a part of her did not want to. She felt she was in a bubble that might burst if she drew away.
Her eyelids, however, grew heavier. Exhaustion was taking its toll. She could have gone to sleep right there in his arms.