The Lost Carousel of Provence Page 17

  That night in bed she worked her way through more of Le Château.

  Before she fell asleep, Cady made up her mind: She wasn’t going to leave Provence until she got a good look at the Clement carousel. Whatever remained of it.

  And if there was any possible way, she was going to figure out who her mystery woman in the photograph was.

  She glanced at the note for the hundredth time: Souviens-toi de moi.

  Remember me.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  1900

  AVIGNON

  Maëlle

  Their carriage finally turns into the gravel drive that leads to the magnificent Château Clement. The drive is long and straight, providing the newcomers the opportunity to take in the grandeur of the estate: Golden stone walls gleam in the late-afternoon sun; the chalky blue shutters line up in an elegant symmetrical march across the impressive façade. It is easy to imagine royalty in full regalia standing on the curved twin staircases that lead to the huge front entrance.

  Maëlle’s mouth falls open as she takes it all in. She can hardly believe she’ll be permitted within those hallowed halls.

  “Don’t be too impressed,” says Léon, leaning his head to hers. There are several of them in the carriage—the lucky ones who don’t have to ride the steam traction engine with the disassembled carousel—and her thigh and shoulder burn where they are pressed tightly against his. “Rich people are just people; there are idiots and geniuses, just like the rest of us.”

  “But they are idiots and geniuses with great mansions, unlike the rest of us,” Maëlle responds.

  He chuckles, and she preens with pleasure. Every smile she earns makes her happy, every grin makes her proud. And his egalitarian words speak to her heart: it is the sort of thing that her father—considered a radical thinker in their village—used to say: that no one person is better or worse than another.

  The carriage swings to the right, coming to a halt at the back of the house. Tightly clipped hedges and Italian cypress trees lead to a formal garden featuring a series of descending ponds and a formal orangerie. Even from this distance Maëlle spies the bright orange fruits through the ample windows of the glass-paned building. Her mouth waters at the memory of an orange she once shared with her brother at Christmastime; it was tart and sweet with the bright freshness of a summer dawn.

  Maëlle feels suddenly famished; will the family feed them? Will they be housed and fed with the servants? Until this moment she hasn’t wondered about such prosaic concerns; all she could think of was seeing the château and witnessing the beloved carousel fully assembled at last.

  And carving. Léon is the chief apprentice, of course, and master of this project. But Monsieur Bayol had been very clear: The Clement family should be made happy. If they have any other jobs they would like to be done, the Bayol carvers must be at their disposal.

  Maëlle has several carvings in her bag: the rose she showed to Monsieur Bayol six months ago, when she first arrived on his doorstep in Angers, and some small wooden toys she has been working on to give as a gift to Madame Clement. They are beautiful creations, tiny replicas of the carousel animals, cows and horses and rabbits with sweet faces and movable legs. Bayol mentioned that the Clements are anxious for children; Maëlle feels sure her toys would have pride of place in the nursery of the most elegant home.

  Deep down, Maëlle wonders whether she is being too forward. But surely now is not the time for false humility.

  A manservant has come out to meet the carriage, directing those within to step down, and sending the carriage on to the stables. By the time they descend, several others have emerged from the building, including a tall, dark-haired woman in the most beautiful dress Maëlle has ever seen.

  There must be six yards of Belgian lace in her dress, and her well-coiffed hair is studded with pearls and flowers.

  “I know it breaks with tradition,” the woman says as she comes over to the group, “but I simply had to meet the talented group of artists bringing me my carousel! I am Madame Josephine Clement, and this is my dear husband, Monsieur Yves Clement, and we are so very happy to have you here!”

  Every word Madame Clement says is breathless, as though she cannot contain her excitement. Maëlle watches in wonder. She had assumed the lady of the manor would be distant and haughty, but Madame Clement is like a child at Christmas.

  Maëlle glances up at Léon, and finds his eyes lingering on Madame Clement. A serpent of jealousy wriggles deep in her gut. She looks down at her drab, dusty dress and traveling coat, then tucks an errant lock of hair under her hat.

  Several of the maids are attractive as well. Maëlle has never been the type to be jealous of other women. After all, she didn’t want what they had; she wanted the life men had. But now . . . Her mouth goes dry as Madame Clement is formally introduced to Léon. Does their greeting linger a fraction of a second too long? Monsieur Clement is clearly much older than his lovely young wife. He is fair complexioned and regal-looking, though he stands an inch or two shorter than Josephine.

  Finally it is Maëlle’s turn to be introduced.

  “Maëlle Tanguy?” repeats Madame Clement. Her voice is deep and soft, sweet cream over raspberries. “That sounds like a Breton name.”

  “It is, yes, madame. I am Breton.”

  “Why, I am from Quimper myself!” Josephine says, a huge smile lighting up her face. “Eus pelec’h emaoc’h?”

  She asks in Breton: “Where are you from?”

  It brings tears to Maëlle’s eyes to hear the language of her parents. She realizes, with a deep pang, how long it has been since she has lain in bed with Erwann, trading dreams and fears and plans in a mixture of Breton and French, as they always spoke together.

  “I am from a town called Concarneau,” Maëlle responds. “It is a fishing village on the coast, not far from Quimper, actually.”

  “Ah! This is wonderful!” says Madame Clement, clapping her hands beneath her chin. “I am so happy you are here! We shall have many days to speak of our homeland. But for now, I am sure you are exhausted from your travels. Please allow my housekeeper, Madame Boucher, to show you to your rooms, while Monsieur Derridan takes the men to their quarters.”

  Maëlle feels a vague sort of panic at the base of her throat as she watches the men leave. Léon does not turn around to say good-bye. She is alone.

  Madame Boucher is an ample woman in a dress made of fine dark silk, which seems to strain against her enormous bosom. The keys on a huge ring hanging off her belt clank as she marches along officiously. Maëlle, carrying her own bag, trots to keep up.

  Madame Clement is nothing like what Maëlle had expected of a wealthy benefactress, but Château Clement itself displays more grandeur than she could have imagined. Crystal chandeliers and a massive, sweeping staircase. The balustrades and passageways, the hewn stone and painted panels. The arches and doorways and paneling made of oak and mahogany, beautiful and gleaming with polish but unadorned.

  Maëlle chases the housekeeper along a hall, around a corner, and down a half staircase into a set of public rooms lined with more leather-bound books than Maëlle has ever seen in one place. Then they proceed up a longer staircase to a narrow hallway lined with several doors. Madame Boucher is unsmiling as she opens the door to a bedroom with a beamed, sloping ceiling and a window that looks out over the stables. There is an enormous bed made up in luscious white linens, a small writing desk, and a tall armoire. A thick wool rug warms the stone floor.

  “I hope this is adequate for your needs,” the housekeeper says.

  “It is beautiful,” Maëlle replies.

  “There is a washroom down the hall. We have running water here, so you won’t need a chamber pot. The stones become chilly in the evening; I shall have the maid set the fire when you retire. Please let me know if there’s anything else you require.” Madame Boucher does not make eye contact, and Maë
lle can’t help but feel as though she is being treated better than is proper, that she is an underling, an impostor. Never in her wildest dreams had she expected to be housed in a luxurious guest room. The servants’ wing would have been more than adequate.

  “Madame—” Maëlle is about to say as much, but when the housekeeper pauses in the doorway and meets her eyes, she simply says, “Thank you.”

  “Oh, one more thing. Are you familiar with electric lights?”

  “They have installed some electric lightposts in Angers. But . . . not in a home.”

  “I thought not. You move this switch, thusly, and the lamp is lit, just that quickly. You see?” She demonstrates, moving a toggle attached to the wall. The overhead lamp comes on immediately. It is bright, almost glaring, even though it is still light outside.

  After Madame Boucher bustles off down the hall, Maëlle puts her clothes away in the armoire, fragrant from cedar and small sachets of lavender hanging on the rod.

  She knows she should go outside with her checklist to be sure that every box transferred from the train to the steam traction engine has arrived safely at the château. But she hesitates, sitting on the edge of the bed. Exhaustion overwhelms her. She lies back, closing her eyes for a moment and breathing deeply. The mattress is so soft it feels as if she is floating on a cloud; it reminds her of a painting of napping cherubs she saw in the cathedral in Angers. Scents of rosemary and wild thyme waft in on the breeze through the open window, and the coverlet smells subtly of soap.

  It is far too good for her, but she will relish it.

  She will close her eyes for just a few moments, and then she’ll get to work.

  Her last thought before falling into a deep slumber was to wonder where Léon would be sleeping tonight, which pillow would be lucky enough to cradle his handsome head.

  But when she dreams, it is not of Léon’s kisses. Instead, she has a vision of the carousel come to vibrant life, whirling around to the tune of the band organ, delighting all who see it.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  PRESENT DAY

  CHTEAU CLEMENT

  Cady

  The next morning, Cady dressed in jeans, a thick sweater, and boots, slung her Nikon around her neck, and headed downstairs.

  Fabrice was shuffling around the kitchen, keeping one hand on the counter to steady himself.

  “Bonjour,” said Cady to Fabrice.

  “Bonjour,” he said, seeming vaguely surprised to see her. His voice was croaky, as though he was unaccustomed to speaking.

  The dog got up from her bed near the now-cold fireplace, stretched languidly, then came over to Cady with her tail wagging. Cady caressed Lucy’s back and scratched her ears. At least somebody was happy to see her.

  “Want me to make breakfast?” Cady offered, setting her camera on the counter. “I got a good feel for this kitchen last night. With a little tutoring, I could probably even master your espresso machine.”

  Fabrice did not answer, much less pause in his actions.

  Coffee people. Cady understood. Those addicted to caffeine often had these morning rituals, putting one foot in front of the other till they reached the kitchen, then measuring out the grounds and tamping them down, pouring the boiling water over them, inhaling the delicious aroma, and readying themselves for the first restorative sip.

  Then again, Fabrice often responded with a grunt. Perhaps it was simply his way.

  Cady got herself a small plate and cut a piece of bread.

  “Who is ‘Anon’?”

  “What?”

  “I’ve been reading Le Château—and before you stop me, I’m just asking whether ‘Anon’ was translated properly. In English ‘anon’ means something’s going to happen soon, but it’s archaic English, rarely used.”

  “You should always read a book in its original language.”

  “You mean it wasn’t translated properly?”

  He picked up her camera and studied it, playing with the dials and knobs, looking through the lens. Finally, he said: “That translation was suspect, yes. But in this case, Anon is a name. There is no translation.”

  “Who does it refer to?”

  “What are you taking pictures of?” Fabrice asked, ignoring her question.

  “I thought I’d take some of the château grounds, if that’s all right with you. The old buildings, the olive trees, and—”

  “When are you going shopping?” Fabrice demanded.

  “I just went yesterday.”

  “We need more bread. And we’ll need dinner tonight.”

  “I got some pasta yesterday, and a few other things I could throw together for dinner. . . .” At the look on Fabrice’s face, she cleared her throat and said, “Never mind. I’ll run into town and pick up a few things. Happy to do it.” Cady wanted to take her computer to the Internet café anyway. On top of which, a daily trip to the boulangerie didn’t sound like the worst idea in the world.

  “What kind of sauce for the pasta?” Fabrice asked.

  “I was thinking a simple marinara, but I’m flexible. Do you have a favorite?”

  “Alfredo.”

  “Okay then, Alfredo it is. I’ll make a big salad, and garlic bread. Of course.”

  “What’s ‘garlic bread’?”

  “What’s garlic bread?” she repeated, unsure if she had understood him correctly. How did anyone not know garlic bread? “It’s . . . bread, with garlic. And butter. Lots of butter. In fact, that might be the most important part. You warm it in the oven and . . .” She sighed and sought the proper word. In English, she said, “Ambrosia.”

  He fixed her with those questioning hawk eyes. “Que-ce que c’est ‘ambrosia’?”

  “I don’t know the word in French. In English ambrosia means the food of the gods.”

  “Ah.” He nodded and said, “Ambroisie.”

  “Ambroisie. Good to know. But seriously, you’ve never had garlic bread?”

  He shook his head.

  “And here I thought you Frenchies were more accomplished than Americans in all things food-related.”

  Once again Fabrice grunted in reply, setting a tiny cup of espresso in front of her, with a square of chocolate on the plate.

  “But this, right here,” she said, holding up the sweet morsel, “makes up for a lot.”

  Fabrice scowled at her over the rim of his espresso cup. “I thought you said I wouldn’t even know you were here. This morning I know you are here.”

  Embarrassment washed over her. Cady hadn’t realized she was being chatty; it was rare for her.

  “I . . .” She tried to think of something to say.

  He gave her another dismissive wave of his hand. “Ignore me, I’m a mean old man. This is why I’ve lived alone all these years.”

  Cady managed a smile.

  He handed her some euros. “Here, for the groceries. For yesterday, and today.”

  “Thank you, but I’m happy to pay for them. It’s a contribution to the household. You’re kind to let me stay here.”

  “I’m not kind.”

  “But you let me stay here.”

  He looked at her again, doing that strange tilt of the head, as though trying to figure something out, or preparing to say something. It was there and gone so quickly that Cady wondered if she imagined it. But she had seen it once before: the first time they had met, outside, when he was holding a shotgun on her and Jean-Paul.

  “Take the money, Cady,” Fabrice said. He left the cash on the counter, grabbed his crutch, and shuffled out to the hall. Lucy got up slowly, stretched again, then turned to follow him.

  “Lucy, come here, pup.” Cady called Lucy back, picked up the leash and camera, put on her coat and hat, and took the dog outside for her walk.

  Dewdrops sparkled in the slanting morning sun; longer shafts of grass held several in a row, lik
e a string of beads. The dewdrops twinkled and winked, casting their light first this way, then that, now violet, now blue, now green, as through a prism.

  Cady’s photographer mind immediately strategized how to capture them from the best angle: on her belly in the mud, using a telephoto lens. Her Argus camera would be best. But she knew from experience that it was impossible. It was like taking photos of sunsets: Even the prettiest photo could not capture the true multidimensional magic of the ever-changing light.

  Dewdrops refracting the clear light of morning, Cady decided, were a lesson in enjoying the temporal, the ephemeral.

  Lucy spied a jackrabbit and nearly yanked Cady’s arm out of its socket attempting to give chase, but otherwise she trotted along calmly, looking up at Cady with bright eyes, as though to telegraph how happy she was to be sharing this beautiful morning. The dog seemed to embody the Zen notion of living for the moment, reveling in the here and now: the scents in the bushes, the wetness of the grass under her paws, the simple pleasure of taking a walk with a friend.

  Not many foster homes kept animals, so the only other pet Cady knew well was the nearly feral tabby Maxine had rescued, named Daisy. It was an ugly, cranky thing of uncertain heritage who spat at anyone who approached. Nonetheless, Daisy had pride of place on a chifforobe in the shop. About a year after Cady began working at the store, she arrived one morning to find Maxine crying, bent over a too-still mound of orange-and-gray fur. Daisy had passed away during the night.

  Cady remembered observing Maxine’s grief and thinking, This is what it’s like to love something that is unlovable.

  * * *

  • • •

  Cady walked Lucy farther around the property, trying to take a page out of the dog’s book and focus on her senses. The air was fresh and cold, and carried the soft scents of early spring: budding fruit trees, bulbs pushing their way up through newly warmed soil, the rich aroma of lavender and rosemary bushes warmed by the sun and touched by dew. The outbuildings were still enshrouded in the morning mist, and everything was lit by the silver light of early morning.