Even though she has seen nothing of the house, she recognizes it. From the time they arrived, early in the evening, she remembers only the torchlight and the commotion at the gate, and being carried inside but little else. Yet, everything about the bedchamber where she finds herself is familiar: how the daylight pours in, crisp and clear, no longer kept out by drawn shades, how the laced curtains waft in the fresh breeze that carries the scent of wild herbs mixed with the briny breath of the sea, and the lull of gentle waves mingled with the calls of gulls.
She has been here before.
She knows the woman too, even though she does not recognize any of the woman’s features or her name. “This is Madame Charbonneau,” Athos introduces Bonne’s grandmother and the name means nothing but for a girl’s singing voice in Alessandra’s mind whispering “Tatie May.” It is not her daughter’s voice. It is the voice of a dead girl from a lifetime ago. The voice of the girl who was once here. Fever plays evil tricks, Alessandra decides, and banishes the dead girl to oblivion where she belongs.
“How long this time?”
Athos sits at her bedside, smiling an encouraging smile. “The fever rose only during the night. We arrived yesterday. It is why I persuaded Dr. Guenaud to step outside and stretch his legs. They are collecting shells with Giulia, Colette, and Bianca. He is something of a naturalist, which I did not know. And Madame Charbonneau persuaded the nurse to rest for a few hours.”
“But she prefers the chapel, as I was sharply reminded.” Madame Charbonneau feigns a quick sulk as she recalls sister Theophanie’s reprimand. “We have a small chapel here. Nothing like the one at Glénay,” she explains to Alessandra, and the furtive look she slants to Athos, as if to ensure his approval, does not escape Alessandra, neither does the fact that she sounds rehearsed. Madame Charbonneau sets the tray of food that she carries onto the bedside table. Under the delicately embroidered white linen towel that covers it, breathes a deep savory aroma, warm, and comforting.
“And Léon?” Alessandra frets.
“Asleep,” Athos replies.
“Oh the little fox cub!” Madame Charbonneau interjects, her plump, rosy-cheeked face glowing with joy. “Sweet boy! And such a character already. All good mischief.” A quick, almost imperceptible frown crosses Athos’ brow. Whatever his instructions–and Alessandra has no doubt that Athos was thorough–it turns out that Madame Charbonneau can only be herself. “Tatie May,” the dead girl’s singing voice corrects her, but Alessandra pushes back the dead girl once more, just as the woman reaches for her hand. “My dear, how about a proper supper? It is not for me to find fault with the cook at Glénay, for I have never been cook to such a large household, but no one matches my garlic soup. In our parts they say, Tatie May’s soup–she flicks another apologetic glance toward Athos as she utters the name–Tatie May’s soup, they say, will cure the worst illness. Your fine physician has tried it and approved.” She winks playfully. “And so did the scowling nun!” Athos drops his gaze, and if Alessandra did not know better, she’d think him amused. I detest garlic soup, she wants to say, but finds herself overpowered.
The garlic soup is the beginning. At first, Alessandra tells herself that she is too ill to stand her ground against Madame Charbonneau’s smothering kindness. It is a sorry excuse, as excuses go. In her darkest moments, Alessandra asks herself how many women like Madame Charbonneau she has encountered whose kindness she exploited, manipulated, or worse. She does not remember them all, but there must have been many. She does not remember them all, but she remembers Agnes Bernard. It is how all this started.
Then she hears Bianca singing one of her songs from the kitchen and darkness is lifted. It is always from the kitchen, that is where everyone lingers in this house–even Athos at times which is unusual—and, if the dead girl had her way, Alessandra would recall how much like Bianca she was when last she was in this house.
“Is it safe for the baby in that kitchen?” Alessandra insists, knowing that the kitchen is also where Bonne remains for most of the day, even when tending her own baby, Hubertine; in the kitchen with her grandmother, in the garden with her grandfather, and in the chapel with the nurse and Mademoiselle Bourgeois.
“Very safe Madame,” Mademoiselle Bourgeois assures Alessandra, “and you will find Dr. Guenaud in agreement. My mother, on the other hand, would argue that the kitchen is no place for a young gentleman. It is generally believed, you see, that it can lead to a misplaced familiarity with servants later in life. Worse still, constant exposure to savory and sweet fragrances may leave a lasting effect on a young man’s character, resulting in a tendency to indulge rather than govern himself at best, and at worse to gluttony and greed. The heat too, it is believed, can contribute to heat in temperament, an irritable and stubborn disposition, of which Monsieur Léon shows early signs, my mother would contend. I respect my mother’s vast experience and heed her wise advice, but I would argue instead, that Monsieur Léon is too young and had to persevere against grave odds. Therefore, any assertions of character are premature. In my opinion, the kitchen is a very healthy and comforting place, especially in this house, for there the baby is surrounded by love, happiness, and generosity.”
Athos made a wise choice to include Mademoiselle Bourgeois instead of her mother in their party, Alessandra reckons, and stops fretting about Léon and Bianca lingering in the kitchen. There are, however, other concerns about Bianca and, surprisingly, they come from Giulia. “M. le duc has ordered that no one says anything which might upset you,” Giulia confesses, “and I have never interfered even when I thought Bia was somewhat indulged, certainly not at Glénay where her grandmother had the first and last word. Monsieur le duc takes her with him on Balignant when he rides, which he has done since she was a baby, of course, but she has grown too accustomed to it. Yesterday morning, while you were resting, he took her all the way to Charron, riding astride. Gasparo went with them and M. Charbonneau too. There are vineyards there I think…”
“I do not see why there should be any concern, Giulia. I ride astride. So do Bia’s cousins.”
“But, Madame, between Glénay and here, Bia has been running wild. She loves her music, which is very appropriate, but now she only cares to make it herself, and shows no longer any patience for her lessons. And she has taken to climbing on rocks and trees like a savage, and runs around the grounds barefoot chasing those infernal hounds that M. Charbonneau has not trained properly, or splashes into the sea ruining her dresses, and collects those odiferous shells and all kinds of disgusting insects–and that is her cousin’s influence, I am sure you can see it. And the other day, at the cove with Dr. Guenaud, she was tumbling on the sand, turning upside down, hands on the ground, feet in the air, like an acrobat at a circus!”
The first thing that comes to Alessandra’s mind is how much of her daughter’s life she misses, the second that the first thing was selfish, and the third, that, like Giulia, this behavior should concern her greatly. Only, it doesn’t. Alessandra delights in it. “What does her father say?” she deflects. Guilia shakes her head, as Alessandra expected. “Was the physician alarmed in some way?”
“No, Madame. He even argued that there is nothing wrong with some excitement and strenuous exercise at her age, even if she is a girl.”
“Then, I say, let her be,” Alessandra replies to Bianca’s frustrated nurse, all the while thinking: let Bianca be the girl I could have been.
It is not like Alessandra to mull over lost possibilities. Life has taught her to live in the moment, a moment that could be her last. Then she had children. How can she purport to advise Athos about names and legacies, about the past and the future, and at the same time pretend to be immune to such concerns and only care about the moment?
It is not like Alessandra to ruminate either. On any other occasion she’d reach for her old leather-bound journal, write everything down, forget it, and rush forward. At least that is what she thought she was doing. Where that old book is she does not know. Athos tore it from her hands and she left it at Bragelonne for her daughter to read. She wrote Athos a letter asking him to permit it, and whether Athos read her letter, she does not know. Perhaps he burned the book. Perhaps it is still at Bragelonne. But Alessandra does not feel like writing, even if she had the old book in her hands.
⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️
It has been almost a week and Alessandra still finds it impossible to resist Madame Charbonneau’s overwhelming kindness. “Why not call me Tatie May, dearest, like everyone else?” Madame Charbonneau ventured, and Alessandra obliged. She told herself it was exhaustion, not so much the illness and the fever, but keeping the dead girl quiet. Since then, Alessandra has noticed that her dreams have changed. Now she always sees Francesca sitting by the open window of this room, happily chatting away with the dead girl. Sometimes they notice Alessandra enough to greet her with a joyful smile, but they turn away again, engrossed in their happy chattering, their arms around each other’s waist, like old friends.
⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️
She is no longer confined to the bedroom. Whether it is the fresh breezes from the sea, or the serenity of this house, or Tatie May’s garlic soup and sweet fritters, no one questions, least of all Alessandra. Even Théophanie, Alessandra’s unsmiling nurse, seems to be at ease, lingering in the kitchen to instruct Tatie May about the benefits of fasting or in the garden to advise Guillaume about the healing properties of his herbs.
Some days Alessandra manages to walk by herself, from the bedchamber to the small salon. In her mind, she has an image of her father standing in front of the fireplace reading from the Aeneid. Whether it is a memory she is not certain. But she remembers the boy who liked Achilles. He was called Lucien even though he wasn’t yet the Lucien she met later. She remembers the older boy too, his arm wrapped around her shoulders. He was called Olivier then, and she had no idea how he would change her just as he had no idea how she would change him. She remembers it was summer and they were happy.
Athos stands at the door, frowning. “Where is the nurse?”
“She looked glum. I gave the morning off.”
He raises a peeved brow. “Did you walk here by yourself?”
“Athos!”
He closes the door and marches into the room, seizing her hands. “How long have you been on your feet like this? What if you faint? What if…”
“You are fussing.”
“With good reason!”
She draws in a deep exasperated breath and the gripping pain in her chest reminds her that he, indeed, has good reason. “All right.” He holds her hand to help her sit slowly at the settee and sits next to her.
“Shall I call Dr…”
“No. I will be fine. And I am much better.”
“Which is why we must be careful. This is a crucial time, Dr. Guenaud says. We must avoid drawbacks.”
“We!” she teases. “How is your little conspiracy to keep me from the world?”
He smiles,“stumbling along marvelously,” and adds in a somber tone: “Alessandra, I cannot and will not keep you from the world. But I want to do everything possible to keep you in the world.”
“I will remind you of these reckless words one day.” A faint chuckle escapes his lips. “Now, where in the world have you been taking our daughter?”
“Ah! Has Giulia been complaining?”
“I told her to let Bia be herself.”
“Good. Although between you and me, Giulia is not entirely wrong.”
“After all that has happened, Athos, let us indulge our daughter with as much freedom as she would like, for the time that we remain here.”
“For the time that we remain here. I agree.” His gray eyes flash eagerly, gold and hazel flecks shimmering, the eyes of the boy who sat on this same settee next to her.
“You take her to Charron, Guilia tells me. What is there? Where is it?”
“Not too far south of here. There are small vineyards all along this coast, north and south. Different wines, not the quality of our wines at Blois. They also make a sort of brandy but not as fine as the one from Cognac. M. Emery, a friend of Guillaume’s, persuaded a few of his friends to try out an idea, something I read about…” There is excitement in his voice as he explains the intricacies of wine making. In Bragelonne he was as excited as this when his beehives thrived. It occurs to Alessandra that he misses his estate. At least, Lucien returns to Royaumont.
“What is it?” He has fixed his eyes on her, probing her face with concern.
She smiles. “I fear that you miss your beehives.”
“Pff,” he chuckles. “I was first a courtier and then a soldier. We are people without roots. And my roots, well…” he clicks his tongue, “my roots–it turns out–are here. But that is not only why I go to Charron with Petite. There’s a man there, a dowser, and very gifted, as gifted as Poto, who helped at Le Grange–do you remember him?” She nods. “Well this man… He is a good man, poor, but hardworking and honest… His name is Medart Rapin and he was invaluable, helping us find you.” He wags his finger feigning a frown. “And that is a story that remains to be told when Dr. Guenaud agrees it is safe. Now, Medart and his wife have seven sons, all grown up, and a daughter whom they were blessed to welcome later in life. She is eight years old and as gifted as her father. Her name is Celestine…”
“Oh Athos! I know where this is going but are you sure…”
“The parents agree.”
“I mean the little girl.”
“Our daughter likes her and she seems to like our daughter.” He shakes his head. “I know what you mean. I am not sure myself. They are a good, loving family. She works very hard for a little girl her age and willingly too, but I want to do something for them. She can have a good life with us, and marry well when the time comes.”
“But taken from her loving family at a young age.” Alessandra reaches for his hand. “We both know what this is like.”
He winces. “Are you upset that I brought you here?”
“What? No!” She eases her tone. “No. I know that I have been here before.”
“You remember then?”
“I cannot tell whether what I remember is true or my mind’s invention.” He presses her hand. “I believe that we sat here, in this very chamber, Lucien with his toy horse, you, and I. I have an idea that my father was here too, reading the Aeneid.”
“We did. And he was.” Athos says softly. He springs to his feet and motions to a small table by the fireplace, where a neat stack of books has been left.
“Lucien brought this book to Glénay from me,” Athos says, picking the most worn of the three volumes, “but I feel that it belongs here with the rest. This one is the Iliad.” He opens it to a certain page and hands it to her.
She stifles a gasp upon seeing Lucien’s boyish handwriting. Lucien, the boy who wanted to be Achilles, not the Lucien she met later. “What did Lucien say?”
“Not much. I daresay he was irked.”
“I daresay he would be. And the other books?”
“Better look at them another day.”
“Now.”
He sighs. “Alessandra…” She starts to rise, but he keeps her back and gets up to retrieve the rest. “All right. But…This book is…”
“My father’s? The Aeneid… My father wrote something in it, didn’t he? I will not be upset, Athos. My father’s writings are in our house, in Venice, and I am only ill, not some wilting flower.” He sits beside her again and opens the book to the front page. She smiles as she reads the dedication in her father’s hand. “He was proud of you.” Athos raises a rueful brow. “And the third book?”
“The Odyssey.”
“Of course it is. Did you mark the pages about poor Circe already when you were a boy?” she teases. Circe’s tale has been their favorite since they met in England and he always reads it to her in his own way, skipping the lines he deems dull, polishing Odysseus into a better man, not because he likes Odysseus but because he knows it vexes her. Athos returns a smile edged with sorrow. These books matter more to him than they do to her or to Lucien and she regrets the tease. He has opened the Odyssey to the last page, and she understands what he means, the moment she sees what is written on it. She cups his hand and gently closes the book. “Athos, that girl is dead,” she whispers. It pains her to say it, she realizes, and she would rather he does not see how much.
“I can say the same about the boy.”
That is not true, she wants to protest, I can see him in you. I can see my son too…both my sons. It strikes her that perhaps it is the same with him when he looks at her and Bianca. It strikes her that she has never tried to see through his eyes, not once, and does not know how.
She rests both their hands on the closed book. “Still, he is here, and she is here, I suppose. So what are we going to do?”
“I have not found any answers, Alessandra, only more questions, meant for me.”
It makes her heart sink to hear him so despondent and alone. There is too much sorrow when looking through his eyes, almost as much as when looking through her own. “Show me then,” she whispers to him. “Show me what you see.”
He narrows his eyes, as if her words are unexpected. He hesitates. “Perhaps when you are strong enough.”
“Now,” she insists. “This may be the strongest I will ever be.”
⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️
Athos holds Alessandra firmly in front of him in the saddle, guiding Balignant into a gentle trot down a rugged country road that follows the coastline. She has nearly forgotten the feeling of fresh air filling her lungs, and of him so near: his warmth, his breath, his touch. The gripping pain in her chest has eased, as though a knot has come undone.
“It is here,” he says, jumping from the saddle and helping her dismount but keeping her cradled in his arms. “I will carry you and do not think to argue with me about it,” he feigns a stern tone. “It is a steep climb, down to the sand. Besides, I have this idea, to ask you to keep your eyes closed.”
“I will do as you ask M. le duc,” she teases him back, wrapping her arms around his neck and squeezing her eyes shut like Bianca does when she expects to be surprised.
He carries her down a slope. They must be very close to the sea, because she can hear the soft, steady roll of waves over a pebbled beach and the cool breeze is sharp with salt. The warm sunlight reflected from the sand envelops her, even with her eyes tightly shut. “We are here,” Athos says, lowering her onto the edge of what feels like a wooden plank, gritty from caked layers of dried salt and sand. “Open your eyes,” he whispers.
It takes her a moment to grasp what she sees. In her mother’s painting, the light falls differently, slanted and smooth. But in the glow of midday the colors flare bright and vibrant, the lines crisp, the shapes clear, and the cove brims with life: waves, breezes, gulls wheeling overhead, and, farther out, a chaloupe sailing in from the Île de Ré.
“She was here.” Alessandra swallows hard to hold back the sting behind her eyes, as salty as the sea. “My mother was here.” ‘
⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️
They sit on the old wooden pier in silence for a while, side by side, their hands barely touching. “You were right, and I was wrong,” Alessandra says and he returns a perplexed glance. “About the painting.”
He fixes his eyes in the distance. “I was wrong about many things.”
It is not regret she hears in his voice, but resolve, and it catches her by surprise. “Is this where you see Francesca?”
He smiles, still staring off into the distance. “Yes, we sit beside each other here. But I have not seen her in a long time.” He slants a coy gaze. “I have a feeling that she has said all she had to say to me. I have a feeling she prefers you,” he says and the image flashes before Alessandra’s eyes, of Francesca and the dead girl at the window, their backs turned to her, arms linked like old friends, heads bent close as they whisper to each other.
“She has said all she had to say to me too,” Alessandra replies. Finally, she understands the dream. “We cannot bring them back, Athos. Lucien understands this better than either of us. We cannot bring them back. The girl I was. The boy you were.”
“But we can mourn them,” he counters. “We can ask, what might have been. What might have been if a little girl, only a few years older than our younger daughter, and so much like her, raised by loving parents in a happy family, had never found herself in this godforsaken place, had never met any of us, and had never been caught in the bleak fate that befell her. Because this is what happened. Unbeknownst to her, that girl crossed paths with a man hungry for power who would stop at nothing, not with his own children and certainly not with an innocent. He tried to crush her, he tried to make his pawn, and he almost succeeded.”
“Athos what are you saying?”
“I am saying what I should have admitted long ago. Your old journal, the one you left for Petite to read when she’s grown…I have read it. I read it that infernal night at Saint Dennis, after Beaufort escaped from Vincennes. That is how I knew how to find your Lucien.” He gives a bitter, angry chuckle as he speaks his brother’s name faking the contemptuous tone he would have used back when the two were each other’s worst enemy.
“It was not meant for you to read!”
“No. I did it nevertheless and understood nothing. It took me all this time, all this grief, all the pain I caused you…”
“Stop!” She reins in her anger and ignores the tightness in her chest which has returned. “Stop,” she says again softer. “Let us agree here, today, that we will never again let your father prevail. Because here I am and here you are, here, at this same place, where our paths crossed when we were children. But you are no longer that boy, you are the man you became with all the grief you brought me, and God knows it has been plenty. And I am no longer that girl either. I am the woman I made myself, with all the grief I have caused, and God knows I have dealt out my share and not just to you. Here we are then, neither of us innocent, with four children between us.”
“Alessandra, how can he not prevail? I have his name. Our children will carry it.”
She seizes his hand. “He is dead. Gone from this world. Let others praise him for his glory and his genius. He is dead. This is your name now. You owe it to us to make it yours, to pass it on to our children. No more guilt, remorse, or revenge. I should know about that. I have tried revenge many times, and failed. Miserably.”
“What about justice?” he says gently.
“This,” she says, pressing his hand, “is justice enough for me.” She makes it sound convincing, but she is not convinced. She has dismissed his talk of justice as empty and futile, more a banner of principle and privilege than anything feasible. Revenge has always been her way: swift, clean, and effective. Except it wasn’t. Not in the end. Now his insistence on justice strikes her differently. Perhaps because she failed where she once felt invincible. Perhaps because she feels her mother’s presence everywhere around her. Perhaps because of the image she has of her father, tall and slender, with fiery red hair, like her son’s, standing in front of the fireplace in the small salon, his spectacles low on his nose, reciting from the Aeneid.
On the way back she notices it along the rugged country road, in the slanting light of early afternoon. A sea of tiny delicate blossoms rising from the ground like blue mist. She has stood here with her mother, at this very place, and it was early morning. The first time she ever saw the flower. The memory is tied with another one. Her father hanging from the roofbeams, lifeless, covered in blood. Her mother held face-down on the kitchen table by the men with the fathomless eyes: ‘Where are the drawings, bitch?’ Her mother fighting back, screaming: ‘Run Sandretta!’ The memory strikes Alessandra as unexpectedly as the gripping stab of pain in her chest. “Stop, Athos please stop!”
He pulls the reins and she slips from the saddle before he has time to dismount. “Alessandra, wait! Are you ill?”
She strides down the road to the field strewn with forget-me-nots. He follows fast calling after her although she cannot make out his words. All she can hear is her mother’s voice calling her Sandretta and the pounding of her own heart. Alessandra pushes into the haze of delicate blossoms as far as her legs can carry her. He catches her before she falls to the ground. “I cannot breathe,” she repeats, fighting to loosen her stays.
She is grateful for his firm steady grip, for the calm, quiet gentleness of his voice, even though his words do not reach her. When it is all over, she finds herself in his arms. “It’s over,” he whispers. “It’s over now.” He smooths her hair and wipes her cheeks with gentle fingers. “My mother… We were here…” she gasps, tears flooding her eyes, her voice hoarse from weeping. “I want justice for my mother. For my father. For what was done to them.”
“I promise you,” Athos says. “I promise, you will have justice.”
⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️
Alessandra lets out an exasperated sigh and sinks back into the pillows. “I said I am fine,” she mutters under her breath. Dr. Guenaud, however, is not one to be cowed. He continues his thorough examination ignoring his patient’s protestations.
Athos bends closer and whispers. “Alessandra, let him do what he has to do.”
“He is fussing.I hate fussing,” she protests and Athos answers with a stern glare.
“At present I see no need for a bleeding,” Dr. Guenaud says. “What you describe, M. le duc, was most likely not caused by the infection in the lungs. Madame’s fever rises at night. We must wait.” He signals to the nurse stationed beside Alessandra’s bed like a sentinel. “Theophanie and I are ready.”
“I will stay,” Athos begins.
“No, you will not!” Alessandra counters. “You will read Bia to sleep and then go to bed yourself. And tomorrow you will go to that good man’s house in Charron without Bia and assure him that no one will be taking his little daughter from him. We will provide for her whether she becomes Bia’s companion in Paris or not. If she wants to try, we will happily bring her with us with the understanding that she can come home whenever she chooses. And of course she will always be able to visit her family and her family can always visit her.”
Athos takes her hand and kisses it, smirking even as he puts on a formal, courtly air. “Madame I will do as you command.” He leans in and whispers in her ear, his tone serious. “Unless, you are unwell again. Then it will be my way only.”
Alessandra’s fever does not spike during the night, but her sleep is fitful. She sees her parents, standing together in the field of forget-me-nots, arms around each other, as if they have been waiting for a long time. “Sandretta,” she hears them call to her, “here you are at last.”
⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️
She is not inclined to speak to anyone about the dream, but it unsettled her. Then she had to fight with the nurse to be allowed out of bed. Now Dr. Guenaud is with her in the salon, fretting and fussing about her having left her bed and being on her feet.
“Madame, M. le duc gave explicit orders!” Dr. Guenaud sounds vexed, rare for a man so quiet and patient.
“M. le duc is not here.” A feeble defense as defenses go, but Alessandra is as vexed as the doctor and she is neither quiet nor patient.
“Then let us agree to a compromise,” Dr. Guenaud begins just as a carriage pulls up on the graveled path outside the front door and the house erupts in a sort of frenzy: doors flung open and slammed, a loud babble of excited voices, and heavy, hurried footfalls pounding along the corridor as though a regiment were storming the place.
“What on earth…” the doctor gasps but he does not even finish his sentence before the door of the salon flies open and Bianca storms inside breathless and flushed, pulling along someone. Poor Colette, her maid trails after her, bowing with mortified politeness, and Giulia follows close behind, with a look of disapproval.
“Maman! Maman! Look who is here! Look who has come to see us! My beloved Chevalier!”
Alexandre, for that is who has arrived in this whirlwind, removes his feathered hat and delivers an extravagantly formal bow. “Madame! I hope your health is improved.”
Behind Alessandra, Dr. Guenaud makes a show of clearing his throat to hide a chuckle, which offers Alessandra no help at all. She clears her throat too. “Thank you, Chevalier. It is a pleasure to see you.” He answers with a broad, delighted grin, and Alessandra lets out a little gasp. “Goodness, Chevalier! Whatever happened to that tooth?”
“It fell out!” Alexandre announces with great pride. “It was a baby tooth and I am not a baby any more. Papa and I tossed it onto the roof of the tallest turret at Glénay so that the new tooth will grow to be as strong as a fortress!”
“It is a medical fact,” Dr. Guenaud declares, feigning a solemn, all-knowing air, which once again, offers Alessandra no help.
“I’ll show you everything here! It is beautiful!” Bianca claps her hands with excitement. “Tatie May will make us hot chocolate and fritters with honey, and we can go down to the cove…”
“No! Not by yourselves!” These are the only words Alessandra manages. Bianca is already tugging Alexandre back through the doorway and out of the salon. “Good God! Go with them! The tide comes in fast here!” Alessandra frets, signaling urgently to Colette and to Giulia.
“I am going too Madame!” Dr. Guenaud grabs his hat and dashes out of the salon behind the two chattering children.
In an instant the house has settled into silence. “Well that was a storm”, Alessandra mutters to herself, wondering if the decision to let Bianca run wild was really wise. To her surprise, she realizes she is not alone. Someone stands in the open doorway of the salon.
“I meant to wait for Alexandre in the carriage. Madame Charbonneau tells me Athos is not here. She insisted I come inside,” Constance says.
Twelve Years After 