CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
Julien was slow in getting up the next morning. He turned in his bed, looked out the window at the mountains. Storm clouds billowed behind the peaks, spilled over into the canyons. The first fat flakes of snow swirled in the air. He stood and dressed. He did not kneel to the statue of the Virgin in his room. He did not pray.
The morning was half gone when he left his own room and walked into the grand ballroom. His mother sat in the corner, dressed in black, a hat and veil on her head. Her hands were tiny and lost in black gloves. She held her handbag in her lap.
“I’m going back to France,” she said, not looking at him but addressing her words to the tapestry hanging on the wall in front of her. It was the tapestry the family had had for generations, the one from Queen Isabella of Spain.
Julien dropped his eyes to the floor, swallowed hard, and sighed. “When?”
She turned her eyes to his. “Now. Today.”
Julien pursed his lips. Her announcement brought nothing except a profound feeling of relief. He sighed. “As you wish.”
“You can take me to the train station.” She had turned her eyes away again. It was not a question.
Julien sat in the parlor, slumped in the wing chair, his feet propped on the table in front of him. He held a brandy snifter in his hand, twirled it in his fingers. The only light in the room came from the fire. Amber spirits danced on the floor.
He sighed, a long, slow breath, heavy with fatigue. Marie had taken only one trunk. She had left most of her belongings; all of the treasures that had been in the family for years were still here, just as she had left them.
He had helped her board the train and find a compartment. He held her elbow and helped her into her seat. She leaned back against the cushion, stared out the window into the dark of the station. She did not turn to him. She did not look at him. She did not say good-bye.
Julien took a slow sip of the brandy and leaned back into the chair. The warmth of the liquid burned its way down his throat, through his chest, into his belly. He closed his eyes. He was exhausted—physically, emotionally, mentally. He felt adrift in a dark sea, untethered from the one woman who had always been there, always a hindrance to his desires and yet always able to help when he needed it.
The sound, when it finally penetrated his awareness, was soft, barely discernable. The flames of the fire crackled. But underneath that sound, wrapped around it, coming through it, he heard the sound of a door, pushing, slowly, along the floor.
Julien opened his eyes. He looked through the glass doors of the conservatory, opening into the parlor. Blue moonlight filled the space beyond, plants reaching up to touch the frosty light. He leaned forward, and stared into the icy blue darkness. The creaking sound of a wooden door reached his ears. He listened, his body strained for every sound, every breath of movement.
It grew quiet once again. He leaned forward for what seemed like ages, but could hear nothing else. At last, he shook his head, sighed, and leaned back in the chair. He took another drink of the brandy, closed his eyes.
Again, that soft sound: a heavy door, tight in its frame, pushing slowly against the floor. Julien’s eyes shot open. He stood and walked to the door of the conservatory. He moved into the blue glow of the moonlight in the glass-enclosed room and turned, slowly, trying to find the sound.
He stopped, and gasped. His mouth fell open. The door to his private chapel—that heavy wooden door that he had so carefully locked last night—stood open. He felt a rush of cold air on his right side. He forced himself to move, one slow, deliberate step at a time, toward the opened door. He cocked his head, trying to see into the darkened room of the private chapel. He held his breath, every fiber of his being tense with listening. Behind him, the doors of the conservatory slammed shut, the glass rattling in the doorframes.