“It was Madame Ysabeau who found the miniatures,” Alain explained. “She scoured the newspapers every day looking for traces of you—anomalies that stood out from the rest of the day’s events. When Madame Ysabeau saw these in an auction notice, she sent Master Marcus to London. It’s how he met Mademoiselle Phoebe.”
“This sleeve came from your wedding dress.” Matthew touched the fragile fabric, tracing the outlines of a cornucopia, the traditional symbol of abundance. “I will never forget the sight of you, coming down the hill to the village with the torches blazing and the children clearing the way through the snow.” His smile was full of love and a pleased pride.
“After the wedding many men in the village offered to pay Madame de Clermont court, should you tire of her.” Alain chuckled.
“Thank you for keeping all of these memories for me.” I looked down at the desk. “It’s much too easy to think I somehow imagined everything—that we were never really there in 1590. This makes that time seem real again.”
“Sieur Philippe thought you might feel that way. Alas, there are two more items that require your attention, Madame de Clermont.” Alain held out the ledger. A tied string kept it from being opened, and a blob of wax sealed the knot to the cover.
“What’s this?” I frowned and took the ledger. It was far thinner than the ones here in Matthew’s study that contained the financial records of the Knights of Lazarus.
“Your accounts, madame.”
“I thought Hamish was keeping my finances.” He’d left piles of documents for me, all of them awaiting my signature.
“Mr. Osborne took charge of your marriage settlement from milord. These are the funds you received from Sieur Philippe.” Alain’s attention lingered for a moment on my forehead, where Philippe had placed his blood to claim me as his daughter.
Curious, I cracked the seal and opened the covers. The little account book had been rebound periodically when more pages were required. The first entries were made on thick sixteenth-century paper and dated from the year 1591. One accounted for the deposit of the dowry that Philippe had provided when I married Matthew: 20,000 Venetian zecchini and 30,000 silver Reichsthaler. Every subsequent investment of that money—such as the rollover of any interest paid on the funds and the houses and land purchased with the proceeds—was meticulously accounted for in Alain’s neat hand. I flipped through to the final pages of the book. The last entry, made on sparkling white bond, was dated 4 July 2010, the day we had arrived back at Sept-Tours. My eyes popped at the amount indicated in the assets column.
“I am sorry it is not more,” Alain said hastily, mistaking my reaction for alarm. “I invested your money as I did my own, but the more lucrative, and therefore riskier, opportunities would have required Sieur Baldwin’s approval, and of course he could not know of your existence.”
“It’s more than I could ever imagine possessing, Alain.” Matthew had settled a substantial amount of property on me when he drew up our marriage agreement, but this was a vast sum. Philippe had wanted me to have financial independence like the rest of the de Clermont women. And as I had learned this morning, my father-in-law, whether dead or alive, got what he wanted. I put the ledger aside. “Thank you.”
“It was my pleasure,” Alain said with a bow. He drew something from his pocket. “Finally, Sieur Philippe instructed me to give you this.”
Alain handed me an envelope made from cheap, thin stock. My name was on the front. Though the poor adhesive had long since dried up, the envelope had been sealed with a swirl of black and red waxes. An ancient coin was embedded in it: Philippe’s special signal.
“Sieur Philippe worked on this letter for over an hour. He made me read it back to him when he finished, to be sure that it captured what he wanted to say.”
“When?” Matthew asked hoarsely.
“The day he died.” Alain’s expression was haunted.
The shaky handwriting belonged to someone too old or infirm to hold a pen properly. It was a vivid reminder of how much Philippe had suffered. I traced my name. When my fingertips reached the final letter, I dragged them across the surface of the envelope, pulling at the letters so that they unraveled. First there was a pool of black on the envelope, and then the ink resolved into the image of a man’s face. It was still beautiful, though ravaged with pain and marred by a deep, empty socket where once a tawny eye had shimmered with intelligence and humor.
“You didn’t tell me the Nazis had blinded him.” I knew that my father-in-law had been tortured, but I had never imagined his captors had inflicted this much damage. I studied the other wounds on Philippe’s face. Mercifully, there weren’t enough letters in my name to draw a detailed portrait. I touched my father-in-law’s cheek gently, and the image dissolved, leaving an ink stain on the envelope. With a flick of my fingers, the stain lifted into a small black tornado. When the whirling stopped, the letters dropped back into their proper place.
“Sieur Philippe often spoke with you about his troubles, Madame de Clermont,” Alain continued softly, “when the pain was very bad.”
“Spoke with her?” Matthew repeated numbly.
“Almost every day,” Alain said with a nod. “He would bid me to send everyone from that part of the château, for fear someone would overhear. Madame de Clermont brought Sieur Philippe comfort when no one else could.”
I turned the envelope over, tracing the raised markings on the ancient silver coin. “Philippe expected his coins to be returned to him. In person. How can I, if he’s dead?”
“Perhaps the answer is inside,” Matthew suggested.
I slid my finger under the envelope’s seal, freeing the coin from the wax. I carefully removed the fragile sheet of paper, which crackled ominously as it was unfolded.
Philippe’s faint scent of bay, figs, and rosemary tickled my nose.
Looking down at the paper, I was grateful for my expertise in deciphering difficult handwriting. After a close look, I began to read the letter aloud.
Diana—
Do not let the ghosts of the past steal the joy from the future.
Thank you for holding my hand.
You can let go now.
Your father, in blood and vow,
Philippe
P.S. The coin is for the ferryman. Tell Matthew I will see you safe on the other side.
I choked on the last few words. They echoed in the silent room.
“So Philippe does expect me to return his coin.” He would be sitting on the banks of the river Styx waiting for Charon’s boat to bring me across. Perhaps Emily waited with him, and my parents, too. I closed my eyes, hoping to block out the painful images.