Varnier took a deep breath and pulled out a handkerchief, holding it out to her. “My apologies, mademoiselle. I thought you knew.”
“Knew what?” Juliet’s voice rose. She awaited the details of some vile arrangement her mother had made with this man.
They were interrupted again by another server, who removed Juliet’s untouched turbot plate and returned in a moment with two plates of pressed duck with cherry sauce and stewed vegetables.
He waited until the server left and the door closed. “I knew…” He paused again, seeming unsure, and then continued. “Well, I am connected to your late mother. In her death, well, your care fell to me. I am an administrator, so to speak.”
“You?” Juliet searched the man’s face for answers, but he was cool. “I have a father, Monsieur Varnier. I’ve never heard of you.”
He took his knife and fork and began to file away at the duck. His hands were thin but well shaped, his fingers long and slender. “You should eat.” He pointed to her plate. Sinking back in his chair, he studied her. “For appearances, we will say you are my niece.”
Juliet wiped her face with the kerchief. She stared at the food on her plate, the cherry sauce resembling blood. She was sure she looked blotchy and swollen. “Am I?”
“Are you what?”
“Your niece?”
“No… no, of course not. We are not related.” Varnier spat the word out like it was distasteful and resumed eating, ignoring the fact that Juliet had not touched her duck.
“But I don’t understand. Why would my care fall to you, then? I have a family. Did you know my mother from when she lived in Paris? Is that it?”
Varnier stopped chewing. “Yes. You could say that.”
“But that isn’t the case, is it? I don’t understand your connection to my mother.” Juliet picked up her fork and knife and put them down.
He leaned back in his chair and picked at his fingernail. “No. I did not know your mother, though she sounds like a lovely woman. The care of you simply fell to me upon her death. No harm will come to you again. It is a simple matter. You don’t need to know anything else.” He rubbed his hands together, like the matter was finished.
A chill crept across her body. How did Lucian Varnier know that harm had come to her? It was impossible for him to know about Marchant and Michel Busson. Juliet suddenly felt faint.
Varnier eyed her. “There is a fine piano teacher. Monsieur de Passe says he is highly recommended. I thought that we could begin your studies immediately. You do like music?”
Juliet nodded, but thought that the only music she’d ever heard had been at church or the crazy old Monsieur Morel who played his half-broken fiddle in the town square on market days when he wasn’t shouting at the women to give him a bit of bread and cheese from their baskets.
“Do you know how to read?” Varnier didn’t make the question sound insulting. “If not, we’ll begin lessons immediately.” He didn’t seem to notice that Juliet had nodded. Her mother had taught her to read, mostly the Bible, but there were a few other books that her mother had brought from Paris including Alexandre Dumas fils and Gustave Flaubert, who was a particular favorite of her mother. Juliet remembered the woman’s weathered hands, raw from scrubbing and butchering, turning the delicate pages of her books; she often had to lick her dry fingers to get a grip on the soft paper.
Reluctantly, she took a bite of the duck, placing it on her tongue and defying her body to take it in. The bird was gamy and wasn’t as fresh as those they’d butchered on the farm, but the sweet cherry sauce was a luxurious addition that Juliet’s taste buds had never experienced before. The meals on the farm were mostly basic stews and breads, nothing as inventive as this. Everything about this new life was textured and complex. She looked around the dining room at the carved wood panels and heavy chandelier. Her senses were already overloaded from the sights of the streets and the dresses and the sounds of the city outside the window; now her sense of taste was overwhelmed by this intricate blend of simple foods. She missed the simple wood-and-stone structure of the four rooms of her old house, but then she remembered Michel Busson and knew that she could never go back even if she’d wanted to. It occurred to Juliet that she might never see the farm or her siblings again. Her chest tightened.
“I was to marry a boy,” she blurted.
“Yes. I know,” he replied calmly, not looking up from his plate. “I’ve taken care of that as well.”
“What do you mean?”
He stopped eating. “It means you are free from your obligation, as is your family. Does that make you happy?”
Juliet nodded.
“Good.” He began cutting into the duck again. “Now please finish your duck.”
“But what about my sister and brother?”
“What about them?” Varnier took a sip of wine. He studied the glass before taking another sip.
“Are they not in your care as well?”
“They are not my concern.” He placed the glass down heavily like an exclamation point. “Only you.”
“Why just me?” It was a sharper statement than she’d meant it to be.
He sighed and raked his hands through his soft sandy-blond curls. “Someday, when you are ready, I’ll explain everything to you.”
“But I’m ready now. Why am I in your care, but my brother and sister are not?”
“No. My dear, you are most certainly not ready. But one day, you will be, and then we shall talk.” Lucian Varnier laughed heartily. His teeth were those of a man who’d had money and care. “Your brother and sister are in their father’s care. You are my charge. Are we agreed?”
Juliet bristled at the suggestion that she was a child and not ready to know things about her situation. She wasn’t a naive girl anymore, and she resented the implication that she couldn’t handle the truth.
She was about to demand to know more when he abruptly excused himself from the table. “It’s been an exhausting day.” He smiled. “Surely you understand.” He left, not waiting for her reply.
As the door closed behind him, Marie entered the dining room as if on command. “Would you like some bread and cheese, my dear? We also have pie.”
Juliet smiled at the kind woman, declining the food and retiring to her room. She fell into a deep sleep even as the sun came blaring through the curtains she’d forgotten to close. The sound of nearby church bells chiming seven times finally woke her.
12
Helen Lambert
Washington, DC, May 26, 2012
A marvelous smell was coming from my kitchen. I checked the clock with one eye. It was nearly three in the afternoon. I sat up in bed, realizing I’d slept most of the day. The pillow beside me looked ruffled and used. Then it hit me. Luke. I remembered breakfast and the nosebleed. And the man in my kitchen—Lucian, then Luke—was now present in both my life and my dreams.
I padded down the hall to the kitchen and rounded the corner. Luke seemed to know I was there without me saying anything. Leaning against the stove, he was searching for something on his iPhone.
“Would you like to go to the opera on Tuesday?” He fumbled with his pockets, finally finding what he was looking for, which turned out to be the key to his Range Rover.