This is one of those horrible filler-ish chapters that are still important to the plot! But, fear not, for, the rest of the story is written except for the Epilogue. And, if you guys wanted a sequel (heee!) I have an idea for one. I suppose you might like to know the ending before I do that! You know…all five of you. Tops. However, you are all my darlings.
MJ MOD: you're guessing amuses me so much…and makes me think that "gosh, I could have done that too!" Ah, it makes me so happy…you are quite clever!
Jbwriter: Poor Adelaide indeed! Oh, I am just going to flatten on that idea: no baby mistreatment! I would never make Erik do that! I am glad to see you are hooked…I am too, in a way, to see how everyone feels about the ending I have written. Do continue reading, I'm almost through!
Misty Breyer: Right after I post this I am so taking my tail end to see this Darcy-business. I am TRES excited. Haha, yes, I've finally been able to write now that school is over, and I am just driven by the idea of finishing and…yes, basically that. Oh, trust me, more from Adelaide's POV to come…so glad you're reading and reviewing!
Do countinue reading and reviewing, lovelys!
From Raoul's POV
The pendulum cries from the Grandfather clock in the hallway filled the sitting room with only a brief sound, shattering a morose silence that coated the space. A friend and colleague of mine, Robert Isaac sat in the chair opposite mine, and his little wife, Ella, stood at the window, avoiding the conversation of gentlemen that had long since ceased.
"So," Robert began, "you have resolved to sell the flat and return to Blois?"
"Yes," I replied quickly, "I left Victorie there. I did not want her to see the flat sell."
"Well," murmured Ella, "you will be missed terribly in London, and you have a place to stay when you chose to have a return visit."
Raoul turned to her and took her petite hand in his, silently thanking her for her support and kindness. "I could actually use your assistance to go through Adelaide and Christine's old boxes and older clothes, I would rather to give them to charity then to haul them all the way to Blois where they would serve no purpose."
"Of course," she agreed quickly. She was silent for a moment, and exchanged a quick look with her husband which I suppose she did not believe I caught. "Again, Raoul, we are both very sorry for your loss. Adelaide was a dear woman. Though, I was surprised I did not find her obituary in the London Times, I would have saved it."
Raoul twisted his mouth, bitterly, at the mention of the lack of obituary. As monotonous as possible, he responded: "The London Times does not print obituaries caused by suicide. Any mention of those are founding the gossip rags or discussed at ungodly hours in pubs."
Ella gasped, and walked over to Robert.
"Oh, you had not heard it was a suicide?"
The Isaacs shook their heads simultaneously.
"Well, yes, that is what the French police decided. Her…" I could not utter it, but he forced himself to for the sake of setting the record straight, "a corpse was found in the river that had similar measurements as Adelaide in accordance with my sister's description. There were no signs of a struggle, and a hat was still pinned on, only slightly askew. Suicide was the verdict."
Avoiding the awkward silence that was destined to follow that explanation, I abruptly stood. With a quick look at the stunned faces of his guests, I fled the room, going up to the library, leaving my guests to be escorted out by Jane, the maid.
After standing in the center of the room, I calmed myself slightly before noticing a certain design on the Persian rug, and released it was the very place I had proposed marriage to Adelaide. I quickly knocked over an end table, once again enraged and was satisfied that it had covered the spot where I could still imagine her little feet turning on their heel, only remaining after I had grabbed her by the arm and professed my intentions.
From my jacket pocket I pulled out the original letter I had received from Renee while still in Africa, and sank into the sofa and reread it. When I came back to France, a month after it's original sent date, I raged against my sister, asking her why she had been out alone to begin with, how she could have allowed it. I could still vividly see her shocked face in my mind that she had put on. For, that had been the first time I had ever been angry with her. Angry, that day, was an understatement.
Only a week later did the decision about the body found in the river become official to authorities in Paris. Part of me still refused to believe it…the idea of Adelaide committing suicide was so far beyond her character, or persona. Had the body in fact been that of Adelaide, I knew it had to be foul play.
Since that day, when I close my eyes, I see her amused smile at the antics of my sister on the day of my departure, or her loving fret over my packing the night before, her forehead creased with bittersweet anxiety. Based on her morals, her believes strongly rooted in the church….suicide was the highest sin, for it was the one sin you could not go back and repent for. Certainly not one Adelaide would have brought upon herself willingly, also…
Her letters never revealed a feeling of unhappiness. Unless, they had been part of a façade.
A mask.
Bitterly, I locked the flat for the final time and without looking back I journeyed to France only three days after my meeting with the Isaacs. I arrived in Blois in the late evening, and was greeted by my daughter who had watched my rented carriage from Corisca meander down the long driveway.
When I stepped out, I could have sworn it was Christine waiting for me and not our child.
Her large eyes awaited some sort of reassurance from me, however, what had I to give when I was looking for some sort of comfort myself? It hurt to remember that the last blow Victorie had received - the death of Christine – was balmed by the care of Adelaide Burnett.
"Darling!" I greeted, my voice sounding hollow even to myself. I gathered her in my arms, pressing her head against my shoulder, and walked into my sister's home.
Just before I sat her back down again on the first step of the staircase up to her room, she asked softly, "Are we to live here now?" She arched her neck to see past me to see all the trunks from what I had not sold or donated in London.
"Yes, Victorie," I went to stroke her curls, but thought better of it, and put my hand behind my back. "Yes, Victorie, we are."
The bitter February wind howled throughout the house, the door was ajar as trunks were brought in by the staff.
