Meredith forced herself to slow down. To put her thoughts in order.
She went back to the Paul Foster Case site. Three of the four notes linked to the name of the Domaine - C, A and E - were Fibonacci numbers: the Fool was O, the Magician was I, and Strength was VIII.
Only D, card VI, the Lovers, wasn’t a Fibonacci number.
Meredith pushed her fingers through her black hair. Did that mean she’d got it wrong? Or that it was the exception that reinforced the rule?
She drummed her fingers on the desk as she figured it out. The Lovers did fit the sequence if they appeared as individuals rather than as a pair: Le Mat was zero, the Priestess was card II. And zero and two were both Fibonacci numbers, even if six was not.
But even so.
Even if those connections were valid, how could there be a link between the Bousquet Tarot, the Domaine de la Cade and Paul Foster Case? The dates didn’t work.
Case set up BOTA in the 1930s, and in America, not Europe. The Bousquet deck dated back to the 1890s, the minor arcana cards possibly even earlier. There was no way it could have been based on Case’s system.
What if I turn it on its head?
Meredith thought harder. What if Case had heard of the association of Tarot with music and then refined it for his own system? What if he’d heard of the Bousquet Tarot? Or maybe the Domaine de la Cade itself? Could the ideas have passed not from America to France, but the other way round?
She pulled her battered envelope from her purse and extracted the picture of the young man in soldier’s uniform. How had she been so blind? She had seen how the figure of Le Mat was Anatole Vernier, but hadn’t taken seriously the obvious resemblance between Vernier and her soldier? The family resemblance to Léonie too? The long dark lashes, the high forehead, the same trick of looking straight into the lens of the camera.
She glanced back to the portrait. The dates were right. The boy in the soldier’s uniform could be a younger brother, a cousin. Even a son.
And through him, down the generations, to me.
Meredith felt as if a great weight was being lifted from her chest. The burden of not knowing, like Hal had said earlier, crumbling and folding in on itself as she edged closer to the truth. But instantly, the cautious voice in her head kicked in, warning her against seeing what she wanted to see rather than what was there.
Verify it. The facts are out there. Test it.
Her fingers flying over the keys in her eagerness to find out everything, anything, Meredith hammered the word VERNIER into the search box.
She got nothing of use. Meredith stared in disbelief at the screen.
There’s got to be something?
She tried again, adding Bousquet and Rennes-les-Bains. This time, she got a few sites selling Tarot cards, and a couple of paragraphs about the Bousquet deck, but nothing more than she’d already found out.
Meredith sat back in her chair. The obvious way forward was to register with family search websites in this part of France and see if she could pick her way back to the past that way, although it would take a while. But maybe Mary could help out from the other end.
With impatient fingers, Meredith fired off an email to Mary, asking her to check the Milwaukee local history websites and electoral rolls for the name Vernier, aware that if the soldier was Léonie’s son, rather than Anatole’s, she still might not have the right name. As an afterthought, she added the name Lascombe as well, then signed off with a long line of kisses.
The phone beside the bed rang.
For a moment, she just stared at it like she couldn’t figure out what she was hearing. It rang again.
She grabbed the receiver. ‘Hello?’
‘Meredith? It’s Hal.’
She could hear straight off things weren’t so good. ‘Are you OK?’
‘I was just letting you know I was back.’
‘How did it go?
A pause, then, ‘I’ll tell you when I see you. I’ll wait in the bar. I don’t want to drag you away from your work.’
Meredith glanced at the time and was amazed to see it was a quarter after six already. She looked at the chaotic mess of cards, tagged internet sites, photographs lying on the bureau, evidence of her afternoon’s work. Her head felt like it was about to explode. She had found out plenty, but still felt she was in the dark.
She didn’t want to stop, but she recognised her brain had reached meltdown. All those high school nights when Mary would come into her room, kiss the top of her head and tell her it was time to take a break. Tell her that everything would be clearer after a good night’s sleep.
Meredith smiled. Mary was usually - always - right.
She wouldn’t achieve anything much tonight. Besides, Hal sounded like he could do with company. Mary would approve of that too. Putting the living before the dead.
‘Actually, now is a good time to stop.’
‘Really?’
The relief in that one word made Meredith smile.
‘Really,’ she said.
‘You’re sure I’m not interrupting anything?’
‘I’m sure,’ she said. ‘I’ll finish up here and be down in ten.’
Meredith changed into a fresh white shirt and her favourite black skirt, nothing too dressy, and went through to the bathroom. She put a little powder on her cheeks, a couple of strokes of mascara and a little lipstick, then brushed her hair and twisted it up into a knot.
She was putting on her boots, ready to go down when her laptop bleeped at her she’d got mail.
Meredith went into her inbox and clicked on the email from Mary. Only two lines long, the message contained a name, dates, an address, and the promise to email again as soon as she’d got more to tell.
A smile broke out across Meredith’s face.
Nailed it.
She picked up the photograph, no longer an unknown soldier. There was still way more to pin down, but she was nearly there. She tucked the picture into the frame of the photograph, where it belonged. The family reunited. Her family.
Still standing, she leaned over and clicked on reply.
‘You’re totally amazing,’ she typed. ‘All further info gratefully received! Love you.’
Meredith pressed send. Then, still smiling, she went down to find Hal.
PART VII
Carcassonne September-October 1891
CHAPTER 51
SUNDAY 27TH SEPTEMBER 1891
The morning after the dinner party, Léonie, Anatole and Isolde rose late. The evening had been a great success. Everyone agreed. The generous rooms and passageways of the Domaine de la Cade, so long silent, had been brought back to life. The servants whistled in the pass corridor. Pascal grinned as he went about his business. Marieta skipped lightly across the hall with a smile on her face.
Only Léonie was out of sorts. She had a vicious headache and chills, brought on by the unaccustomed quantity of wine she had consumed and the after-effects of Monsieur Baillard’s confidences.
She spent much of the morning lying upon the chaise longue with a cold compress on her head. When she did feel recovered enough to eat a little toasted bread and beef consommé for luncheon, she found herself subject to the sort of malaise that inevitably follows the passing of a big event. The dinner party having loomed in her mind for so long, she felt there was no longer anything to look forward to.
Meanwhile, she saw Isolde move from room to room, in her customary calm and unhurried manner, but as if a burden had been lifted from her shoulders. The look upon her face suggested that now, perhaps for the first time, she felt as if she were the chatelaine of the Domaine. That she owned the house rather than that the house owned her. Anatole, too, whistled as he walked from hall to library, from drawing room to the terrace, looking like a man who had the world at his feet.
Later that afternoon, Léonie accepted Isolde’s invitation to walk in the gardens. She needed to clear her head and, feeling slightly better, was glad of the opportunity to stretch her legs. The air was still and wa
rm, the afternoon sun gentle upon her cheeks. Quickly, she felt her spirits restored.
They chatted pleasantly of the usual topics as Isolde led Léonie down in the direction of the lake. Music, books, the latest fashions.
‘So, now,’ said Isolde. ‘How shall we occupy your time while you are here? Anatole tells me you are interested in local history and archaeology? There are several excellent trips. To the ruined castle at Coustaussa, for example?’
‘I would like that.’
‘And of course, reading. Anatole always says you have a hunger for books as other women have for jewellery and clothes.’
Léonie blushed. ‘He thinks I read too much, but only because he does not read sufficiently! He knows all about books as objects, but is not interested in the stories that lie between the pages.’
Isolde laughed. ‘Which, of course, may be why he was obliged to resit his examinations for his baccalaureate!’
Léonie shot a look at Isolde. ‘He told you this?’ she asked.
‘Of course not, no,’ she said quickly. ‘What man brags of his failures?’
‘Then—’
‘Despite the lack of intimacy between my late husband and your mother, Jules liked to be kept informed of the events in his nephew’s education and upbringing.’
Léonie glanced at her aunt, with interest. Her mother had been quite clear that the communication between her and her half-brother had been minimal. She was on the point of pressing Isolde further, but her aunt was speaking again and the moment was lost.
‘Have I mentioned I have recently taken out a subscription with the Société Musicale et la Lyre in Carcassonne, although so far I have been unable to attend any concerts? I am aware that it might become rather dull for you, cooped up here in the country, so far from any entertainments.’
‘I am perfectly content,’ Léonie said.
Isolde smiled her appreciation. ‘I am obliged to make a trip to Carcassonne some time in the next few weeks, so I thought we might make an outing of it. Spend a few days in the city. How would that be?’
Léonie’s eyes widened with delight. ‘That would be wonderful, Aunt. When?’
‘I am waiting for a letter from my late husband’s lawyers. A point of query. As soon as I receive word, we will make the arrangements to travel.’
‘Anatole too?’
‘Of course,’ Isolde replied, smiling. ‘He tells me you would like to see something of the restored medieval Cité. It looks quite unchanged, they say, from the thirteenth century. It is really quite remarkable what they have achieved. Until some fifty years ago, it was a ruin. Thanks to the work of Monsieur Viollet-le-Duc, and those who carry on his work, the slums have almost all been cleared. Nowadays, it is safe for tourists to visit.’
They had reached the end of the path. They struck out towards the lake, then on in the direction of the small, shaded promontory that afforded a wonderful view of the water.
‘So now that we are better acquainted, would you mind if I asked you a question of a rather personal nature?’ Isolde asked.
‘Well, no,’ Léonie said cautiously, ‘although I suppose it would depend on the nature of the question.’
Isolde laughed. ‘I wondered, only, if you had an admirer?’
Léonie blushed. ‘I ...’
‘Forgive me, have I presumed too much on our friendship? ’
‘No,’ Léonie said quickly, not wishing to appear gauche or naïve, although in truth all her notions of romantic love had been acquired from the pages of books. ‘Not in the slightest. It is just that you . . . you took me by surprise.’
Isolde turned to her. ‘Well, then? Is there someone?’
Léonie experienced, to her surprise, a momentary flash of regret that there was not. She had dreamed, but of characters she had met between the pages of books or of heroes glimpsed upon the stage singing of love and honour. Never, yet, had her unspoken fantasies attached themselves to a living, breathing person.
‘I have no interest in such things,’ she said firmly. ‘Indeed, in my opinion, marriage is a form of servitude.’
Isolde hid a smile. ‘Once, maybe, but in these modern times? You are young. All girls dream of love.’
‘Not I. I have seen M’man—’
She broke off, remembering the scenes, the tears, the days when there was no money to put food on the table, the procession of men coming and going.
Isolde’s serene expression was suddenly sombre. ‘Marguerite’s situation has been a difficult one. She has done what she can to make things comfortable for you and Anatole. You should try not to judge her harshly.’
Léonie felt her temper flare. ‘I do not judge her,’ she said sharply, stung by the rebuke. ‘I . . . I just do not wish such a life for myself.’
‘Love - true love - is a precious thing, Léonie,’ Isolde continued. ‘It is painful, uncomfortable, makes fools of us all, but it is what breathes meaning and colour and purpose into our lives.’ She paused. ‘Love is the one thing that lifts our common experience to the extraordinary.’
Léonie glanced at her, then back to her feet.
‘It is not only M’man who has made me turn my face away from love,’ she said. ‘I have witnessed how sorely Anatole has suffered. I daresay this affects the way I see things.’
Isolde turned. Léonie felt the full force of her grey eyes upon her and could not meet her gaze. ‘There was a girl he loved very much,’ she continued in a quiet voice. ‘She died. This past March. I do not know precisely the manner of her death, only that the circumstances were distressing.’ She swallowed hard, glanced at her aunt, then away. ‘For months afterwards we feared for him. His spirit was broken and his nerves shot to pieces, so much so that he took refuge in all manner of ill . . . ill practices. He would spend whole nights away and—’
Isolde squeezed Léonie’s arm against her. ‘A gentleman’s constitution can cope with forms of relaxation that to us seem insidious. You should not take such things as an indication of a deeper malaise.’
‘You did not see him,’ she cried fiercely. ‘He was a man lost to himself.’
To me.
‘Your affection for your brother is a credit to you, Léonie,’ Isolde said, ‘but perhaps the time has come to worry less about him. Whatever was the situation, he appears to be in good spirits now. Would you not agree?’
Reluctantly, she nodded. ‘I admit he is much improved on the spring.’
‘There. So this is the time to think more of your own needs and less of his. You accepted my invitation because you, yourself, stood in need of a rest. Is that not so?’
Léonie nodded.
‘So now you are here, you should think of yourself. Anatole is in safe hands.’
Léonie thought of their headlong exit from Paris, her promise that she would help him, the sense of threat that came and went, the scar upon his eyebrow as a reminder of the danger he faced, and then, in a moment, felt a burden was being lifted from her shoulders.
‘He is in safe hands,’ Isolde repeated firmly. ‘As are you.’
They were now on the far side of the lake. It was peaceful and green, quite isolated and yet in full view of the house. The only sounds were the crack of twigs underfoot, the occasional flurry of a rabbit in the undergrowth behind. High above the treeline, the caw of distant crows.
Isolde led Léonie to a curved stone bench set on the rise of ground. It was the shape of a crescent moon, its edges softened by time. She sat down and patted the seat to invite Léonie to join her.
‘In the days immediately after my husband’s death,’ she said, ‘I came often to this spot. I find it a most restful place.’
Isolde unpinned her white, wide-brimmed hat and placed it on the seat beside her. Léonie did the same, removing her gloves too. She glanced at her aunt. Her golden hair seemed to shine bright, as she sat, as ever, perfectly straight, her hands resting gently in her lap and her boots peeking out neatly from the bottom of her pale blue cotton skirt.
‘Was it
not rather . . . rather solitary? Being here alone?’ Léonie said.
Isolde nodded. ‘We were married only a matter of years. Jules was a man of fixed habits and customs and, well, for much of that time we were not in residence here. At least, I was not.’
‘But you are happy here now?’
‘I have grown accustomed to it,’ she said quietly.
All of Léonie’s previous curiosity about her aunt, which had faded somewhat into the background during the excitements of the preparation for the dinner party, flooded back. A thousand questions leapt into her mind. Not least of them why, if Isolde did not feel entirely comfortable at the Domaine de la Cade, she chose to remain here.