More Than Words
Page 50
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I stared at the bed for a long moment, the memory of Jessie’s sleeping form causing a sharp blade of pain to slice at the raw wound inside. I flinched, wanting to curl in on myself but forcing my body to turn instead and head for the door.
My half-written composition was on the desk, and I stuffed that into the front of my suitcase, wondering if I’d ever want to write music again, if there was anything left. Wondering if I had a career at all after today. Did I want one? I had enough money to survive for quite a while.
I made my way to the lobby, where Nick was waiting, and after a quick checkout, we got in the car Nick had arranged. As the driver pulled away from the curb. I didn’t look back, not once.
“Where to, gentlemen?” the driver asked.
“Paris,” Nick replied, giving me a wan smile. “Take us to la Ville Lumière.”
I stared out the window. Yes, we were headed to the City of Light, and all I felt inside was darkness.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
JESSICA
In the year of our Lord 1431, on the fourteenth day of May
I am numb as I walk through these days. My heart is broken, my soul shattered. I know not whether my beloved Olivier is alive or dead, and inside, my soul screams with misery, with the agony not knowing brings.
My father arranged for a kindly widow in the town of Compiègne to take me in, and here I have resided while waiting for Jehanne’s trial. I know my father wanted me to stay as a final show of loyalty to the court and the favors that will be bestowed upon our family, including the arranged marriage to some titled stranger I do not love; however, this is where I belong. My father knows not of Olivier and I dare not tell him, nor ask for his assistance in garnering information on Olivier’s status, for fear of what my father’s reprisal might be. I yearn with every fiber of my being to search for Olivier, and pray that he is injured, but not dead, unable to come to me as I am unable to come to him. I find comfort in knowing that, for now, I am where I am meant to be, that it is with Jehanne I must stay. I know in my heart Olivier would want it thus and would advise that I do my duty, as promised, to serve Jehanne. But it is not only obligation that keeps me near to her, nor my father’s directive, but friendship and love and a desire to alleviate her terror.
I meet with her as often as the guards will allow, and she is so frightened that I must be strong for her. Under threat of death she signed a confession and denied that she had ever received divine guidance. I must profess that the relief I felt was vast, but when I saw her and witnessed the way in which the denial tore at her heart, her very soul, I questioned whether I should feel any solace at all.
“Does not a lie of the soul cause more despair than death itself?” she asked me, and I could not disagree. She says she will retract her confession, that she let her fear guide her rather than God.
“But following God will get you killed,” I declared.
Her face was pale and her hands shook as she answered, “Then that is what I was meant for.” Before I could respond, she took my hands in hers and said, “Make me a promise. Live your life with joy and laughter. Do not take one second of it for granted. Live fiercely and without regret. For me.”
“Maybe God wants me dead, too,” I cried, filled with aching sorrow.
But Jehanne smiled in that soft way of hers and said, “No. God has other plans for you. Find your battle and fight it. Be brave and he will not desert you. Listen for him, though his voice be but a whisper on the wind, a birdsong, the deep feeling of rightness in your heart. Don’t stop listening, my dear Adélaïde, and you will never, ever be alone.”
I know not of God’s reasoning, though I try to accept his will as she has taught me I must. But oh Lord in heaven, if she retracts as she says she will, they will burn her at the stake. A girl of only nineteen springs. My friend. And I cannot bear to watch it happen, though she says it is the only thing now that will free her from the chains.
The faint mustiness of my building’s lobby combined with the sweet, yeasty smell of baking bread wafting from Mrs. Bertrand’s apartment welcomed me home. I climbed the stairs slowly, hefting my suitcase behind me, and before I’d even reached the upstairs landing, our apartment door burst open and Frankie was there, squealing and holding her arms out.
I grinned, but once I’d dropped my suitcase and walked into her arms, the tears began to flow, and I was laughing and crying, a mixture of happiness and grief pouring from my body so swiftly I could barely control it.
I’d held myself together these last weeks at the château, working so long and so hard that I could only fall into bed at the end of the day. I’d been severely disappointed to learn that for me Adélaïde’s story would end as she fearfully waited for her friend to face execution—an execution that history told me had most definitely been carried out. We had translated all the papers that had been found, and there were no more to indicate Adélaïde’s fate. I wouldn’t get the closure of knowing Adélaïde went on to live a happy life, would never know if she reunited with Captain Durand and whether or not their love story continued, or whether she was forced to marry another. It was another loss for me to grapple with. But life, I supposed, didn’t always offer closure. I’d taken comfort in rereading Adélaïde’s words, in experiencing once again the lessons she had to teach, as we’d gone over all the writings a second time, verifying and correcting where necessary. I’d let myself disappear into Adélaïde’s world, into her words, shutting out the despair I felt at how my own love story had ended, the intense pain I felt whenever I recalled Callen’s final cruel words. But now, in the security of my best friend’s sympathetic arms, I finally allowed myself to feel.
“Oh, Jess,” she crooned, squeezing me tighter and rocking us both back and forth. “My poor, sweet cabbage.”
I sniffled and wiped at my tears, gathering myself enough to be led into our apartment. I sank down onto the couch, and Frankie went back into the hallway and grabbed the suitcase I’d completely forgotten about and brought it inside. “Water?” she asked.
I shook my head, wiping at my tear-streaked face. “No. I drank a bottle in the cab from the train station.”
Frankie nodded, handing me a tissue so I could wipe my nose. “How was it, wrapping up the project?”
I nodded. “Good. Fine. I didn’t really have to say goodbye to anyone since I’ll see them all at the banquet dinner on Saturday.”
“Only two days to find you the perfect dress.”
I offered a small tip of my lips. “These are researchers and scientists, Frankie. They won’t notice if I wear a grain sack.”
Frankie raised a brow. “You doubt the genius of Clémence yet again.”
I chuckled. “Never. I just think her genius might be wasted on them.” Plus, I didn’t know if I ever wanted to wear a Clémence Maillard dress again. They reminded me too much of Callen.
Callen.
After that night, that awful, awful night, my heartache and misery were buried under a layer of anger at his cruelty, at disgust for what he’d done. I hated myself for what I’d done to him, and I felt deeply ashamed at my error. But my mistake had been unintentional, and the second we’d had hurt and misunderstanding between us, Callen had turned directly to old habits: drinking and women. He had good reason for being unable to answer me when I’d asked about whether he was trustworthy or not. He’d proven to me what I feared most—I couldn’t trust him.
And yet … despite my best efforts at lecturing my heart, it insisted on loving him anyway. Stupid, stupid, irrational heart.
Frankie was looking at me worriedly, as if she had followed my thoughts. “He’s in Paris, you know,” she said softly.
My heart twisted. “Who?” I whispered, though I knew from her tone she was talking about Callen.
“Callen,” she confirmed.
My shoulders deflated. “Oh.” I purposefully hadn’t turned on the television, looked at the Internet on my phone, or picked up a publication of any sort. Frankie had told me the interview of Callen and Cyril Sauvage had been replayed continuously since it happened and written about in publications around the world. I didn’t want to see any of it. Just the thought alone hurt and shamed me, and I could only imagine what it was doing to Callen. Despite my anger and pain, I still managed to feel compassion for what he must be suffering.
My half-written composition was on the desk, and I stuffed that into the front of my suitcase, wondering if I’d ever want to write music again, if there was anything left. Wondering if I had a career at all after today. Did I want one? I had enough money to survive for quite a while.
I made my way to the lobby, where Nick was waiting, and after a quick checkout, we got in the car Nick had arranged. As the driver pulled away from the curb. I didn’t look back, not once.
“Where to, gentlemen?” the driver asked.
“Paris,” Nick replied, giving me a wan smile. “Take us to la Ville Lumière.”
I stared out the window. Yes, we were headed to the City of Light, and all I felt inside was darkness.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
JESSICA
In the year of our Lord 1431, on the fourteenth day of May
I am numb as I walk through these days. My heart is broken, my soul shattered. I know not whether my beloved Olivier is alive or dead, and inside, my soul screams with misery, with the agony not knowing brings.
My father arranged for a kindly widow in the town of Compiègne to take me in, and here I have resided while waiting for Jehanne’s trial. I know my father wanted me to stay as a final show of loyalty to the court and the favors that will be bestowed upon our family, including the arranged marriage to some titled stranger I do not love; however, this is where I belong. My father knows not of Olivier and I dare not tell him, nor ask for his assistance in garnering information on Olivier’s status, for fear of what my father’s reprisal might be. I yearn with every fiber of my being to search for Olivier, and pray that he is injured, but not dead, unable to come to me as I am unable to come to him. I find comfort in knowing that, for now, I am where I am meant to be, that it is with Jehanne I must stay. I know in my heart Olivier would want it thus and would advise that I do my duty, as promised, to serve Jehanne. But it is not only obligation that keeps me near to her, nor my father’s directive, but friendship and love and a desire to alleviate her terror.
I meet with her as often as the guards will allow, and she is so frightened that I must be strong for her. Under threat of death she signed a confession and denied that she had ever received divine guidance. I must profess that the relief I felt was vast, but when I saw her and witnessed the way in which the denial tore at her heart, her very soul, I questioned whether I should feel any solace at all.
“Does not a lie of the soul cause more despair than death itself?” she asked me, and I could not disagree. She says she will retract her confession, that she let her fear guide her rather than God.
“But following God will get you killed,” I declared.
Her face was pale and her hands shook as she answered, “Then that is what I was meant for.” Before I could respond, she took my hands in hers and said, “Make me a promise. Live your life with joy and laughter. Do not take one second of it for granted. Live fiercely and without regret. For me.”
“Maybe God wants me dead, too,” I cried, filled with aching sorrow.
But Jehanne smiled in that soft way of hers and said, “No. God has other plans for you. Find your battle and fight it. Be brave and he will not desert you. Listen for him, though his voice be but a whisper on the wind, a birdsong, the deep feeling of rightness in your heart. Don’t stop listening, my dear Adélaïde, and you will never, ever be alone.”
I know not of God’s reasoning, though I try to accept his will as she has taught me I must. But oh Lord in heaven, if she retracts as she says she will, they will burn her at the stake. A girl of only nineteen springs. My friend. And I cannot bear to watch it happen, though she says it is the only thing now that will free her from the chains.
The faint mustiness of my building’s lobby combined with the sweet, yeasty smell of baking bread wafting from Mrs. Bertrand’s apartment welcomed me home. I climbed the stairs slowly, hefting my suitcase behind me, and before I’d even reached the upstairs landing, our apartment door burst open and Frankie was there, squealing and holding her arms out.
I grinned, but once I’d dropped my suitcase and walked into her arms, the tears began to flow, and I was laughing and crying, a mixture of happiness and grief pouring from my body so swiftly I could barely control it.
I’d held myself together these last weeks at the château, working so long and so hard that I could only fall into bed at the end of the day. I’d been severely disappointed to learn that for me Adélaïde’s story would end as she fearfully waited for her friend to face execution—an execution that history told me had most definitely been carried out. We had translated all the papers that had been found, and there were no more to indicate Adélaïde’s fate. I wouldn’t get the closure of knowing Adélaïde went on to live a happy life, would never know if she reunited with Captain Durand and whether or not their love story continued, or whether she was forced to marry another. It was another loss for me to grapple with. But life, I supposed, didn’t always offer closure. I’d taken comfort in rereading Adélaïde’s words, in experiencing once again the lessons she had to teach, as we’d gone over all the writings a second time, verifying and correcting where necessary. I’d let myself disappear into Adélaïde’s world, into her words, shutting out the despair I felt at how my own love story had ended, the intense pain I felt whenever I recalled Callen’s final cruel words. But now, in the security of my best friend’s sympathetic arms, I finally allowed myself to feel.
“Oh, Jess,” she crooned, squeezing me tighter and rocking us both back and forth. “My poor, sweet cabbage.”
I sniffled and wiped at my tears, gathering myself enough to be led into our apartment. I sank down onto the couch, and Frankie went back into the hallway and grabbed the suitcase I’d completely forgotten about and brought it inside. “Water?” she asked.
I shook my head, wiping at my tear-streaked face. “No. I drank a bottle in the cab from the train station.”
Frankie nodded, handing me a tissue so I could wipe my nose. “How was it, wrapping up the project?”
I nodded. “Good. Fine. I didn’t really have to say goodbye to anyone since I’ll see them all at the banquet dinner on Saturday.”
“Only two days to find you the perfect dress.”
I offered a small tip of my lips. “These are researchers and scientists, Frankie. They won’t notice if I wear a grain sack.”
Frankie raised a brow. “You doubt the genius of Clémence yet again.”
I chuckled. “Never. I just think her genius might be wasted on them.” Plus, I didn’t know if I ever wanted to wear a Clémence Maillard dress again. They reminded me too much of Callen.
Callen.
After that night, that awful, awful night, my heartache and misery were buried under a layer of anger at his cruelty, at disgust for what he’d done. I hated myself for what I’d done to him, and I felt deeply ashamed at my error. But my mistake had been unintentional, and the second we’d had hurt and misunderstanding between us, Callen had turned directly to old habits: drinking and women. He had good reason for being unable to answer me when I’d asked about whether he was trustworthy or not. He’d proven to me what I feared most—I couldn’t trust him.
And yet … despite my best efforts at lecturing my heart, it insisted on loving him anyway. Stupid, stupid, irrational heart.
Frankie was looking at me worriedly, as if she had followed my thoughts. “He’s in Paris, you know,” she said softly.
My heart twisted. “Who?” I whispered, though I knew from her tone she was talking about Callen.
“Callen,” she confirmed.
My shoulders deflated. “Oh.” I purposefully hadn’t turned on the television, looked at the Internet on my phone, or picked up a publication of any sort. Frankie had told me the interview of Callen and Cyril Sauvage had been replayed continuously since it happened and written about in publications around the world. I didn’t want to see any of it. Just the thought alone hurt and shamed me, and I could only imagine what it was doing to Callen. Despite my anger and pain, I still managed to feel compassion for what he must be suffering.
