“But I do miss my family, and my friends,” says Josephine. “I spend hours every evening writing letters, and I await their return missives with eager anticipation. Still, it is not the same as sitting and talking with friends.”
“No, of course not.”
“There is a...” Again she glances around her fine parlor, as though taking it all in. “There is a ‘loneliness of kind’ here. I miss having a woman to talk to, a friend who understands.”
Maëlle nods, pleased to thinkshemight be considered a kindred spirit to someone as fine as Josephine Clement.
“Also,” Josephine goes on, “I miss our wild Breton coast. The Mediterranean is calm and warm, very peaceful, like a very large bathtub! But it is not the same. I always liked the crashing of the waves upon the rocks. My mother told me it was not decent to react so strongly to such passion.”
“Mine said the same!” says Maëlle, amazed and pleased to have so much in common with a woman who owns a château.
“So, tell me about how you came to carve with Monsieur Bayol,” Josephine says. “Ever since he told us about you in his missive, I have been so intrigued. A woman carver!”
Maëlle finds herself opening up to Josephine, describing how she learned to carve from her father, and how she and Erwann shared long talks back in their humble home in Concarneau. She tells her how Erwann had encouraged her to go, and how sad and alone—yet excited—she felt while watching him recede as the train jolted awayfrom the station. Maëlle tells of getting lost in the streets of Angers on her way to find Bayol’s factory, and how everyone had laughed at her when she made known her intentions of becoming an apprentice. Of her warm little room off Madame Bayol’s kitchen—and how much nicer her accommodations were here in Château Clement.
“That bedroom makes me feel like...Marie-Antoinette!” Maëlle declares, giggling. For the first time since Léon cut her out, Maëlle does not think of him, but only of her art, and her new friend.
Josephine lets out a peal of laughter that sounds like church bells, and pours more mead into their tiny glasses. The room is warmed by the fire, and their spirits buoyed by the company, their talk, and thechouchenn.
Two women. New friends banishing the loneliness of kind.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
PRESENT DAY
CHÂTEAU CLEMENT
Cady
The next morning Cady walked into the kitchen to find a tall stack of books sitting on the counter.
“What’s all this?” Cady asked, picking one up. The pages were yellow and foxed with age; the cover was green linen. Inside was an inscription:To my friend and colleague, Fabrice Clement.Simone de Beauvoir.
“Simone de Beauvoir?” Cady asked. “TheSimone de Beauvoir?”
“You said you wanted to read more,” said Fabrice. “These are by some of the people we were talking about last night.”
“They’re incredible. But... they’re in French.”
“You speak French.”
“Not perfectly.”
He waved a hand. “Well enough. Make a little effort. You should always read books in their native language, if you possibly can.”
Again she wondered whether the English version ofLe Châteaumight be missing—or had mistranslated—some critical points. The first time she had tried to discuss the book with Fabrice, he’d threatened to throw her out; the second time he avoided the subject. Shewondered if he’d be more amenable now. Maybe tonight, after he enjoyed his aperitif.
“You know,” Cady said, studying the fat volumes, “these books might be worth real money, Fabrice. A lot of these are signed first editions.”
“What do I care, at this point? I guess Jean-Paul will sell them all off, soon enough, when he sells this place.”
“And what do you think about that?”
There was a long pause as the espresso machine hissed and spit. When Fabrice finally set a tiny cup of coffee in front of Cady and answered her, his tone was muted. “It doesn’t matter.”
“Doesn’t it?”
“This place defeated me, and it would do the same to him,” he said, growing agitated. “At least maybe he’s smart enough to get out from under it right away, make a life for himself back in Paris.”
