Free Miramont's Ghost by Elizabeth Hall Page A

help—if there was anything that Edith should know.
    It was when Marguerite became pregnant with Genevieve that the trickle of gossip turned into a raging torrent. The comte felt the wind rush out of him at the memory, and he dropped into the chair beside the window. Even now, over thirty years later, the memory had the power to knock him to his knees.
    For months, she had begged him, trying to convince him that they should try again. She wanted so much to give him a son. He was reluctant: she wasn’t strong to begin with, and the loss of their son a few years earlier, and two previous miscarriages, had sapped her of strength. What worried him most, though, was her state of mind.
    When their boy died, at only ten months of age, she had grieved in a way that left him frightened, alarmed at what might become of her. They were both torn, but Marguerite had become sullen and quiet, sometimes completely unapproachable. There were days when she didn’t bother to take care of herself—days when she sat in her chair by the window, staring out at the grounds of the estate. She would not dress; she would not allow the servants to do her hair; she would not eat. It had taken more than a year before she came back to herself.
    When Marie had turned twelve, and was leaving for another term at the convent school, Marguerite started in on him with full force. Didn’t he want a son, an heir, to pass the estate to? Marie was getting older; Marguerite was getting older; the time was now. She pleaded with him, almost desperate for another baby.
    And it was true, the things she said. He very much wanted a son. He worried about what would happen to the Challembelles estate without a male heir. He often wondered if Marie could handle such a huge burden. So when Marguerite came to him one morning, and told him that she had had a dream that the baby was a boy, and all would be fine, he believed her. He wanted to believe her. He looked into her eyes, and saw the flame of her desire. He heard what he wanted to hear—that they would have a son. He believed her because he wanted to believe her.
    She was only a few months into the pregnancy when he saw the change come over her. She refused to confide in him, refused to tell him that she had begun to have visions about the baby. He would find her sitting in some darkened corner, and when he asked her what was wrong, she would whisper that it was only the normal queasiness of early pregnancy.
    She was halfway through her term before he learned the truth. December had fallen on the countryside with lead-gray skies and shrieking winds and bitter cold. Marie was home from school. She had asked to bring a friend with her for the holiday, and Madeline Fortier had joined them at the château. Her father was a duke in Brioude; the families were slightly acquainted through the comte’s work in Paris.
    Matthieu had found Marguerite, sitting in a chair by the window in the greenhouse. Tears were streaming down her face; her shoulders shook. He knelt before her. “Marguerite, what is it? You have to tell me.”
    She pulled her hands away, and covered her face. She rocked back and forth in the chair. She shook her head. “No, Matthieu . . . I cannot.”
    His anger boiled at her refusal, and he raised his voice to her. He stood up. “Marguerite, this has been going on long enough. What is wrong? What are you keeping from me?”
    Her shoulders stiffened, and she dropped her hands from her face. Tears had left trails across her cheeks; her eyes were those of a wounded child.
    The comte regretted his harsh tone almost immediately.
    “You want to know? You really want to know? So that you can be as miserable as I am?” Her eyes blazed with fire when she turned to look at him.
    He felt as if the world had started spinning too quickly, as if he were about to fall. Suddenly he wasn’t sure that he wanted to know. But watching her like this—more disheveled and emotional than he had seen her in years—could not