Seduction: A Novel of Suspense (8 page)

Even though the sky was strewn with storm clouds, I decided to walk on the beach instead of taking the main road. Always I am drawn to the unrelenting waves, the salty, briny air and the feel of the sand shifting beneath my feet.

Reaching the shore, I stood for some time just looking out on the rough sea and thought about the offer the spirit had made. I was filled with both wonder and dread, curiosity and chagrin. How could I believe such a thing? It was not possible to bring back my daughter. And the price? A piece of poetry? The whole exchange was ludicrous.

As I pondered these thoughts, I became aware of a presence nearby and turned. No one was there.

I looked up at the sky and wondered if Didine was one of the stars peeking through the clouds. Could she be looking down and watching over me at that moment?

I had always believed that if we cannot chart the geography of the heavens, if we cannot ride over heaven’s hills or sail over its seas, then we cannot know for sure who dwells there and how they interact.

But in the last two years, in over a hundred séances, I had been given glimpses of that geography. Hadn’t I?

That was the question on my mind as I walked the beach. After a time, I noticed someone up ahead. At first I couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman from that distance. But when I came closer, in the light of the moon I recognized you, the comely servant girl whom my mistress had recently employed. Fantine, you were walking along the shore, staring out at the vast ocean. The sky had cleared and the moon glow shone on your white chemise, making it stand out like a beacon.

When I’d noticed you at her house, Juliette had told me you were another exile from Paris. I’d only seen you two or three times but had been acutely aware of your sadness. You wore it like a frock. It clouded your eyes, turning the blue sky to gray. Even the scent that lingered in a room after you’d left it reminded me of grief. It was the fragrance of flowers past bloom in their death throes.

As I approached, you became aware of me, and when you turned, I thought I saw the silvery track of tears on your cheek.

I was sorry I’d intruded, but it was too late for me to turn back without being rude. “Good evening, Fantine.”

“Monsieur Hugo, good evening.”

In Juliette’s abode, you were demure. Here you seemed less so. In her home you would have lowered your eyes and been slightly embarrassed in my presence. But you were none of these things on the beach. You were forthright, almost defiant. As if I had interrupted you. As if this were your beach and I were trespassing.

I fell into step beside you and must admit was still so absorbed by what had happened in my house that for the first few minutes of our stroll, I paid you little heed.

Lost in thoughts as dark as the sea, I tried to make sense of the evening’s revelations, tumbling the thoughts in my own head. Getting nowhere, I finally felt the need to discuss what had occurred with someone who hadn’t been in my house and exposed to the table tapping.

“Do you believe in spirits?” I asked.

“Do you mean ghosts?”

“Well yes, I suppose so. The spirits of those no longer alive. Do you think they are capable of communicating with us?”

You nodded, and your dark curls dancing on their own endowed the grave question with a certain ironic frivolity. “Oh yes. I’ve often felt my mother’s presence and smelled her perfume in the air when there’s no one nearby. It’s always very comforting.”

“Is she really communicating with you or are you just remembering her vividly? Do you actually believe some shade of her is here, watching over you, visiting you?”

The beach was rocky where we were walking, and as you started to answer, you tripped. I reached out to steady you. Closer, I marveled at your fragrance. The same I’d sniffed in Juliette’s house, but so near now I could smell other subtle scents mixed in with the roses. Night-blooming jasmine, lemon . . . I shut my eyes for a moment, to fix the curious smell. In Juliette’s house you wore your hair
up, covered it with a cap, and donned a uniform that hid the ample bosom and small waist now apparent. Now your thick dark hair fell in waves around your face and down your back. In my mistress’s house you were an ordinary maid. Here you were a wanton, suffering woman.

“I believe she has truly communicated with me.”

“Tonight is the anniversary of my daughter’s death,” I said.

The words hung on the wind for a moment and reverberated like church bells until the sound of crashing waves overwhelmed them.

“I lost a child too,” you whispered. “She was stillborn.”

“But you are so young.”

“I’m twenty-five,” you said, as if it were very old indeed.

“What of your husband?”

Your gaze returned to the sea.

“Lost?” I asked. The sea claimed so many lives, as I knew all too well.

“He was not my husband. But yes, lost.”

“Did you lose them both together?”

You shook your head no. “But I can’t stop mourning either of them.”

“Would you, if you could, talk to your mother now? If she is in the netherworld, would you want to know how she was, what it is like? Find out if she is looking after your baby for you?”

“Of course.”

“What would you pay for such a privilege?”

“Anything asked of me.” And then you looked at me as if I were half mad. “You aren’t suggesting there’s a way, are you?”

“I might be,” I said, and then told you about the séances. I remember how at first you had to hold back from laughing at me. From the questions you asked, it seemed you found me foolish and absurd. But as we continued our walk and I told you more about the sessions and spirits, your initial skepticism turned to curiosity.

I fell in love with you a little then. I admire nothing so much as the willingness to suspend disbelief and open one’s mind to new ideas.

“What was your daughter’s name?”

“Leopoldine,” I said. “But I called her Didine.”

“So have you talked to your Didine?”

“I haven’t heard her voice, but I believe she is speaking to me.”

You turned your gaze upon me now. No longer as if I were daft but as if I might not be entirely human.

We continued walking for a few steps in silence. I was thinking about you now. Wondering about you. Clearly you were well educated. Out of place, being a lady’s maid in the Channel Islands.

“How long have you been in Jersey?” I asked.

“Two and a half years. I worked for another lady before Madame Drouet.”

“What happened?”

“She was elderly and passed away this summer.”

“And were you a lady’s maid in Paris too?” I asked.

“No, I worked with my father in his shop.”

“What kind of shop?”

“My father was a well-known perfumer.”

“He is no longer with us?”

You nodded.

The sound of the water crashing on the rocks was an ominous symphony to all this talk of death. I knew I was prying. Your short, compact answers suggested you weren’t comfortable talking about your past. And I did worry about offending you. But I am a storyteller; I wanted to know your story. I tried to go gently.

“And what happened to your father’s shop?”

“My uncle who worked there also took it over.”

“Have I heard of this shop?”

“Probably, it has been in business for a very long time.”

She named the family concern. I recognized it, in fact, knew it well. Often I’d bought gifts of fragrance for my wife, my daughters, even for Juliette at the establishment. I was lost for a few moments, thinking of Paris. It had been so long since I’d been home and I was nostalgic for my city.

We’d walked a long way, far past Juliette’s house. We were on a stretch of beach I didn’t know well, because except at low tide, like
now, there was no beach to tread upon. This rocky section of shore was all cliffs. And where there were cliffs there were usually caves. Indeed, in the moonlight, I noticed many openings and was intrigued. The locals talked of cave walls covered with ancient drawings, rooms deep in the rocks that were used in older times as retreats, temples and burial grounds. I’d explored several caves, mostly on the other side of the island at Plemont Bay. They were majestic and mysterious, but I had yet to stumble upon a cavern I could be sure had any mystical significance.

“Have you been inside any of these caves?” you asked, as if reading my mind.

“Not here.”

“Oh, you must. Some of them are astonishing.”

“You’ve gone in? You weren’t afraid of being trapped? They say the tide in this section of beach can sneak up on you and suddenly your only exit is the sea itself.”

“I wouldn’t have minded.”

Such a simple way of declaring your suffering. You said it without pathos, not inviting my sympathy but simply stating the sad truth of your existence. You gave me this confidence, not knowing it would be like a seed that grew inside me. And what misery it would lead to.

I nodded then, bowed my head to your grief. Sorrow was something I understood. The temptation to seek relief from never-ending sadness was one I knew well.

“I too have . . .” I hesitated. I could not go on and speak of my own disconsolate heartache. To utter the words was to become lost in them.

In your way that I have come to know and appreciate, you did not say anything. You didn’t push me to say more. You waited. Your patience is a gift. You trusted our silence. Ah, Fantine. Thank you for that.

“What happened to you in Paris,” I asked after a time, “that made you flee?”

When you hesitated, I realized I had done exactly what you had not. So before you could answer I apologized. “I’m sorry. My wife says I am rude and Juliette agrees. She laughs at me and says I am too
desperate for people’s stories. That I am too greedy to hear about the comedies and tragedies of their lives. She claims I listen so I can file away the twists and turns of their journeys and romances. That I collect people’s particulars, add spices to them, stir in other ingredients, cook them up and then present a book to the world. But I am only trying to offer up my interpretation of life as a mirror by which men may see themselves in another light.”

You remained staring out at the infinite black sea when I finished speaking. I noticed your shoulders were trembling slightly.

“Are you cold?” I asked. “Would you like my coat?”

“No. No, thank you.”

“Then what is it?”

You gestured to the churning water. “Sometimes I think I hear it calling to me. I wish I were brave enough to listen.”

“If you were, what would you do?”

I was afraid of your answer, but something in me demanded I listen to it.

“I would heed its call. I’d give myself to it.”

“You want to die that much?”

“No. It’s not that I want to die, it’s that I can’t bear to live. I can’t bear to miss someone so much. To long for him like this.”

And then you turned to me, and I could see you were shocked by what you’d said.

“You didn’t know that about yourself?” I asked.

You shook your head. “Please forgive me. I have no right to speak to you like this. To inflict my thoughts on you and lay my burdens at your feet.”

Indeed you looked mortified.

“Do not insult me, Fantine. All this time we have been talking and walking as equals. A man and a woman who share a common sadness that comes from loss. A man and a woman exchanging confidences under the night sky. If I had not wanted to hear what you had to say, you would have known it a long way back.”

You bowed your head. I took your chin in my hand and lifted up your face. Your skin was fine to my touch, and despite all our morose
talk I felt the stirrings of pleasure. Such is my blessing and my curse. My passions run deep but are always close to the surface. Sexual enjoyment is my true escape in a way that none of my stories, my plays, my poems or my political writings are.

Those take me deeper inside myself. Only by indulging in my cravings, my lust, do I find the oblivion I seek.

I leaned forward slowly to signal what I was about to do—I am not an ogre or a letch and do not like taking kisses by force. You didn’t step back, didn’t hesitate. And so I kissed you gently. There was no response from you. Your expression in the moonlight did not change.

Ah, Fantine, you were already almost dead and you didn’t yet know it.

“Do you need any money?” I asked. “Does Madame Drouet pay you enough?”

“Yes, she does.” Now it was your turn to hesitate.

“What is it, Fantine?”

“I have heard about you, Monsieur Hugo.”

“Yes?”

“From some of the other servants . . .”

You left off. I smiled. “So tell me, do they say terrible things about me?”

“No, quite to the contrary. They say you are kind and generous, and if a girl needs money you are tender with her and ask for very little.”

“Would you like me to be generous with you?”

“If it would help you, monsieur. If you need me, I would be happy to give you what you’d like, but I wouldn’t want any money.”

“And why would you want to do that?”

“Because of the sadness.”

“In you?” I asked.

“No, monsieur, in you.”

I didn’t know what to say. It had been so long since anyone had had such insight into me. So I kissed you once more. And then we turned back, following our own footsteps now.

“I would like to pay you, though,” I repeated my offer.

“No, that won’t be necessary.”

“But if I don’t pay you . . .” I stopped myself. Why was I becoming angered at your stubborn refusal to take the coins in exchange for what I would ask of you? Why did I want to pay you so badly?

For the second time that night, you anticipated my thoughts. “I know what you were going to say. If you don’t pay me then you will have to care for me, and you don’t want to.”

You were like a night nymph standing before me. A wisp of a girl with wild hair and sparkling blue-gray eyes reflecting the phosphorescent waves and the moonlight.

“But you want me to?”

“No one has cared about me for a very, very long time,” you said. “I would like to know how it feels again. Even just a bit of caring. I would like to test it and see if it is enough to keep me alive.”