Chapter 32
EVA
The road curves along the valley, all golden larches and sharp blue sky, but I barely see any of it. Halfway to Gruyac, I almost turn the car around. This is madness! my brain screams while my foot keeps pressing the accelerator.
I tell myself I’ll just talk to her. Just a conversation to satisfy my curiosity, then I’ll let it go.
That line doesn’t convince me.
I regret calling Camille, the young Duchess of Arrago. A former outcast, she’s unpretentious and genuine, and we’ve been friends since Louis shocked the principality by marrying her. “Mireille Girard?” she repeated, thoughtful. “I’ll ask my housekeeper, she knows everyone in Arrago.”
She called back ten minutes later to say that Mireille is still alive, lives in Gruyac, near her sister’s family, and keeps to herself.
When I enter the town, I’m reminded of its charming, cobbled square, stacked wooden balconies, and neat alpine shutters.
Arrago’s capital is less austere, more colorful than Aymon.
I roll through the streets of this jewel box wrapped in mountains until Camille’s directions bring me to a large stone house at the edge of town.
Wow, it’s stunning.
The house is stately, but not ostentatious. The front garden, with its geometric hedges, lush flowerbeds, and a stone fountain trickling, is impeccable. Not the work of a retired housekeeper scraping by.
This is curated wealth.
I park, kill the engine, and walk to the door before I change my mind.
A few knocks, and the door opens.
The woman before me has sharp eyes and an expression that reads me in one sweep. Age has creased her face but spared her focus. I can tell she knows who I am.
“Madame Girard,” I say softly. “May I introduce my—”
“Good morning, Your Grace,” she cuts in. “Such an honor.”
“May I come in?”
“Of course.”
She pushes the door wider. I step inside.
“Tea?” Mireille asks.
“I’d love some, thanks.”
A maid appears, takes my coat, then disappears to fetch tea. Mireille wobbles across the spacious entryway. I follow. The floors gleam with polished wood. Paintings hang on the walls, not reproductions. The sitting room’s upholstery is refined and pristine.
I try to hide my surprise, but I fear it shows. No one can pay for this with a housekeeper’s pension. Mireille either inherited big or invested like a pro.
“Please,” she gestures to a sofa.
I sit, crossing my legs at the ankles. “I appreciate you seeing me.”
“The pleasure is mine.”
The maid sets down a tray loaded with porcelain cups, a silver teapot, homemade cookies, and lemon slices. Mireille pours for both of us.
This is the part where I’m supposed to make small talk, but I’m too wound up to delay my questions.
“I want to ask,” I begin, watching her hands, “about the old duke’s death.”
Something flickers in her eyes. “That was a long time ago.”
“Not that long,” I argue. “Did you hear or see anything unusual?”
She sips her tea before answering. “No. Nothing. His Grace fell. It was an accident. The coroner said as much.”
How very neat, I think to myself.
Aloud, I say, “But you were in the house then. Was there noise? An argument? Did anyone seem… unsettled?”
Of course, I have no idea if she was in the house, but I know how to play poker. I can bluff.
Mireille’s fingers tighten on the cup. “I don’t recall.”
I lean forward. “You left suddenly after Rodolphe’s death. No farewell party, no explanation. Why?”
She replies quickly. “I had personal reasons I’d rather not revisit.”
Unlike the first dodge, this one is smooth, practiced. But the nonverbal cues I’ve learned to read at the poker table give her away. Her eyes dart left, her fingers fidget, she rubs her nose, blinks too often… She knows more about Rodolphe’s death than she’s willing to admit.
I sip my tea, though it tastes like metal in my mouth.
“I’m done with lies, Madame Girard,” I say. “I drowned in them for too long. If there’s something, tell me. Please, tell me the truth.”
For a second, she looks like she’ll break. But her expression hardens as she sets her cup down.
“Truth will poison you,” she says, her voice heavy.
I gasp. “So, there is something!”
“What happened that day was judged already, by a higher hand,” she says cryptically. “If you’re wise, you’ll let it rest.”
I clench my fists in my lap. “It’s funny you bring up divine retribution. My mother-in-law did the same recently. She called it karma.”
“What exactly did Madame Brigitte say to you?” Mireille asks, her expression sharp.
I weigh my words. “She said Geoffroy had committed a mortal sin, and his half brother, Alexandre, had been wronged.”
Mireille stares at me, flabbergasted.
Did I go too far? Maybe.
Did I add my interpretation of Brigitte’s words? Certainly.
But I do believe that’s what she meant.
“Madame Brigitte is free to unburden her heart to you,” Mireille says at length. “I’m not. I’ve signed papers, I’ve—”
She brings herself up short and looks away.
When her gaze returns, it holds something final. “It was an honor to meet you, Your Grace. I’m tired now. I need to rest.”
“Of course.” I stand. “Forgive my intrusion. You’ve been very gracious.”
She walks me to the door.
We say goodbye.
As I step out, she speaks again, “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll stop clawing at graves.”
I freeze in the doorway.
“Truth will not protect you or your child, Your Grace,” she adds. “It will hurt you both. You can trust me on this.”