Chapter 33
EVA
Igrip the wheel tighter as the spire of Saint-Aurin fades in the rearview mirror.
Brigitte sits beside me, prim and sober in her Sunday best with pearls and gloves in place and lips pressed like she’s still inside the church.
The confirmation ceremony was moving, though drawn out. Twelve kids in stiff suits and white dresses, tense under all the attention. Their misty-eyed families were caught between pride and melancholy. The priest tried not to sound rehearsed after giving this same sermon a thousand times.
Brigitte and I sat through it all, smiling benevolently, acknowledging bows and curtsies, trading greetings and saying something personal and special to each family.
Noblesse oblige.
I steer the car off the main road and drive up toward a scenic overlook where the valley spreads wide with vineyards forming a patchwork under a crisp autumn sun.
When I kill the engine, Brigitte looks at me, puzzled. “Why are we stopping here?”
“We need to talk.”
“About?” Her voice is cool, a warning to tread carefully.
“Rodolphe,” I say. “And Geoffroy.”
Her pearl earring trembles. “There’s nothing to say.”
“There is,” I counter. “You can tell me, Brigitte. I already know what happened.”
Her gnarled fingers tense on her lap as she studies me. I give her my best poker face to hide that I’m speculating.
She narrows her eyes. “If you knew, you wouldn’t be asking.”
I go all in. “I know Geoffroy killed his father. What I want to hear is how.”
She inhales sharply, then looks at the vineyards. “Nonsense.”
“Should I call the coroner, then?” I say. “Ask why he closed that report so quickly? Or push for an exhumation and a second autopsy? The press would eat that up, and the whispers would spread from Aymon to Pombrio in a day.”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
“Try me.”
Her hand shakes as she adjusts her glove. Silence, thick and ugly, settles between us.
And then she breaks. “Fine. You want it? Here it is.”
I cling to every word.
“Rodolphe was increasingly disappointed in Geoffroy,” she begins, her voice bitter. “And he made no secret of it.”
She stops and looks away again. I wait, holding my breath.
“They fought that day,” she continues. “It was loud and heated. You could hear them from the ground floor. Rodolphe accused Geoffroy of being unworthy, squandering the estate… Geoffroy—” She swallows.
“What?” I prompt. “What did he do, Brigitte?”
“Geoffroy shoved him down the stairs. It wasn’t a stumble. It wasn’t an accident.”
“You saw it?” I ask. “You and Rodolphe had been long divorced by then.”
“Yes, but the divorce was amicable. I spent more time at Fort Vauclairt than my own house,” she replies.
I nod slowly. “So, Geoffroy pushed him.”
“Yes. Rodolphe died at the bottom before I could call for help.”
I stare at her.
My throat is dry, but I force the words out. “You knew.”
“Of course I knew!” she hisses. “I was there. I helped him cover it up. What choice did I have? He was my son.”
I grip the steering wheel so hard my hands ache. “You lied to everyone. To me. To Alex. To the royals. To Rohinnians.”
“Rodolphe was a good man,” she says quietly. “Better than most.”
“Better than Geoffroy,” I mutter.
To my surprise, she nods. “Even after our divorce, he was kind to me. I knew what I was destroying by keeping silent.”
I tilt my head. “But you loved Geoffroy more.”
“He was my blood! My only child.” She blinks fast and then lifts her chin. “What mother wouldn’t do the same? I had to protect him. No one else would.”
I whisper, “Alex should’ve inherited eighteen years ago after Geoffroy killed his father.”
“And what would you have me do?” She turns on me, eyes blazing. “Watch my son’s life destroyed? Watch him be branded a murderer, stripped of his birthright?”
I snap, “Watch justice be served?”
Her hand flies to her chest, trembling. “Justice? There was no justice for me, Eva. There was survival. I got the coroner’s daughter into the Royal Conservatory in exchange for a sloppy report. I bribed Mireille, the housekeeper. She’d overheard the fight.”
Well, that explains the big house and the maid.
“Geoffroy and I offered her enough money to never scrub another floor,” Brigitte says. “She took it, moved to Gruyac, and kept her silence. Everyone did.”
I close my eyes. I’d suspected something like this, but hearing it makes my stomach churn.
Brigitte exhales hard. “It was imperative. Not just to keep Geoffroy out of prison, but to protect the line.”
“The principle of representation,” I murmur, floored.
The irony stings. Pauline and I used representation to argue that, despite the entail, Millie was Geoffroy’s rightful heir.
“Yes,” Brigitte says. “Without the cover-up, the estate, the title, everything would’ve gone to Alex. The principle of representation put him before Julian.”
I swallow the lump in my throat. “So, everything we have should’ve been Alex’s.”
“Don’t you dare pity him!” she snaps. “He survived. He thrived. He doesn’t need the dukedom.”
“Except it’s his by right,” I say, “And he’s worthy of it.”
She slams her hand against the dashboard, startling me. “And what about my son? I protected him as any mother would. You’d do the same. Don’t act like you’re above it.”
The words slam into me. She’s not wrong. Would I protect Millie if she killed? God help me, I might.
“I’m not judging you,” I whisper.
“Oh, good,” she grits out. “Because you want Millie to keep what you fought for her to have, don’t you? We both do. This must stay buried, Eva. Don’t let your misguided honesty strip our little girl of her birthright.”
My hands shake. “I don’t know if I can lie and pretend for the rest of my life, knowing Alex is the rightful heir.”
“Millie is the Duchess of Rohinn,” she barks. “And you will not take that from her.”
Her voice cracks at the end. She clamps her lips shut, lifts her chin, and turns toward the mountains.
The silence stretches between us, heavy and cold.