Chapter 29
29
7 DECEMBER
I open the door to the secret library and am once again assailed by the scent of the past, the vanilla smell of thick parchment and the earthiness of leatherbound books. Dappled wintry sun shines through the lace drapes, bathing the room in a sepia tone.
‘What have you found?’ I ask as Noah takes his position on the bed, and I sit at the leather chair.
‘I did some digging into published female French writers in the twenties and compiled a list of names for us to research. There’s a few we can rule out immediately like Colette, Ana?s Nin, Gertrude Stein…’ He rattles off a number of well-known female authors. ‘Because they were married or in relationships and published up until their deaths. However, there are a few that fell off the radar and who I haven’t been able to find many details for. It’s like they vanished. Of course, there could be various reasons for this: they settled into more maternal roles, gave up writing, moved away, or any number of legitimate reasons, and so the history books go blank at that point.’
‘Ooh, exciting to have a shortlist already though. Let me see.’
Noah hands me a moleskin notebook. ‘More interesting is that these three authors used pseudonyms. Their real names were kept quiet, whatever they were, but interestingly enough they chose to stick with feminine pen names.’
‘Right.’ Back then it was routine to use masculine names, or initials, to disguise the fact the author was female, which is awful and sexist, but that’s how it was for a lot of female writers. The names Noah has compiled are:
Thérèse Fournier
Adeleine Deschamps
Clothilde Labelle
‘These authors were all published?’ He nods. ‘Do you know the titles of their books?’
‘Turn the page. I made a list of their works.’
I turn the page and try to recall how our mystery author described her published works, something along the lines of ‘the summer novel’ and ‘the novel set on the coast’. These titles don’t mention either of those, but that doesn’t mean they’re not set in summer or by the sea.
‘We have to find these novels and see if they match up with what we know so far. Actually, our best bet is to look on the shelves here first. You’d think she’d have copies of her own novels, wouldn’t you?’
‘Great idea.’
We search high and low, gently moving the double and often tripled-stacked books, including all the novels that spill out onto the floor and those plonked on the desk and tucked away in drawers.
I yelp when I find The Year Time Slowed by Adeleine Deschamps and hold it up for Noah to view. ‘Shouldn’t I feel a thrum, a pulse, a sign that this is her book?’ I asked, giddiness taking over that we might be one step ahead in figuring out who she was.
‘ Oui , a hundred years is sufficient time for her to work out how to message from the afterlife.’
I fall back on the chair and run a hand over the cover. It’s green, featuring only the title of the book and her name. I open it to see if there’s any inscriptions, any clues, but find nothing.
‘No other Adeleine Deschamps where you found this?’ Noah queries.
‘ Non , and isn’t that weird? I have triples of every edition of my own work waiting to be shelved when the library is renovated.’
‘That’s what I’m thinking too. Unless… when she escaped her controlling husband, she didn’t want to be reminded of them and what she’d lost: her royalties, her voice.’
It makes sense. ‘If she was running for her life, then the books wouldn’t have mattered; all she’d have been thinking about was her safety and getting out of his clutches. You’re the literary scholar, Noah – would you like to read this first? You might be able to tell if the writing style is similar to what’s written in the notebooks.’
He grins. ‘Sure. I’d love that.’
I hand him the novel, which he holds tight to his chest as if to protect the words within. I lean back on my chair, excited to share the spoils of my own investigations. ‘I did a little digging too, back through old archives on the internet about the Toussaint family. They were renowned for their patronage for supporting aspiring writers. This literary philanthropy continued with their daughter… Lily-Louise, who would often pay house calls on writers she admired.’
‘Lily-Louise must be L. L.! Great work, Anais.’
‘ Oui! Merci .’ It’s thrilling to see the same level of enthusiasm from Noah as I felt when I discovered what her initials stood for.
‘She paid house calls, you said? So, she could have visited our writer and that’s how they met? By chance…’
‘I sense Lily-Louise saw an unhappy woman in a controlling marriage and vowed to help…’
Noah nods. ‘And our author found true love with Lily-Louise? We know from the love letter you found in the bedside drawer in suite twenty they were plotting her escape from the controlling husband, and she asked whether she could come here. And that she’d come with nothing but her heart and soul and an abundance of love… which was my favourite part of that letter.’ So, Noah is a romantic? I loved that part of the letter too and it strikes me as sweet he’s memorised that part of it, just like I have.
‘ Oui . I sense they made plans to be together quickly after that letter. You could feel the urgency in her words about the need to escape, not only him, but because she yearned to be with the woman she fell in love with.’
‘I agree. The writer arrived here, we think sometime after 1924 under an assumed name with support from the Toussaint family, who kept her real identity a secret, we presume so her husband couldn’t find her?’
‘Looks like it.’ From what I’ve read in the notebooks, the Toussaint family had welcomed her with open arms.
‘What happened to the Toussaint family?’ Noah asks.
‘There wasn’t much on the parents themselves, but they had a son, Jean, Lily-Louise’s older brother, who took ownership of the hotel around 1931. Then his son Jean Paul sold the hotel to the previous hotelier, the one you met.’
‘So, if the son Jean took over in 1931, what happened to the parents and Lily-Louise? We need to find out whether our author wrote any journals after that date to find out their fate.’
‘ Oui. But I have the strangest feeling about it. Why would their rooms have been sealed up? If the two women left for whatever reason – travel, escape, family issues – wouldn’t they take their special things? The author’s precious notebooks, her manuscript? Lily-Louise’s artwork?’
‘Yes,’ Noah says, gazing around the suite full of disorderly piles of books. ‘It doesn’t make sense. How old were Lily-Louise and our author, do you think?’
I search the drawer for one of the notebooks I replaced last night. ‘In this one she talks about being married for a long time, almost two decades of mistreatment, so I suppose around forty or so given marriage happened at an earlier age back then? As for Lily-Louise, I’m not sure. I can’t find anything about Lily-Louise’s parents either. Not even a death notice.’
‘The mystery deepens.’
‘ Oui. I hope we’ve found her.’ I shake the novel by Adeleine Deschamps.
‘It’s not enough to go on, is it? One fictional work. Why don’t I look further into the Toussaint family? See if I can find out where they went, when they died. We might be able to track backwards from Jean Paul, to Jean, Lily-Louise’s brother.’
‘That would be great. As much as I want to solve this riddle, we have so much to do before opening in a couple of weeks.’
I wait for him to tell me it’s not possible, but he remains silent. Progress? I check my watch and swear under my breath. ‘Sorry, Noah. I’ve got to go. I’m interviewing a chef today. Manon has found a candidate who has experience in French kitchens. I’m not used to interviewing staff so wish me luck.’
‘ Bonne chance.’
‘Merci. After I’ve met my self-enforced word count this evening, I’ll compile dates from the notebooks and see where they end? Meet here again in a few days?’ We lock eyes and for a moment time stops. I put it down to being swept away by a love affair from a century ago. I step to the doorway, breaking the spell.
‘Oui, I’d love that .’ Noah takes the Adeleine Deschamps novel with him, and I lock up and dash to the kitchen to find our potential new chef opening and closing drawers and familiarising herself with the layout.
‘ Désolée ,’ she says with a laugh. ‘I wanted to see what I’d be working with. I’m Camille.’ We shake hands as I introduce myself and give her a run down on what we’ve achieved so far and what we hope to achieve with the hotel restaurant.
Camille asks a lot of questions and offers suggestions that make no sense to me, like doing American breakfast waffles at dinner, but I gently steer her back to our culinary vision of serving French bistro food and decide to reserve judgement.
‘I’m not experienced in a kitchen, but simple French dishes will appeal to our guests and locals alike.’
She holds up a hand. ‘Say no more. Why don’t I make you one of my signature dishes and you can let your palate decide? If you enjoy it, we can talk about the ideas I have for this kitchen and whether it aligns with yours.’
‘ Parfait .’
‘Would you mind giving me some money and I’ll go and buy some supplies?’ I find my purse and hand over some euros.
Manon appears, wearing her overalls, which are now paint splatted. Somehow they suit her. ‘Did I hear talk about a signature dish?’
‘ Oui , this is Camille. My cousin Manon.’
‘ Enchante,’ Camille says . ‘ Give me a few hours and I’ll serve you both lunch.’
Manon calls out to her but she’s already out the front door.
‘What is it?’ I ask.
‘Is Camille American?’
‘ Oui .’
‘Huh. I’m sure she said she was French on her application.’
‘Does it matter as long as she can cook?’
‘ Non , it’s just I was sure she said she was from Paris. And her references, I haven’t called them yet. I’m sure it’ll be fine.’