7. The Pianist
The Pianist
Before I have to meet Henri at the parlor this morning, I search the internet for his dead brother’s name.
Arnie Beauchene.
In this house, alone in this room, I feel the ghost is there, looming over my shoulders.
He doesn’t know he’s dead.
The first few pages of search results aren’t helpful. Articles from almost twenty years ago, nothing about his death. And then, nearly twenty minutes into my search:
Senator’s Only Son Found Dead at Eleven
Foul Play Or Fatal Accident?
Beauchene Family Tragedy
Senator Accused of Endangerment
The articles all summarize the event much the same: he was found dead at the edge of the pond after wandering away from his nanny.
He hadn’t been alone for long. The Beauchenes came under fire for the “neglect” of their son, a controversy which they turned around onto the nanny—successfully—though she’s not named.
But after this influx of news reports over a decade ago—nothing. No one questioned the outcome of the coroner’s report. A drowning. Accidental.
I frown at my laptop screen.
At the top of one of the news pages, a photo of Arnie with the Beauchenes is front and center. He is smiling. His dark hair is ruffled, though he’s dressed smart. His mother and father each rest a hand on their son’s shoulders.
The perfect family portrait.
Too perfect.
Senator Mariane Beauchene (CT) with husband Leo, and son Bastien, only two months prior to the fatal accident.
The young boy in this photo is only a couple years older than Henri is now. They’re strikingly similar—the same soft cheeks, the same long lashes; but where Henri’s emerald eyes sparkle with life, this boy’s dark eyes are hollow.
And the more I look at the photo, the more my unease grows. The story is clear-cut. Why should I doubt it? I have no reason to doubt it. Even the article hinting at foul play mentions there is no real evidence to suggest anything other than an accident occurred.
Henri, at his age, would know better than to play so close to the water. An eleven year old wouldn’t be found on the bank of the pond, already dead.
Something sinks in my chest.
Maybe Arnie did drown. Or maybe he was murdered. Maybe the spirits of this estate claimed him for their own.
I enter the practice room with five minutes to spare, though it’s not Henri waiting for me.
“Mrs. Beauchene.” I pause just inside the door, a bit breathless from the trek across the house.
She plasters on her smile. “Miss Doyle. Good morning. I thought I could check in with you about Henri before I head out for the day.”
Blonde hair perfectly waved, her makeup just subtle enough, her pantsuit ironed into crisp lines. She’s alone, seated at the low sofa in the center of the room, an impatient edge to her posture.
“Oh. Sure.” My face heats with embarrassment, like I’ve already done something wrong.
She gestures to the seat across from her, which I sink into slowly.
I force my spine straight, chin high, breathing steady.
Immediately, I’m analyzing my own outfit for the day—another sweater, a ridiculously-priced pair of black jeans, and my boots—feeling entirely too casual around this woman who keeps company with celebrities and other politicians.
“He seems particularly excited for your lessons,” she says. “I believe he really likes you.”
My blush deepens. “He’s a great kid. And he’s already working hard.”
She hums, nodding. “Again, I do appreciate you coming on such short notice.”
“It’s really no problem. Thank you for—” giving me a chance— “for this opportunity.”
“But.” She flashes that smile again—the practiced, perfect smile. “I wanted to hear your opinion on his progress.”
“Well, it’s only been a few days. He’s quite skilled for his age. I think by the end of the week, I can give you a clearer answer about the speed we can move forward—”
“End of the week. Yes. Of course.” Lips pulling tight over her teeth, cheeks taut. “We are just eager to see him back on track. In fact, we worry his last tutor was actually behind on their lessons.”
“I can assure you he is not behind. I think he’s right where he needs to be,” I say. “And once we're in a good flow, I can have him up to speed with the curriculum in no time.”
I expect her to say something, but she just looks at me expectantly.
“We’re still getting to know each other—I’m still figuring out what he does and doesn’t know—”
“What he does and doesn’t know should all be in the lesson plans. Yes?” Her smile hasn’t fractured one bit.
“Yes. I—I’ll make sure to keep the lesson plans in mind.”
“Good. And you—how are you settling in?”
“Oh,” I say again. She must think I’m an idiot. “The house is very nice. Everyone here is very… nice.”
“And your room?”
“Comfortable.” I force myself to smile back. “Thank you.”
Though I can’t think of anything else but the figure standing at the foot of my bed, too opaque to be a shadow, too solid to be anything other than a man. Faceless, soundless. Watching me. Unmoving, except for the subtle shift of his head to one side.
While I was sleeping.
The ghost of her son, all grown up, who doesn’t know he’s dead.
If Reece is to be believed.
No big deal.
“I do hope your room is comfortable,” she says. “I know you are a bit separated from the staff, but the hope was that you’d find it more restful, away from the early risers. We want you to enjoy your time here.”
I lie through my teeth. “I slept well, but…”
“Have they told you the ghost stories?” She laughs. “Oh, yes, they like to say we have a ghost. My son.”
Maybe enough time has passed that the wound isn’t so fresh?
“Don’t worry about them,” she says. “The staff just likes to spook the newcomers. I can assure you, this house—while admittedly quite old—is not haunted.”
I laugh with her, as though the notion is absurd, as though a figure wasn’t standing at my bed last night waiting for me to wake up.
The ghost of her son, all grown up? Or—
I’m not sure I want to entertain the thought.
No ghosts. There are no ghosts in this house. I was seeing things. It was three AM, and I was seeing things.
“Right, that would be ridiculous,” I say.
She’s waiting for me to make a mistake, to give her a reason to fire me, to send me home, because I’m not like them. She doesn’t think I deserve this.
She can’t fire me.
Mariane stands to leave. “I knew you would be rational.”
I join the rest of the staff at dinner. I don’t see Reece at the table. Or the other men for that matter.
Just a few of the girls, Julia, Ms. Byrne.
The remaining seats that should not be empty immediately weigh down the room with a sense of wrongness. But still I fill a bowl with the steaming soup and grab a slice of bread, the aroma cozy and at odds with the grim expressions around me.
“It’s so terrible,” Daria whispers at her lap, shaking her head as she pushes soup around with her spoon.
One of the others glances at me. I’m not sure I want to know.
“There was an accident—”
“Reece is in the hospital.”
Suddenly my appetite is gone. “What?”
“He was in the garage. By himself. Nathan found him.” She pauses. “I don’t think he’ll be coming back.”
“What happened?”
“Ladies.” Ms. Byrne clears her throat, before turning to me. “Just an accident. Reece seems to have… passed out while working on one of the cars. He injured himself. The doors were down, and the car was running for a while. But he’ll recover.”
Next to me, Julia is visibly uncomfortable. “His hand… Nathan said there was a lot of blood. He could see bone.”
The others grimace.
Ms. Byrne sighs. “Let’s not talk about this now.”
“How does that even happen?” I swallow around the lump in my throat. I know next to nothing about cars but they can’t be that dangerous, can they? “He was working on a running car with none of the doors open?”
It doesn’t make sense.
“Maybe he meant to only run it for a second,” Daria says, shrugging a shoulder. “And then when his hand got caught…”
“He was degloved.” Em shakes her head, but she’s still eating her dinner. “He’ll be alright. They’ll reattach the skin—”
“Ladies.” Ms. Byrne’s voice cuts through the chatter with finality. “Perhaps you can discuss the grim details with each other after we’re done eating.”