Leap of Faith Read online

  Frangoise was dressed in a chic navy blue suit she had bought in Paris the year before, and their father was wearing gray slacks and a blazer, and a dark blue Hermes tie that Frangoise had bought him. They made a striking couple. She was thirty-eight years old, and looked a good ten years younger, with a girlish figure, and a lovely, un-lined face, and the same delicate features John remembered from the first day he met her. And he was as handsome and blond as he had been when he parachuted over her parents' farmhouse.

  “You have to promise you'll listen to Sophie while I'm gone,” Frangoise admonished Marie-Ange, as Robert slipped her a dripping canard of coffee under the table, and she popped it into her mouth with a grateful look at him. “Don't go roaming around where she can't find you.” She was starting school herself in two days, and her mother hoped it would keep her mind off her brother. “Papa and I will be home on the weekend.” But without Robert. It seemed like a tragedy to his little sister.

  “I'll call you from Paris,” he promised.

  “Every day?” Marie-Ange asked him with the huge blue eyes that were so like his and their father's.

  “As often as I can. I'll be pretty busy with my classes, but I'll call you.”

  He gave her a huge hug and squeeze and kissed her on both cheeks when he left, and got into the car with his parents. They each had a small overnight case in the trunk, and just before he shut the door, Robert pressed a little package into her hand, and told her to wear it. She was still holding it as the car drove away, and she and Sophie stood side by side, crying and waving. And as soon as she walked back into the kitchen, Marie-Ange opened the gift, and found a tiny gold locket, with a picture of him in it. He was smiling, and she remembered the photograph from the previous Christmas. And in the other half of the locket, he had put a tiny photograph from the same day, of their parents. It was very pretty, and Sophie helped her put it on, and fastened the clasp on the thin gold chain it hung on.

  “What a nice present for Robert to give you!” Sophie said, dabbing at her eyes, and clearing the dishes off the breakfast table, as Marie-Ange went to admire the locket in the hall mirror. It made her smile to look at it, and she felt a pang of loneliness again as she looked at her brother's face in the picture, and another as she looked at the photograph of her father and mother. Her mother had given her two big kisses before she left, and her father had hugged her and ruffled her curls as he always did, and promised to pick her up at school at noon on Saturday, when they got back from Paris. But the house seemed empty now without them. She drifted up to Robert's room on the way to her own, and sat on her bed for a while, thinking about him.

  She was still sitting there, looking lost, when Sophie came upstairs half an hour later to find her.

  “Do you want to come to the farm with me? I have to get some eggs, and I promised to bring some biscuits to Madame Fournier.” But Marie-Ange only shook her head sadly. Even the delights of the farm held no lure for her this morning. She was already missing her brother. It was going to be a long, lonely winter at Mar-mouton without him. And Sophie resigned herself to going to the farm alone. “I'll be back in time for lunch, Marie-Ange. Stay in the garden, I don't want to have to look all over the woods to find you. Do you promise?”

  “Out, Sophie,” she said diligently. She didn't feel like going anywhere, but once Sophie was gone, she wandered out into the garden, and found nothing to do there. And then she decided to go down to the orchards after all, and pick some apples. She knew Sophie would make a tarte tatin with them, if she brought back enough of them in her apron.

  But even Sophie was out of sorts when she came back at noon, and made some soup and a Croque Madame for Marie-Ange. It was normally her favorite lunch, but today she only picked at it. Neither of them was in great spirits. And Marie-Ange went back out to the orchard to play afterward, and for a while, she just lay nearby, in the grass, looking up at the sky, as she always did, and thinking of her brother. She lay there for a long time, and it was late in the afternoon when she wandered back to the house, barefoot as usual, and looking as disheveled as she always did by that hour. And she noticed that the car of the local gendarmerie was parked in the courtyard. Even that didn't excite her. The local police stopped by occasionally to say hello, or have tea with Sophie and check on them. She wondered if they knew her parents had gone to Paris. And as she walked into the kitchen, she saw a policeman sitting with Sophie, and noticed that Sophie was crying. Marie-Ange assumed she was telling the officer that Robert had gone to Paris. Just thinking of it made Marie-Ange touch her locket. She had felt for it all afternoon, and wanted to make sure she hadn't lost it in the orchard. And as she walked farther into the room, both the officer and Sophie stopped talking. The old woman looked at her with such desolation in her eyes, that Marie-Ange looked at her, and wondered what had happened. It was more than just Robert, she could sense that. She wondered suddenly if something had happened to Sophie's daughter. But neither adult spoke a word, they just stared at the child, as Marie-Ange felt an odd ripple of fear run through her.

  There was an endless pause, as Sophie looked at the gendarme and then the child, and held out her arms to her. “Come and sit down, my love.” She patted her lap, which she hadn't done in a long time, because Marie-Ange was nearly as big as she now. And as soon as Marie-Ange sat down on her, she felt the frail old arms go around her. There was no way Sophie could say the words, to tell Marie-Ange what she had just heard, and the gendarme could see that he was going to have to be the one to tell her.

  “Marie-Ange,” he said solemnly, and she could feel Sophie shaking behind her. Suddenly all she wanted to do was put her hands over her ears and run away. She didn't want to hear anything he was going to tell her. But she couldn't stop him. “There has been an accident, on the road to Paris.” She could hear her own breath catch, and feel her heart racing. What accident? There couldn't have been. But someone must have been hurt for him to come here, and all she could do was pray it wasn't Robert. “A terrible accident,” he went on deliberately, as Marie-Ange felt terror rise in her like a tidal wave. ‘Your parents, and your brother—” he began as Marie-Ange leaped off Sophie's lap and tried to bolt out of the kitchen, but he caught her and held her fast by one arm. As much as he didn't want to, he knew he had to tell her. “They were all three killed an hour ago. Their car collided with a truck that spun off the road, and they were killed instantly. The highway police just called us.” His words ended as suddenly as they had begun, and Marie-Ange stood frozen, feeling her heart pound, and listening to the clock tick in the silence of the kitchen. She stared at him in fury.

  “That's not true!” she shouted at him then. “It's a lie! My parents and Robert did not die in an accident! They're in Paris.”

  “They never got there,” he said mournfully, as a sob escaped Sophie, and at the same moment, Marie-Ange began to cry frantically and wrestle with the powerful hand that held her. Not knowing what else to do, nor wanting to hurt her, he released her, and like a torpedo she flew out of the door and raced in the direction of the orchard. He wasn't sure what to do, and turned to Sophie for direction. He had no children of his own, and this wasn't a task he relished. “Should I go after her?” But Sophie only shook her head and wiped her eyes on her apron.

  “Let her be for now. I will go after her in a little while. She needs some time to absorb this.” But all Sophie could do was cry as she mourned them, and wonder what would happen to her and Marie-Ange now. It was so unthinkable, unbearable, those three lovely people dead in an instant. The scene of carnage the gendarme had described was so terrible, Sophie could barely listen to him. And all Sophie could hope was that it had been painless. All she could do now was worry about Marie-Ange, and what would become of her without her parents. The gendarme had no idea when she asked him that, and said that he was sure an attorney for the family would be contacting them about the arrangements. He could not answer Sophie's questions.

  It was dusk when she went out to find Marie-Ange after he
left, but it did not take her long to find her. The child was sitting next to a tree, with her face on her knees, like a small anguished ball, and she was sobbing. Sophie said nothing to her, but let herself down on the ground, to sit beside her.

  “It is God's will, Marie-Ange. He has taken them to Heaven,” she said through her own tears.

  “No, He hasn't,” she insisted. “And if He has, I hate Him.”

  “Don't say that. We must pray for them.” As she said it, she took Marie-Ange in her arms, and they sat there for a long time, crying together as Sophie rocked her gently back and forth and held her. It was dark when they went back finally, and Sophie had an arm around her. Marie-Ange looked dazed as she stumbled toward the chateau, and then looked up at Sophie in terror as they reached the courtyard.

  “What will happen to us now?” she asked in a whisper, as her eyes met the old woman's. “Will we stay here?”

  “I hope so, my love. I don't know,” she said honestly. She didn't want to make promises to her she couldn't keep, and she had no idea what would happen. She knew there were no grandparents, no relatives, no one who ever visited from America. As far as she knew, there were no relatives on either side, and Sophie believed, and Marie-Ange felt, that she was alone in the world now. And as she contemplated a future without her parents or Robert, Marie-Ange felt a wave of terror wash over her, and she felt as though she were drowning. Worse than that, she would never see her parents or brother again, and the safe, protected, loving life she had known had ended as abruptly as if she had died with them.

  Chapter 2

  The funeral was held in the chapel on the property at Marmouton, and throngs of people came from the neighboring farms, and village. Her parents' and Robert's friends were there, his entire class from school, those who had not already left for university elsewhere, and her father's business associates and employees. People had prepared a meal at the chateau, and everyone came to eat or drink or talk afterward, but there was no one to console except the child they had left, and the housekeeper who loved her.

  And on the day after the funeral, her father's attorney came to explain the situation to them. Marie-Ange had only one living relative, her father's aunt, Carole Collins, in a place called Iowa. Marie-Ange could only recall hearing about her once or twice, and remembered that her father hadn't liked her. She had never come to France, they had never visited or corresponded with her, and Marie-Ange knew nothing more about her.

  The lawyer told them that he had called her, and she was willing to have Marie-Ange come and live with her. The lawyer would take care of “disposing” of the chateau and her father's business, he said, which meant nothing to Marie-Ange, at eleven. He said there were some “debts,” which was also a mysterious term to her, and he talked about her parents' “estate,” as Marie-Ange stared at him numbly.

  “Can she not continue to live here, Monsieur?” Sophie asked him through her tears, and he shook his head. He could not leave a child so young alone in a chateau, with only a frail old servant to care for her. There would have to be decisions made, about her education, her life, and Sophie could not be expected to shoulder those burdens. He had already been told by people at John's office that the elderly housekeeper was in poor health, and it seemed best to him to send the child to live with relatives who would care for her, and make the right decisions, however good Sophie's intentions. He said that he would be able to offer Sophie a pension, and was touched to see that it was of no importance to her. She was only concerned about what would happen to Marie-Ange, being sent away to strangers. Sophie was desperately worried about her. The child had barely eaten since the day her parents died, and she had been inconsolable. All she did was lie in the tall grass near the orchard, her eyes staring skyward.

  “I'm sure that your aunt is a very nice woman,” he said directly to Marie-Ange, to reassure her. And she only continued to stare at him, unable to say that her father had said his aunt was “mean-spirited and small-minded.” She didn't sound “very nice” to Marie-Ange.

  “When will you send her away?” Sophie asked in a whisper, after Marie-Ange left them. She couldn't even begin to imagine parting with her.

  “The day after tomorrow,” he said, as the old woman sobbed. “I will drive her to Paris myself, and put her on the plane. She will fly to Chicago, and then change planes. And her aunt will have someone pick her up and drive her to the farm. I believe it is where Mr. Hawkins grew up,” he said, to reassure her, but her own loss was too great now to be comforted. She had lost not only employers she admired and loved, and the boy she had cared for since his birth, but she was about to lose the child that she had adored since the moment she first laid eyes on her. Marie-Ange was a ray of sunshine to all who knew her. And no pension would ever compensate her for what she was about to lose now. It was almost like losing her own daughter, and in some ways harder, because the child needed her, and was so open and loving.

  “How will we know if they are good to her?” Sophie asked with a look of anguish. “What if she's not happy?”

  “She has no choice,” he said simply, “it is her only family, Madame. She must live there, and it is a good thing that Mrs. Collins will take her.”

  “Has she children of her own?” Sophie asked, clutching at some hope that Marie-Ange would find comfort and love there.

  “I believe she is quite elderly, but she sounds intelligent and sensible. She was surprised when I called, but willing to take the child on. She said to send her with warm clothes, it is cold there in the winter.” It might as well have been on the moon for all Sophie knew of Iowa. She couldn't bear the thought of sending Marie-Ange away, and vowed to send all the warm clothes she could, and everything Marie-Ange loved in her room, toys and dolls, and photographs of Robert and her parents, so she would at least have familiar things with her.

  She managed to fit it all into three huge suitcases, and the lawyer made no comment at the number of bags when he came to pick up Marie-Ange two days later. And as he watched her, he felt his own heart ache. She looked as though she had received such a lethal blow that she was barely able to tolerate or absorb what had happened. There was a look of shock and agony in her eyes, which only grew worse as she sobbed in Sophie's arms, and the old woman looked equally distraught as she held her. He stood there for ten minutes, feeling helpless and uncomfortable as they cried, and then finally gently touched the child's shoulder.

  “We must go now, Marie-Ange. We don't want to miss the plane in Paris.”

  “Yes, I do,” she sobbed miserably. “I don't want to go to Iowa. I want to stay here.” He did not remind her that the chateau would be sold, along with everything in it. There was no reason to keep it, with Marie-Ange being so young and going so far away. Her life at the Chateau de Marmouton was over, and whether or not he said it, she knew it. She looked around desperately before they left, as though trying to take it all with her. And Sophie was still sobbing uncontrollably as they drove away, and she promised to write to Marie-Ange daily. The car was already gone when the old woman fell to her knees in the courtyard, sobbing in anguish. And after they left, she went into the kitchen, and then back to her cottage, and packed her things. She left it immaculate, and took a last look around, and then she walked outside into the September sunshine, and locked the door behind her. She had already made plans to stay with her friends at the farm for a while, and then she would have to go to Normandy to stay with her daughter.

  On the long drive to Paris, Marie-Ange did not speak a single word to her parents' lawyer. He made a few attempts at conversation at first, and finally gave up. She had nothing to say, and he knew that there was little, if anything, he could say to console her. She would just have to learn to live with it, and make a new life with her great-aunt in Iowa. He was sure that in time, she would be happy. She could not remain disconsolate forever.

  They stopped for lunch along the way, but she ate nothing at all, and when he offered her an ice cream at the airport late that afternoon, she shook her he
ad and declined it. The blue eyes looked huge in her face, and the curls looked slightly disheveled. But Sophie had put her in a pretty blue dress, with a smocked front, that her mother had bought her in Paris. And she was wearing a little matching blue sweater. She was wearing her best patent leather shoes, and the gold locket that had been her last gift from her brother. It would have been impossible to guess, from looking at her, that she had spent the entire summer running barefoot and bedraggled through the orchards. She looked like a tragic little princess as she boarded the plane, and he stood for a long time watching her, but she never turned to wave. She didn't say anything except a polite “Au revoir, Monsieur,” when she shook his hand, and the stewardess led her away to board the plane that would take her to Chicago. He had explained to them quietly that she had lost her entire family, and was being sent to relatives in Iowa. It was easy for them to see that she was desperately unhappy.

  The chief stewardess had been overcome with sympathy for Marie-Ange, and had promised to keep an eye on her on the flight, and to get her safely on the next flight once they reached Chicago. He thanked her politely, but it made his heart ache to think of what Marie-Ange had been through. And he was glad that she had a great-aunt at least to take her in and bring her comfort.

  He stayed until the plane left the ground, and then went out to begin the long drive back to Marmouton, thinking not only of the child, but of the work he still had to do, disposing of their belongings, the chateau, and her father's business. And he was grateful, for her sake at least, that her father had left his affairs in good order.

  Marie-Ange stayed awake most of the night on the flight, and only after they urged her several times did she pick at a small piece of chicken, and take a few bites of bread. But other than that, she ate nothing, and she said nothing to them. She sat staring out the window through most of the night, as though she could see something there, but there was nothing to see, nothing to dream of now, nothing to hope for. At eleven, she felt as though her entire life were behind her. And when she closed her eyes at last, she could see their faces as clearly as if she had seen them in the locket. She had a photograph of Sophie with her, as well, and her daughter's address. Marie-Ange had promised to write to her as soon as she reached her great-aunt's farm, and Sophie had promised to answer.