Secrets of Paris_ A Novel - Luanne Rice [110]
“We could use a hand,” Lydie said. “Will you come with us?”
Kelly glanced at the chef, who, Patrice supposed, Kelly considered her boss at that moment. For Kelly, life was hierarchy. The chef was watching them, his arms folded across his chest; he had never met Patrice before, had no idea that she was Madame d’Origny, and for one instant Patrice had the brutal wish that he would put up a squawk about letting Kelly go and Patrice would let him have it.
But Lydie explained to him, very politely, in French, who they were and why they needed Kelly. He smiled graciously and said, “Bien sûr.”
The three women climbed a rickety spiral staircase inside the northeast turret. Lydie said, “Precarious.” Patrice gasped once or twice. Kelly climbed in silence. All three seemed determined to focus on their task instead of more important matters. At the top they looked around the round room. Piles of hard and ancient bat feces covered the floor. The only window was a small square cut in the stone, overlooking the park, forest, and river. Lydie glanced out, saw they were at least one hundred feet off the ground.
“ ‘Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair …’ ” Patrice said. Lydie pulled back a canvas tarpaulin, revealing four chandeliers. The three women knelt. “They’re wonderful,” Lydie said, dusting them off. To Patrice they looked too heavy for chandeliers, stocky, made of wood. Each one was attached to a long woven rope with a wooden stake at the end.
“Aren’t chandeliers supposed to be graceful?” Patrice asked. “With prisms to reflect the light?”
“Not if they’re made to hang in trees,” Lydie said. “It could be windy. Let’s see … I guess we toss the rope over a tree branch, then anchor the stake in the ground.”
Patrice listened to her, noting the flat tone in her voice. Was this her way of suffering over Kelly, to keep herself from taking any pleasure in the ball? Yet Patrice felt the same way. Her own voice sounded sonorous, a dirge echoing through the turret. Absently she picked tendrils of hard candle wax off the chandeliers.
“We’ll put candles in the holders,” Lydie said. “They’ll be lovely.”
“I’ll go downstairs and locate many candles,” Kelly said, leaping to her feet.
“Wait!” Patrice and Lydie said at once. Kelly stood still; with escape impossible, her eyes flooded with tears.
Lydie and Patrice rose, walked to Kelly, and hugged her. “I’m so sorry about the petition,” Patrice said.
“It will be okay,” Kelly said, a note of panic in her voice. She quivered; sensing that Kelly wished to wriggle out of their embrace, Patrice stepped back. Kelly wiped her eyes furiously, as though she were angry at them for betraying how she felt. Patrice herself felt washed out, and Lydie was crying. She sobbed with such intensity, Patrice wondered what else had gone wrong: could it be something with Michael? “Um …” Patrice said to her. Lydie glanced up, her eyes red-rimmed.
“Am I making it worse?” Lydie asked Kelly, taking her hands. “I can’t tell you how badly I wanted you to get to America …”
“I know you did,” Kelly said. “And I am so grateful.”
For what? Patrice wanted to say. She felt like snorting, shaking some sense into Kelly. It made her feel impatient, to see Kelly lapse into her old, subservient role. Patrice wanted to believe that Kelly’s time with her and Didier had enlightened her a little. On the other hand, Patrice realized that she herself was slipping into a familiar pattern: it was easier to feel outrage than compassion. “We do have options,” Patrice said, steadying her voice. “I can make you legal in France, my mother can call her congressman …”
“I can contact Immigration when I get to New York next month,” Lydie said.
“Next month?” Patrice asked.
“Yes,” Lydie said, looking at