that any moment now she will engulf me. Who? The murderess, the shadow.
The lives I am about to describe to you are lives full of calculation, strategies and subterfuge. They are also lives full of love, trust, collaboration and self-sacrifice. Have no illusions about me. I am the most mediocre, the most timorous member of this blood-and-soul sisterhood. Curiously, I survived the other three, who were far better equipped to continue. I have wondered over this selection and must admit that I have never understood it.
Before beginning these painful confessions, I want to tell you again how much I have loved you, how much I still love you and will love you for all eternity. Your addition to the happy couple that Henri and I formed was a blessing, despite the terrible damage left by the deaths of Claire and your little sister, Alexandrine. You were our ray of sunshine, our hope. You were my last reason for living. You know that Claire has always remained close to my heart. And yet God knows how much I loved being called Mother, how hard it was for me sometimes to remember that I was only your second mother.
Four sisters, four women, then, including the lovingly obstinate Philippine. Perhaps you were surprised that we never spoke of her, that I was so evasive when you asked about the aunt you had never known. Do you remember how I used to divert your attention with a book, a tree, another story? It was so difficult for me, for us, to lie to you that we preferred evasion …
The last two letters were faint, as though Éleusie had paused before continuing. The first letter of the next word was a splodge, suggesting that she had thrust her quill too hastily into the inkhorn.
… A jumble of confused images comes flooding back to me. Philippine, the magnificent chimera. She was breathtakingly beautiful. You might have difficulty believing that we all, even your mother, whom heaven had blessed with such an abun- dance of mental and physical attributes, considered Philippine a miracle. Her intelligence was equalled only by her beauty, her goodness and her compassion. The angels vied with one another to bestow gifts upon her at birth. Ah … Philippine’s laughter. What I wouldn’t give for the joy of hearing it once more. She had such an easy smile. And yet behind the cheerful nature that lit up the lives of all who knew her lay an exceptionally strong, brave and single-minded woman. Philippine feared nothing and no one but God. I have made one fundamental omission in this otherwise faithful portrait. Like your mother, Claire, though to a lesser degree, Philippine was endowed with the gift of second sight and, although she never spoke of it, unlike me she did not suppress it. I was terrified by my visions, and like a coward I tried to stifle them. Clémence was spared them, although her extreme sensibility occasionally allowed her to envisage events and people as keenly as we did. Claire explored them. Philippine followed them. To the very end.
Thus it was neither wantonness nor an unfortunate accident, still less a shameful sin, when that man – of whom I know nothing – crossed her path and she knew that he must father her child.
As you can imagine we kept her pregnancy a secret. She spent half of it in Italy with your mother and the other half with us in Normandy.
My eyes are moist with tears, my darling boy, for the end is nigh: the end of this letter, which I can picture you reading, Philippine’s end and my own. The midwife declared that it was one of the most terrible births she had ever witnessed. Philippine began haemorrhaging and was confined to her bed. No amount of prayer, remedies or tears helped. I still see her big grey-blue eyes staring out of her beautiful face, her lips dry from fever. One morning I had fallen asleep while I watched over her, and she squeezed my hand to waken me. She declared joyously: ‘Stop your grieving, my dear. I am happy. This was how it had to be. I was ready. Remember me in your heart, gentle sister. Take care of my baby. She is more important than any of us.’ She smiled and puckered her lips in a last kiss before her head fell back. I remained with her until just after terce.+
The child’s hungry cries wrenched me from the yawning yet welcoming abyss into which I was spiralling. Certainly the need to watch over Agnès, the chosen lamb, was what enabled me to overcome my searing grief.
Agnès. Yes, you read correctly. Agnès de Souarcy is your first cousin on your mother’s side, the daughter of Philippine and an unknown man …
Stunned by these revelations, Francesco glanced up at Annelette. The apothecary nun looked back at him. He too had the impression that he was falling into a bottomless crevasse as he tried desperately to process his thoughts.
… It was Claire who decided straight away that Clémence should look after her. With hindsight, I wonder whether your mother had not already foreseen her own death and your coming to us. Baron de Larnay was a dullard and a scoundrel. He had sired so many bastards that one more was unlikely to come as any surprise. We took advantage of the fact that he had, indeed, left Clémence’s maid with child. The poor girl was languishing at one of the farms on the estate, waiting – as was the custom, in order to spare the fornicating nobles any discomfiture – for her delivery, which arrived in the form of a miscarriage. Clémence managed to persuade her to pass Agnès off as her child. I do not know whether the maid accepted with good grace. My dear sister Clémence was a firm-handed woman, and was able when necessary to handle dangerous situations. It surprised everybody how soon Baron de Larnay developed a fondness for the little bastard girl. It was our role to protect and educate her. Again it was Clémence who broke down the baron’s resistance so that years later, when Agnès reached adolescence, he recognised her as his daughter. She cleverly threatened her husband with the state of his soul, already overburdened with sin. The twisted desire Eudes de Larnay felt, and still feels, towards Agnès is less blameworthy because she is only his cousin. However, it was out of the question that he bed her, as he had so many others, at the risk of producing another specimen of their delinquent race.
The rest you know, my darling boy, and I can imagine your surprise. I trust, I hope, that you are not angry with me for having kept you for so long in ignorance. Do not think it a feeble excuse when I say that Claire, Philippine and Clémence were adamant that the secret should not be divulged unless there was a danger that it would die out. This is now the case. I am going to die soon and join my beloved ghosts who have accompanied me during these long years. I already miss you dreadfully, my sweet angel, and yet I rejoice in seeing them again. Amen.
Live, my brave boy. Live and fight on, I beseech you.
Your loving mother for all eternity.
Francesco de Leone was stunned. How could they have kept the truth from him for so long? Why? Curiously, discovering his blood tie with Madame de Souarcy made him feel no closer to her. Not now. And then it struck him. This was exactly what the four sisters had wanted, or at least the three instigators of the deception. It was not his cousin Agnès whom he must defend and protect from and for the sake of everybody, but the key designated by a prophetic birth chart. His body relaxed as he exhaled lengthily. The tightness he had been feeling in his chest for the past few minutes abated. They had been right. The circle was closing. Agnès belonged to their family, a family that had safeguarded the quest for generations. Born of a woman who had chosen motherhood outside the sacred bonds of marriage, no doubt because she had followed the sign that led her to the man who must father her child. A girl.
He looked up at the apothecary who was staring anxiously at him.
‘All is well, sister,’ he reassured her.
He walked over to the little sconce torch she was holding and placed a corner of the letter over the flame. They watched in silence as the chiffon paper slowly blackened. Francesco kept hold of it until he felt the flickering flame scorch his fingers.
‘You must leave here soon, knight,’ Annelette Beaupré urged.
‘I realise that. I won’t even have the consolation of spending a few moments at the resting place of my second mother.’
The apothecary nodded before adding:
‘She is buried in the nave of the abbey church of Notre-Dame, beside her predecessors.’
‘Do