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.