Echoes

“I want to see my brother,” he said, looking distracted. “This has gone on for too long. We have to fix this. I have to go to Dordogne to see the lawyers.” There were decisions to be made, properties to run. He could not remain an absentee landlord. He had inherited the château and everything that went with it. And from the last he knew of it, there was a respectable fortune, a small portion of which would pass to his brother Nicolas. In fact, just in the few moments since he'd heard the news, Antoine had decided that he wanted to share the fortune equally with him. The title was Antoine's, and the land. But contrary to tradition, he thought the money should be evenly split. He had more than enough now to be able to afford to be generous with him. “I'll have to speak to Gérard tomorrow. I want to go to France in the next few weeks. I have no idea how long I'll have to stay there.” But they both knew that their days at the Daubignys' château were over. They had spent a wonderful eight years there, but as Comte de Vallerand, Antoine had his own responsibilities. After being banished for eleven years, it was time for the prodigal son to go home now. And overnight, Beata had become a countess. It was a lot to absorb, and Antoine knew he would have to explain it to Amadea.

Antoine spoke to Gérard first. They had a long talk over breakfast the next morning. Antoine agreed to stay for the next few weeks, and after he spoke to the lawyers in France, he promised to come back to Germany for at least a month, to find and train a replacement. He had several suggestions, which sounded reasonable to Gérard. But he was devastated to lose him. They had been friends for years, and Antoine had been a genius with his stables. He had the most important horse farm in Europe. Their champions were famous.

Two days later, knowing that their long alliance was about to end, Antoine suggested to Gérard that they go out to try two new stallions. Antoine had just bought them for him at auction. They were highly spirited and spectacularly beautiful. Amadea watched them as they left the barn, and complained that her father wouldn't allow her to go with them. Instead, she went back to the house to play with her baby sister. She was playing with her in her bedroom later that afternoon, when she heard the doorbell ring, and her mother let someone in. She didn't think about it as she played dolls with Daphne, and after a while, she went downstairs to get Daphne a cookie. She saw Gérard and one of her father's chief trainers sitting in the living room, speaking to her mother, and Beata was wearing a glazed expression. She looked dazed, as she turned and saw Amadea.

“Go back upstairs,” she said tersely, which was unlike her. Amadea was so startled by her tone that she turned and did as she was told, but as she sat in her room with Daphne, she was frightened. She knew even before they told her that something terrible had happened.

It seemed like hours before her mother came upstairs, and when she did, she was crying. She could hardly speak as she held Amadea in her arms, and told her that her father had been thrown by the new stallion.

“Is he hurt?” Amadea asked, looking terrified. Even with only one good arm, he was a faultless rider. And all Beata could do was sob and shake her head. It was an eternity before she could bring herself to say the words. Neither of them could believe it.

“Papa's dead, Amadea…Papa…” She choked on the words, as Amadea sobbed in her mother's arms. Véronique came a little while later to sit with the girls, and Beata went to see him at the stables. He had broken his neck and had been killed instantly. He was dead, the man she would have given her life for. It was almost beyond bearing.

The funeral was an endless agony, and the church was filled to bursting. Everyone who had ever known and worked with him had loved him. Gérard spoke at his funeral eloquently, and Véronique sat beside Beata with an arm around her shoulders. Afterward there was a reception at the Schloss, and the main hall was filled with mourning horsemen. Beata looked like a ghost as she drifted through the room, in widow's weeds, clinging to her daughters.