Page 85 of A Secret Correspondence
“Yes, it is,” she confirmed, crossing the small chamber and kneeling in front of it. She pushed open the lid, and her mother’s scent blew from the trunk in a cloud, drawing hazy memories from her mind.
“That smell is familiar,” Samuel said.
“Paul sprayed one of the letters. It is my mother’s perfume.” She pushed aside the gowns, gently moving them until she found a small blue gown that had belonged to her. She recalled how much she had loved it. Pulling it from the trunk, she held it up.
“I am certain you looked quite fetching in that.”
“I thought so,” Marguerite said with an impish smile. “My mother was wearing one this very same color the night she died.”
Samuel took the gown and laid it on the bed. Marguerite pulled another from the trunk, then another. Samuel accepted each one and laid them on the bed. When she reached the bottom, she grew still.
“Samuel,” she said, her voice quiet. She could scarcely believe her eyes, but the same blue fabric from her child’s dress was nestled there in a full woman’s gown. The very gown her mother had been wearing the night they had fled France was in the trunk. But how? This trunk had been sent off days before. Had mother changed her gown? Did Marguerite remember incorrectly?
Or had she owned more than one gown in the same color, and now Marguerite had given herself false hope?
“Yes?” Samuel prompted.
“Do you have a small knife?”
“I can try to find one.”
“Please do.” She pulled the gown from the trunk and drew in a small gasp, then carried it toward the bed and laid it out. Her heart hammered in her chest, uncertain if she should allow hope to prosper.
Time stretched. It felt like hours had passed before Samuel returned, but it had more likely been mere minutes. He handed her a letter opener and she turned the gown over, pulling the back open to reveal the interior of the bodice.
“Will you open the drapes more?” she asked. “I need light.”
“Of course.” Samuel pushed them wider, letting more of the late morning sunshine in.
Using the point of the knife, Marguerite worked the stitches free one at a time, breaking only the thread so she could sew the seam back into place when she was finished. It was an arduous process, but she wanted to be careful not to harm the fabric.
“My mother and my aunt both sewed jewels into their gowns when we escaped. I never mentioned it to Paul, which has served me well.”
Samuel did not reply, but stood mutely, watching her.
When Marguerite finished breaking the seam, she pulled open the elaborately beaded panel and reached inside the narrow space, her fingers making contact with cold, hard edges. Her breath caught.
The diamonds were here.
When she tipped the bodice, both the fleur-de-lis earrings and the necklace fell onto her palm.
Samuel gasped.
“They have been safely tucked away in my mother’s gown all this time, sitting in Paul’s bedchamber.”
“Right under his nose.” Samuel shook his head. “The fool.”
“It is a good thing I did not tell him everything after I received the first two notes.”
“I should say so. How did he not find them?”
She ran her fingers over the front of the gown, the panels embroidered and beaded with great care. “The bodice is so stiff, the jewels are impossible to feel through the fabric. They are not overly large, either.”
He reached forward, feeling the thick, inflexible bodice.
Marguerite looked into Samuel’s blue eyes, shaking her head in awe. “I do not know how this gown came to be in this trunk. My mother must have changed before we left the house. I cannot credit it.” She shook her head. “I have believed these diamonds to be buried with her for the last twenty years, and I had accepted it.”
“Now you have them.” Samuel took her hand, pulling softly until she rose to her feet. He looked at the jewelry for a moment before his gaze fell upon her face. “You should keep these, Marguerite. They were important to your mother.”
