Swiss Vendetta (Agnes Luthi Mysteries #1)(90)
She heard the murmur of voices from the front hall and adjusted the blanket across her legs, thankful for the fire blazing on the hearth of George’s parents’ home. Even though the air in the weeks following the storm was spring-like, she still couldn’t get warm. The voices got louder and she hoped it wasn’t another neighbor coming to visit. There had been an interminable stream of guests, each one saying they knew she needed rest but that they had to bring something to cheer her up. The visits were always followed by low-voiced arguments with Sybille, who said Agnes wasn’t grateful enough for their interest. An argument that alternated with how reckless she was. How little she cared for her boys.
She closed her eyes and swallowed hard as the scent of a winter stew wafted into the room. The thought of food made her ill. Weak tea and clear broth were all she could stomach. She tried to breathe without smelling, but the effort was too great. She gave up and swallowed again to stifle what came next: the bitter taste of adrenaline. It lingered along with the cold. The taste and feel of fear.
The voices in the hall grew louder and she sat up abruptly, wincing.
“Don’t get up on our account,” Julien Vallotton said.
Agnes tried to anyway, and he crossed the room and put a hand on her shoulder to stop her.
“They wouldn’t let me out of the hospital for the funeral,” she said, instantly regretting her words. She sounded so impolite. Why did he unsettle her so? “No one told me about it until it was too late, or I might have left anyway.”
“Hello to you as well.” Vallotton smiled. “You were missed, but we knew you couldn’t make it. They said a special prayer for you at the service.”
She squirmed at the thought. Was there an appropriate prayer for someone who arrived too late to save a life?
“We reinterred Anne-Marie Faivre when we buried Monsieur Arsov. That was her name. Faivre. And of course Frédéric Estanguet’s last name when he was a child. Anne-Marie and Arsov are now in our family plot. The monument hasn’t been placed yet, but Marie-Chantal designed it and I think Arsov would approve.”
Agnes closed her eyes for a moment and shifted to a more comfortable position. There was a clack-clack of high heels.
“Madame Lüthi has offered tea and I came to see if Julien would also like a slice of cake. Daniel says he can’t manage the steps. He’ll wait in the car.” Marie-Chantal Vallotton walked in and Agnes grinned despite the pain. Marie-Chantal’s outfit would no doubt impress Sybille. She wore a very chic wool suit with extremely high-heeled leather boots and a concoction of wool and feathers angled on her head. An ensemble at home on a Paris runway. She stole a glance at Julien Vallotton and realized that he was also extremely well dressed, beyond his usual tailored suit. She knew they did this as a tribute to her and tears came to her eyes.
A few steps behind Marie-Chantal, Sybille arrived wearing a fresh apron, smoothing her hair back into a bun.
“Your friends are very nice to stop by and check on you.” She smiled across the group as if expecting—hoping? Agnes wondered—one of the Vallottons would counter her suggestion that they were friends.
“It wasn’t necessary,” Agnes said. “Bardy sent me a full report.”
“Of course it wasn’t necessary,” Marie-Chantal said, turning the full force of her smile on first Agnes, then Sybille. “But we were anxious to see you. We peeked in at the CHUV when you were in intensive care but you were sleeping and wouldn’t have known. Poor Mimi was nearly sick with jealousy when the medical helicopter landed to evacuate you to the hospital. If she hadn’t already convinced Doctor Blanchard that she was merely dehydrated and exhausted, she might have joined you and Officer Petit on the ride.”
Agnes smiled. Her boys had asked her about the journey to the hospital, clearly disappointed that she didn’t remember anything about the dramatic flight. She had later learned that a second helicopter had taken Arsov and his butler, along with Felicity Cowell’s body and Estanguet, to the hospital. Petit had recovered quickly, and was in good enough spirits to remark that finally he’d gotten his evacuation. He had brought his son from the maternity ward to see her.
“Julien’s aunt,” Marie-Chantal said in Sybille’s direction, “Madame la marquise, wanted to come today, but we wouldn’t let her. You aren’t well enough to have a crowd and we stopped by unannounced. Terrible manners.”
Agnes stifled another smile, now positive this performance was for her mother-in-law’s benefit. The marquise wasn’t likely to leave the chateau for anyone.
“When you are ready, walking, and feeling better, you have to come stay with us.” Marie-Chantal clapped her hands together as if an idea just struck her. “You could come now. Madame Lüthi can have a respite from her role as nurse and you will be very comfortable—”
“I couldn’t dream of Agnes leaving us. I am devoted to her care,” Sybille interrupted as if she hadn’t wanted exactly this only a few minutes before they arrived.
“We wouldn’t have come today,” Julien said, “but étienne Bardy phoned to tell me that you are receiving a special commendation. For heroism and bravery. He will give you all the details but there will be a formal presentation ceremony and he wanted us to know. I insisted on coming here and telling you myself.” He crossed the room to shake Sybille’s hand. “You must be very proud of her. A hero in the family.”