Prologue

1716: Poldewei, home of the Languedorf, Esch-sur-Alzette, Luxembourg

A scream shattered the sleepy valley of Esch-sur-Alzette; echoing through the surrounding mountains, a sound which villagers miles away, as far north as Mersch, claimed to have heard on that warm summer’s afternoon. It lasted for only a moment, and then silence returned, especially in the room where Adelheid Languedorf lay still, her face contorted in pain and her body limp, while her newborn daughter—her most-wished for child—was washed and placed in her father’s hands.

Matthieu de Languedorf could think of nothing to say as he stared down into his daughter’s sapphire blue eyes, and as small tear coursed down his cheek as he held her in his arms, thinking of all that Adelheid had gone through for the daughter she had always longed for. She had produced four healthy young sons, all of whom would be suitable heirs to the Languedorf fortune, but her daughter had always been in her dreams.

And now she was a reality—Adelheid had given everything to give a daughter life … even her own. Matthieu remembered a conversation he had with her soon after they were married, and she was pregnant with her first child. When he had asked her if she wanted a son or a daughter, she had replied: "I know that the child inside of me will be my first son. But, one day, I will give birth to a daughter. And I will name her Adeline, so that we shall be as close as sisters but not the same."

He smiled at the remembrance, and of how her hazel eyes had sparkled emerald as she had spoken of her wished-for child.

"Seigneur Languedorf?"

Matthieu turned towards his housekeeper, Madame Troussard. "Oui?"

"The name, mon seigneur?" He stared at her questioningly, and nodded towards the baby he cradled in his arms. "The child’s name?" she asked again.

"Ah, oui," he murmured as he smiled at the child, who seemed now to be sleeping quite peacefully. He looked up at Madame Troussard again, and began to speak. "She shall be named Adeline, because she is of noble blood; Celeste because of her heavenly dispostion; and Marie, because she was very much a wished-for child."

Madame Troussard smiled, and painstakingly wrote the name out for the Abbé to collect the next morning so that he might prepare for the christening, which would be held a week hence. "Adeline Celeste Marie Languedorf … a name of beauty," she murmured as she covered her mistress with the bedcovers. "A daughter to be proud of, a daughter to be loved."

Matthieu nodded to Madame Troussard as he exited the room, and she signalled to one of the maids to race down to the village to register both the birth of a new Languedorf—and the death of an old one. The old woman ushered everyone else out of the room then puttered about, attending to whatever she believed needed attending to, before taking her candle from the bedside table and leaving the room with a whispered, "Goodbye, mistress," and closing the door behind her, the fading rays of sunlight making patterns in the bedlinen, under which the soul of Lady Adelheid Languedorf slept forever.