Saturday, October 7, 1837
SPENT of curses, Frederic found the morning less to his liking than the night before. Cloistered in his private chambers, he could spare others his miserable disposition. But for himself, his refuge was nothing more than a prison, an incarceration of the mind, plagued by the memory of the life he had lived, the many opportunities he had wasted, the schemes he had forged in their stead. Another plan had failed. When would he learn he could not bend destiny? The Almighty was determined to prolong the agony of his failure: failure as a father, failure as a husband.
Voices floated up from the gardens, drawing him to the French doors. John was there, squatting and settling Pierre on one knee, his arm encircling the child’s small shoulders. “Now, let me see,” he said, taking hold of the boy’s hand and turning it over for inspection. “Where is this terrible splinter Mainie can’t see?”
“There!” Pierre pointed out. Charmaine moved behind John, watching from over his shoulder.
“Not a very big one,” John commented softly, pulling the palm nearer his face, “but there all the same. They say the smaller ones hurt the most.”
Pierre looked up at his governess, and John’s gaze followed, the sun catching in his hair. He was talking to the lad again, the love in his voice disarming. “You won’t cry when I take this out, will you?”
Pierre shook his head, and John stood, hoisting him into his arms. The sun glinted again, playing a color game with the reddish tints in the brown-blond hair, Elizabeth’s hair.
The boy was a man already. Only yesterday, Frederic thought he had so much time. Suddenly, a distant memory transported him back to a time when John was a similar age to Pierre suffering his splinter. The ship pitched and plunged through the roiling waves. Bursts of thunder exploded, an untamed beast bearing down on them. The cabin door flew open, and the frustrated nanny rushed in, fretting over his wailing son. John could not be calmed, the darkness too great and the storm too fierce to dike his turgid tears. He was placed in Frederic’s care, a father vaguely known to him, a father who had all but disowned him, but could not bring himself to completely renounce the only remaining part of the woman he still loved. Frederic held the lad for the first time that night, knowing that, if nothing else, his strength and size could shield the three-year-old from the tempest and perhaps soothe him. As they settled in the cot, John buried his head in Frederic’s shoulder and his breathing grew steady. Frederic began to fancy the feel of Elizabeth’s son cuddled in his embrace. Then he remembered Elizabeth in that spot and began to cry, hot tears trickling into his hair as he mourned the woman he had lost…
“Damn!” he cursed aloud, ignoring the blur of his vision. Why hadn’t John just taken Pierre and fled? Why?
Yvette stood meekly before her father, ready to accept her come-uppance, comforted only by the fact her sister stood next to her. It had been little over a week since she had last visited the master’s chambers; now she’d be pleased never to step into these rooms again.
“Two things I would have from you,” Frederic began roughly, his shrewd eyes scrutinizing the child from where he sat.
He did not delight in her submissiveness. Remembering Jeannette’s declaration of the preceding night, he berated himself for snuffing out the rebelliousness, the savvy, he admired. Still, she had recklessly hatched more trouble than John and Paul at that age and comprehended little of the danger she could have faced had he not intervened. Therefore, it was best to deal with her sternly.
“First,” he said, “I would have your promise, your word of honor, that what happened last night will never happen again. Beyond that, I want it understood you will never, under any circumstance, leave this house or its grounds without permission from either myself or your governess.”
“Yes, sir,” she replied softly, meeting his eyes. It appeared the man’s apoplectic anger had indeed dissipated, and she regained her aplomb with the pledge, “I promise.”
Frederic cocked his head. “I don’t want the words given casually. I expect you to hold by them, and not just when you think you may be caught. When you leave here, I want to know I can trust you, that your vow won’t be broken.”
“On my life, sir,” she pronounced, “I give my word. I won’t ever do anything so naughty again.”
He smiled for the first time, and Yvette wondered what he found so amusing. “I believe you,” he said.
“And the second?” she probed; he had mentioned two things.
“I want you to apologize to Miss Ryan. You could have caused her great alarm if she had gone to your room and found your beds empty. As it was, she was unjustly blamed for your misconduct, something she didn’t deserve.”
“Is that all?” Yvette asked, convinced the worst had yet to come.
“Isn’t that enough?”
“Yes, but aren’t you—I mean, I thought you—”
“No, I’m not,” the man interrupted, his brow raised. “As angry as I was when I found you gambling at Dulcie’s, I had no intention of beating you, Yvette. However, if something like this should happen again, I’ll not be so lenient.”
“Then—there’s to be no punishment?” the girl asked hopefully.
“I didn’t say that. After some consideration, I’ve decided my timely arrival at the tavern last evening will stand as punishment enough.”
Yvette frowned. “I don’t understand.”
“Then let me explain.” Frederic rummaged through his desk drawer, producing the reticule the girl had stuffed with an assortment of gold coins and one-dollar notes only twelve hours earlier.
Relief washed over her when the pouch jangled, and in unmasked delight, she quickly calculated the value of the purse.
“There’s more than the twenty American dollars you started with,” he said, as if reading her mind, “close to five times that amount by George’s count.”
“George?”
“He confiscated all of your winnings. If your little adventure weren’t so naughty, I’d have to congratulate you. However,” he continued, his voice growing hard and uncompromising, “no daughter of mine is going to gamble—let alone with dirty, low-class seamen. Is that understood?”
“Yes, sir,” Yvette muttered, her moment’s elation quashed with the realization of what was coming next.
“Unfortunately, lessons are often learned the hard way. And the best lesson for you, my dear, is to lose this.”
“But—”
“I’m donating it to the poor.”
“Just the winnings, Papa, please, I promise I won’t—”
“No, Yvette, not just the winnings. You see, it was only luck that prevented you from losing last night. Do you realize what those men would have done had you continued to win? You feared a beating from me, but I guarantee they would have inflicted far worse. They would have followed you and cornered you alone.”
She shuddered and meekly mumbled, “Yes, sir.”
Frederic eyed his other daughter. “What of you, Jeannette? Was any of this money yours?”
“Yes, Papa. Half of it was mine. Yvette said we’d split whatever she won.”
“Well, then, you’ve shared equally in the punishment. It had better not happen again.”
“No, sir, it won’t.”
They watched as Frederic slid open the deepest drawer in the desk, fumbled curiously with what looked to be a false back, deposited the purse there, and replaced the wooden panel.
“It would be safer in the safe,” Yvette offered.
“No, my dear, it won’t remain in the house for long. I’m certain there are a few families in town who could benefit from your generosity. I shall speak to Paul about it.”
He smiled at them, a self-satisfied smile that riled Yvette. She resisted uttering the recriminations that were rifling through her head, certain they would induce his wrath if they found their way to tongue.
“That will be all,” he finished.
Once they were in the south-wing corridor, Yvette took to grumbling. “Just wait until I see George. He snatched all of my winnings and told Father about it instead of me! Why would he do that?”
“I don’t know, Yvette,” her sister attempted to console. “But if Father didn’t use the money as our punishment, we could have gotten worse.”
“Worse? I don’t see how! All that loot and we didn’t even get to count it! It’s unfair, I tell you.”
“Tired?”
Startled, Charmaine looked up from the lawn and squinted against the sun that silhouetted the man looming over her. He stepped forward, blocking the rays altogether. Disappointed, Charmaine smiled halfheartedly up at Paul.
“Not tired,” she answered as he sat beside her, drawing his knees up and locking his arms about them. “Just discontent, I suppose.”
“Discontent? You’re not blaming yourself for what happened last night?”
“Partially. I’m waiting for the girls now.”
She focused on Pierre, who was pushing the swing back and forth.
“Everything will turn out for the best,” he soothed, studying her with a sympathetic eye and an indefinable ache in his breast. “Charmaine, look at me.”
She faced him, surprised by the raw emotion in his eyes.
“I missed you,” he stated simply, his hand catching hers, squeezing it in understanding and support, instilling her with renewed strength. “How was your week?”
John left the terrace and stepped back into the house. Charmaine was already occupied. He no longer commanded her attention. His week had come to a close. Hadn’t he realized that last night? He’d be wise to shut the door. He rubbed his forehead and swallowed hard.
Why was he always denied? Why did he allow himself to be denied? He grunted across the words that chastised him, the gentle petition that haunted him: Take care of them…live and love again, John…
Coming to an abrupt decision, he crossed the foyer hurriedly and took the stairs two at a time. He knew it was a last resort, but because he had nothing more to lose, he set his pride aside and entered his father’s sanctum.
Frederic looked up from his desk.
John read the surprise in his eyes and got right to the point. “I will be returning to Virginia tomorrow. I request your permission to take Pierre and the twins with me.”
Frederic was stunned by the direct petition, awed by his son’s valor to take this step, especially in light of the ugly episode of the evening before. Wasn’t this what he wanted, an honest give-and-take?
“For how long?” he asked.
“Forever.”
“And who will see to their care when you are occupied with business?”
Is my father actually considering this request? John had expected a swift and unequivocal “no.” “Miss Ryan, if she is willing. She has friends there. A move back will allow her to be closer to them.”
Frederic breathed deeply and stood up. He walked to the French doors, weighing the advantages and disadvantages of such an arrangement. Here was an opening to begin setting things aright with his son, but in so doing, would he estrange his remaining offspring?
“And what of Yvette and Jeannette?” he asked.
“What of them?” John rejoined, exasperated. “What will they miss here, except a shadow of a father closeted in a room who pays them no mind, or when he does, rants and raves like a lunatic, and a stepmother who despises them? Where do you think they will be better off?”
Frederic smarted with the truth of the declaration, remembering his cowering daughters. Another grave mistake he needed to correct—for Colette, for himself. He turned back to John. “Why don’t you stay here?” he offered. “Wouldn’t it be easier if you just stayed on Charmantes?”
“Easier for you,” John replied. “I refuse to participate in this—this evil charade any longer. You keep your children close not by giving them what they need, but by withholding it.” He snorted in disgust when his father didn’t respond. “Obviously, your answer is ‘no.’ I knew it would be. I come to claim what is mine—the courage you don’t believe I have—and still I am denied!” Not waiting for a reply, he retreated.
But Frederic called after him, “Not all of it is yours to claim,” and then to the empty doorway, “I cannot release my daughters…certainly not forever.”
“I’m listening, John,” Paul said, annoyed when his brother quietly took a seat. “Surely you didn’t summon me here to watch you recline—”
“Sit down, Paul,” John interrupted mildly. “I have a number of things to discuss with you. I’m not kindling a row, I would like to speak civilly.”
Paul indulged him. “What is it?”
“I’d like to talk to you about Charmaine.”
“What about her?” Paul queried cautiously, warily.
“Charmaine is a decent woman, good and kind.”
“You don’t have to tell me that, John. Remember, it was I who knew her first, I who informed you of her integrity. It took you long enough to recognize it, the noble attributes you sought to scorn and scandalize.”
John concurred. “But I did recognize them. I admit I misjudged her at first. Likewise, you must agree few women can match Charmaine in worth.”
“I don’t discredit that observation,” Paul replied, his brow a study of a mind working. “But where is all of this leading?”
“Have you considered marriage?”
“Marriage?” Paul sputtered. “Are you suggesting I marry her?”
“In a word, yes. Is it so revolting an idea?”
Severely suspicious now, Paul pressed his chin into the palm of his hand and considered the man. “What is this about, John? What is this really about?”
“I’m fond of Charmaine. I don’t want to see her hurt.”
“And you think marriage to me will prevent that?”
“Yes, I do. She loves you, you know, more deeply than I think even you realize. The night I came home, she kissed you with all the passion and love a woman can give a man. I didn’t comprehend how neatly her heart was sewn into the bargain until I came to know her better, heard her speak about you. She doesn’t deserve to be hurt—not by me, and not by you.”
“Then why don’t you marry her?” Paul baited, suddenly angry the man was placing them on the same level.
“Like I said, Paul, she doesn’t deserve to be hurt,” John returned, his voice dead serious. “I confess to my little games, but they’re over now. George tells me the Raven pulled back into port at dawn, something about a ripped spanker and a splintered mast. When she sets sail again, probably tomorrow afternoon, I’ll be going with her.”
“What? Just like that?”
“Yes, Paul, just like that. I plan on telling Charmaine and the children later, but I wanted to speak with you first.”
“I can’t believe it,” Paul muttered.
“But you must, for it’s true. And it is for the best.”
“Is that so? You come back here, upset the children’s lives, make certain they’re attached to you all over again, and then you just pull up and leave. Why? To punish Father for what happened last night? To make him look like the fiend you believe him to be?”
John’s eyes narrowed, but he marshaled his anger and forced himself to answer calmly. “No, Paul, believe it or not, this has nothing to do with Father. But it has everything to do with the children. I, too, have become ‘attached’ as you put it, and such a relationship cannot be, can it? So, what I can’t take with me, I relinquish altogether.” He bowed his head momentarily, then met Paul’s intense regard with one of his own. “For that reason alone, I will be aboard the Raven tomorrow afternoon, and I won’t be back.”
Disconcerted, Paul turned to safer ground, more comfortable with anger than misery. “And what does all this have to do with Charmaine and me?”
John didn’t answer, but Paul puzzled over the question until all the pieces fell in place. “You’re worried Father will dismiss her, aren’t you? Aren’t you?”
“No, Paulie.”
“Yes, Johnny! And what better way to prevent that from happening than to see her married to me, wife to the children’s brother? That would certainly insure her position in the household, wouldn’t it? Wouldn’t it, goddamn you!” When John refused to respond, Paul pressed on. “You amaze me, you really do! Banking on me to fix this atrocity!”
John’s eyes hardened. “You’re a fine one to sit in judgment, Paul—you, who’ve conquered woman after woman without a care in the world.”
“Really? Well, unlike you, John, I haven’t maliciously seduced a woman who didn’t belong to me, just to get revenge!”
“Is that how you see it?” John muttered, the blood running cold in his veins. “All these years—and that’s what you think happened? No wonder you sided with Father.”
Momentarily deflated, Paul drew himself up. “Don’t play me for the village idiot, John. We both know how you hate him. You’ve made that abundantly clear. And don’t point a finger at me because I refuse to be drawn into it. You know what? You’re pathetic!”
“Pathetic?” John rejoined ferociously. “You call me pathetic? Look at yourself, Paul. There isn’t anyone in this house more pathetic than you! That’s right, brother. Take a good look at yourself—sitting next to Father at the table like a loyal dog, anxiously awaiting the scraps of gristle he might throw your way. And like a loyal dog, you’re blind to how he abuses you! Instead, you defend him to the end, hoping if you just show him how capable you are, how diligently you can work, maybe one day he will acknowledge you and your exceptional efforts. Work! Work! Work! Oh yes, Paul, you’re good enough to get the job done. You go above and beyond! But where has it gotten you? John can shirk his responsibilities. John can shame his father with the ultimate affront, but John is still first on the will! And what about you? After all your toil, dedication, and loyalty, you’re not even legitimate yet, are you? If you were my son, you would be! But be my guest, Paul—keep blaming me for all the evil in this house. It’s all very tidy that way, isn’t it? By placing everything on my shoulders, you don’t have to examine the truth.” John pointed at him emphatically. “You’re the pathetic one, Paul, and damn you for not claiming Charmaine while you have the chance. You would rather chase after Father’s unrequited love than return her love, freely given. Mark my words: you will rue the day you were so blind as to throw away happiness with both hands!”
Charmaine studied the pacing man apprehensively. John had said he had something important to speak to them about, and now she and the children waited for him to find the words to begin. He finally came to a standstill, as if immobility would help him overcome his impasse. He faced the twins who sat on their beds, his back to her and Pierre.
“I’ll be leaving tomorrow,” he said, his trembling voice belying the ease with which he delivered the simple statement.
“Leaving?” The single gasp fell from everyone’s lips.
“Charmantes?” Yvette added, horrified. “You’re leaving Charmantes?”
“That’s right. I’ll be aboard the Raven when she sets sail for the States. It’s time I head home and get some work done there.”
“But this is your home!” the girl objected. “Here, with us!”
“No, Yvette, not anymore. I have another home, you know that, one I’ve neglected for too long now.”
“So you’ll neglect us instead? Virginia is more important than us?”
“Yvette, you know that is not true,” he answered softly. “But I do have other responsibilities that—”
“Responsibilities?” his sister countered. “What responsibilities? What could be more important than your family—taking care of us?”
“Yvette, you were fine before I arrived two months ago, and you will be fine after I’ve departed.”
“No, I won’t! And you’re wrong about two months ago, very wrong! I wasn’t fine, none of us were, not until you came back and made everything right! We were so unhappy, but you made us laugh again! You can’t leave now! You just can’t! I won’t let you!”
“You are making this very difficult for me, Yvette, but I must leave, and no matter how much you beg, I won’t change my mind.”
“But why? Why?”
“I’ve told you, I have business to attend to in Virginia and New York. I cannot postpone it any longer.” He inhaled and drew strength from a new thought, infusing his voice with a note of excitement. “What if I promised to invite you, Jeannette, and Pierre for a visit? Perhaps next spring, when the weather warms. By then, the work I’ve ignored will be behind me, and I’ll have plenty of time to spend with the three of you. How does that sound?”
“It sounds like a lie!” she spat back, “a lousy lie!”
“Yvette!” Charmaine scolded, her heart pounding with the climaxing scene.
“It’s true!” the girl retaliated, her blue-gray eyes widened more in pain than anger, riveted first on her brother and then her governess. “He’s lying, just like before. Right after we turned five, he left, promising we could visit, promising to write, promising to send passage in the springtime. But that passage never came and neither did the letters, and no one would even let me speak about it! And then, when I was finally allowed to write, I begged him to send for me, but do you think he answered? No! He just ignored that part of my letters, as if he didn’t care! His letters talked about everything but a visit to Virginia.”
She faced him again, her anguish masked by her rage. “I won’t listen to your lies anymore! Father is right. All you bring to this family is pain and sorrow! You don’t care about anybody but yourself! Go back to Richmond. See if I care. I swear I won’t!”
“Yvette! That’s enough!” Charmaine reprimanded.
John swallowed hard, the agony he experienced more for the child’s woe than his own. “It’s all right, Charmaine, she doesn’t know what she’s saying. I know she doesn’t really mean it.”
“I do mean it!” she protested, twisting away from him when he tried to embrace her. “Don’t touch me! Just leave me alone!”
Having exhausted all avenues of reasoning, John dropped his arms to his sides, bowed his head, and left the misery-ridden room.
The evening meal, long in arriving, commenced in silence, an indication the wretched tableau had yet to come to an end. Whether gladdened or disheartened, one sweep of the room revealed that each member of the family, from adult to child, contemplated John’s sudden decision to depart the island, speechless, heads bent to plates.
Best to hold quiet as well, Charmaine thought. No need to make pleasant conversation and pretend at happiness, to deal with the situation the way Yvette was. The nine-year-old was demonstrating a hearty appetite, a punishment intended for John, though he did not seem to notice. The child didn’t comprehend her brother’s pain, the vile situation that forced his hand. But Charmaine understood, understood enough to know the big family secret was bigger and more terrible than she had been prepared to believe.
A familiar click, followed by a retarded thud, punctured the dismal silence, awakening everyone to the realization the master of the house intended to preside over the unhappy table. Charmaine held her breath. No one said a word as Frederic approached his family. Mercifully, he didn’t stop near John, but made his way toward the foot of the table and the wife who threw him a curious look before surrendering her chair and slipping into the one to his left. Anna moved Agatha’s plate and quickly laid a new place setting. As the minutes gathered, so, too, did the tension.
Pierre’s candid voice shattered the uneasy calm. “Johnny?”
John looked up for the first time, his gaze locking on Frederic before traveling to the boy. “Yes, Pierre,” he asked, clearing his throat, “what is it?”
“I’ve decided somethin’.”
“Have you now?”
“Uh-huh,” he stated with a resolute nod. “I’ve decided I’m gonna go with you tomorrow to that place…Vir-gin-ni-a.”
John paled, but his response was chillingly unemotional. “I’m afraid you can’t. You’d have to leave too many of the things you treasure behind.”
“No, I don’t,” the lad refuted ingenuously. “I got me a trunk. I can put all my stuff in there.”
John didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. “The type of trunk you’d need would be entirely too big. It wouldn’t fit in our cabin.”
“That’s silly,” Pierre giggled. His older brother was just teasing him, as he’d so often done in the past. “I’ve seen that ship, ’member? It’s tremenjus!”
“And what about the people you’d have to leave behind? Your sisters, Mainie? You love them very much, don’t you? Wouldn’t you miss them?”
“They can come, too! Jeannie wants to come. She tol’ me so.” Pierre looked toward his sister, who nodded with a weak, yet hopeful smile. “See?”
“What about Yvette? She’s extremely angry with me.”
“She’d come. Wouldn’t you, Yvie?” he asked, his eyes imploring the girl for a similar response. But she was guarding a severe silence and refused to look his way. “Well, she would anyway…if you asked her.”
“Even so, I still can’t take you with me.”
“Why not? You asked me before.”
Involuntarily, John’s eyes traveled to his father again, and Charmaine’s regard followed. Was it sadness or turmoil on the elder’s face? Perhaps both.
“That was before,” John choked out, “not now.”
“Why? Don’t you love me anymore?”
“Yes, I love you!” John barked, belatedly leashing his strife. “It has nothing to do with that. I’d be far too busy in Virginia to take care of you properly.”
“I can take care of myself. I won’t get in no trouble. I promise.”
“No.”
“But I wanna go!”
“I said ‘no’!”
With bottom lip quivering, Pierre blinked back his tears. “If you don’t take me, I’ll go anyway. I’ll get in my boat and I’ll row there all by myself!”
“You’d never last the trip,” John muttered.
“I will! You’ll see. And once I’m there, you can’t send me back!” He turned his attention back to his plate and said one last time, “You’ll see.”
John propped an elbow on the arm of his chair and pressed his forehead into the palm of his hand. Frederic did the same, looking up only when his son pushed away from the table. He started to speak, but John was gone before the words were out. The moment was lost.
Charmaine quietly closed the door to the children’s bedroom. They were finally settled for the night, a difficult chore in the face of all that had happened in the past twenty-four hours. Rose said “goodnight” and hobbled toward her rooms in the north wing. But Charmaine had no intention of retiring. She’d never fall asleep now; her mind was too full, the hour too early.
She descended the staircase, coming up short as John appeared on the landing. His gaze swept upward until his clouded eyes locked on her, turning keen and holding her captive. Thus they stood, neither one speaking.
“Will I see you before you leave?” she asked.
“The Raven doesn’t set sail until late afternoon. So, yes, you’ll see me.”
“The Raven…It was the ship that brought me to Charmantes. Now it takes you away.”
“You sound displeased, my Charm,” he attempted to quip. “Could it be you, too, will miss me?”
“Yes, I shall miss you,” she whispered, struggling to contain her burning emotions, disturbed by his soft chuckle. “Is that so inconceivable?”
“Somewhat, considering you’ve awaited this date for two months now.”
She ignored the comment that held some truth not two weeks ago. “You’ll write?” she asked instead.
“Yes, I’ll write.”
With his portion of the dialog exhausted, John turned toward the opposite staircase to place some distance between them. Despite his valiant effort, she refused to release him. “Why are you leaving?”
He faced her slowly. “Don’t you know?”
“No,” she lied, wanting only to hold him to the spot.
“Sweet, innocent Charmaine,” he murmured reverently. “Better that you don’t know or you would despise me as well.”
“I no longer despise you…I could never despise you.”
His eyes caressed every feature of her face. “I will carry you with me, my Charm. You’ve provided me with a perfect two months, a time that will have to suffice, memories to hold dear.”
The scraping of wood on wood interrupted them. Pierre appeared at the crest of the stairs, struggling to push Charmaine’s trunk across the floorboards.
“Pierre, whatever are you doing?”
The boy swiftly straightened, his face a mask of guilt. “I’m goin’,” he admitted, expelling one exhausted breath, his determined eyes traveling from Charmaine to John.
“Going where?”
“To Johnny’s other house just like I said I was.”
“Oh no, you’re not!” she argued, marching up the stairs with John close behind her. “Come,” she said, grabbing his hand, “back to bed with you.”
“No!” he objected, pulling away. “I don’t wanna go to sleep! I wanna go with Johnny!”
Before the boy could sidestep her, Charmaine lifted him up, allowing John to take charge of the trunk. “Johnny is not leaving until tomorrow afternoon.”
“I don’t believe him,” Pierre protested, struggling to get down.
“You must, because it’s true,” Charmaine said, holding him tightly and returning him to the nursery, where she found Yvette and Jeannette wide awake. “You are to stay in bed and go to sleep, and if you’re a good boy you will see John first thing in the morning before we go to Mass.”
Pierre pursed his lips. “I bet I won’t! I bet he’s gonna leave without sayin’ goodbye, just like Yvie said.”
John looked at Yvette. “No, Pierre, she’s wrong,” he countered angrily. “I’d never leave without saying goodbye, and you will see me in the morning just like Mademoiselle Charmaine promised, but only if you go to sleep.”
The boy brightened. “And you’ll take me with you?”
“Not this time, and no more begging.”
He burst into tears. “But I wanna go with you! Please let me go. I’ll be very, very, very good! I promise. Please, Johnny, please take me!”
“No!” John shouted. “Now, stop crying or I won’t visit at all!”
The severe threat had a devastating effect. Pierre fought to stem the deluge that glistened upon his flustered face, but only succeeded in gasping for breath. Charmaine gathered him in her arms, yet could not console him. With rigid jaw, she glared at John.
It was the final blow. Disgusted, John confronted his sisters. Yvette refused to look at him, but Jeannette presented a vulnerable target, her frown of disapproval feeding his rising ire.
“Why didn’t you stop him? Why didn’t you call Charmaine when you saw what he was doing?”
“Pierre can do just as he likes,” she answered callously, her voice unnaturally sharp, an indication that although she had remained silent, her pain was no less malignant.
“Do as he likes?” John asked incredulously.
“That’s what you always do, don’t you? Go ahead and run away—run away because it’s easier than trying to be nice to Father. And when you’re back in Virginia, you can forget about us, just like you did the last time. Yvette is right. You don’t care about anybody in this family.”
“Jeannette, that’s not true!” he choked out. “I hate seeing you like this.”
“Then why are you going?” she moaned, leaping from the bed and hugging him fiercely until he was forced to hug her back. “Please don’t go! Say you’ll stay! Or take us with you! We’ll do anything—anything if you’d only—”
“I can’t,” he muttered, ripping away from her and rushing out of the room.
Charmaine lay on her back staring at the ceiling, seeing nothing of the room save her memories of John in it. It had begun that first night he’d come home.
John—when had he come to mean so much to her? When had the thought of him changed from frown to smile? Displeasure to pleasure? He’s an enigma—a one of a kind…You either hate him or love him, and it’s usually in that order…When had the Good Lord revealed the real man?
John—heir to his father’s immense fortune. The thought of such wealth commanded by one individual would send some women swooning, others salivating at his feet. How sad for them; they’d be blind to the bounty beneath. John could be a beggar, and still she would count herself the richer for having known him.
John—sleeping just down the hall, or perhaps he wasn’t sleeping at all.
Dismally, she wondered if she’d ever see him again. How barren the future appeared. No more picnics, excursions into town, endeavors that courted trouble and made life worth living. No more exchanging of words, matching of wits, conversations that scoffed at boredom, or plans that dismantled the most carefully laid routine. Each day, each encounter had been different, unexpected, rich and rewarding. Would the dawn steal it all from her? How was she to endure without him?
She ached for his melancholy, the decision he was forced to make, one that cut more deeply than his innocent sisters fathomed. But Charmaine understood. The pieces of the elusive puzzle pointed to one horrible, yet logical conclusion: Colette and John had been lovers; had, in fact, conceived a child together. Pierre was Frederic’s grandson! It couldn’t be true—but it must be true!
How could it have happened?
Colette—married to a man old enough to be her father. Was this the reason she had turned to John? It couldn’t be! Surely her sacred vows had meant something. And she had claimed to love Frederic, had told Charmaine she had been attracted to him from the moment they’d met. Why, then, would she take her husband’s son as a lover?
Frederic—he must have been devastated when he learned his wife had been unfaithful—that his son had betrayed him. Charmaine could just imagine John and Frederic fighting over the woman they both loved, the truth of Pierre’s conception spilling out and inducing the seizure that left Frederic crippled.
John—why would he enter into an adulterous affair with his father’s wife? Was this his revenge for the scorn he’d endured as a child? It had to be more than that. John loved Colette. Charmaine could feel it, knew it to be true. And he desperately loved Pierre, the precious remnant of that love.
How could Colette have allowed this to happen?
She had wreaked havoc in this house, her love for father and son tearing the entire family apart. And yet, Charmaine couldn’t condemn her. What a terrible tragedy! Everyone had been affected, would suffer the repercussions for generations to come. This was the reason Colette’s ghost roamed the house: her soul was not at peace!
And what of little Pierre? Would he grow up believing Frederic was his father and think of John only as an elder brother? John had wanted to take him away, Charmaine suddenly realized. That was the cataclysmic impasse he had reached that night she’d found him at the piano. No one deserves to be hurt, least of all an innocent child. So, John would sacrifice his own happiness for Pierre’s welfare. But would the boy be happy without him?
Charmaine shook with the ferocity of her thoughts. Would she ever know the whole incredible story? Could this family ever bury the past? No, a situation this heinous could never be forgotten, let alone reconciled, for it lived on.
Tears sprang to her eyes, but she didn’t fight them back. Grasping her pillow, she turned her face into its downy softness and cried, cried in the hope her tears would wash away her depraved conclusions.
Sunday, October 8, 1837
Pierre was ill. Though he wasn’t running a fever, his face was flushed and he complained of a headache and stomachache. Obviously, he was suffering from a battered heart.
“If Pierre is not going to Mass,” Yvette announced, “then neither am I!”
“Yes, you are, young lady,” Charmaine remonstrated lightly. “Your little brother isn’t feeling well, but you are just fine.”
“Who will mind him while we are gone?” she asked peevishly.
“I’m sure John will look after him for an hour.”
The declaration sent Yvette into a huff, and like the preceding night, she turned her sullen face to the wall.
Charmaine smiled to herself. Yes, John would lend a hand—his last chance to spend time alone with Pierre.
John sat on the bed beside the boy, gently stroking the tousled hair, placing each strand back in place. The house was so very quiet, the lad’s heavy breathing the only sign of life in the great manor. The silence mocked the wailing of John’s heart, the piercing pain so intense he could no longer fight it, and the first tears spilled on his extended hand.
Two months, he’d been granted two months. It would have to be enough, last the rest of his days. Eight weeks of laughter. Funny, he couldn’t recall the heartache and frustration of having reached Charmantes too late. Only this day’s anguish persecuted him now. Two months…If there was a God, he thanked Him.
A bloodcurdling howl rent the air, and John shot to his feet, racing out to the balcony. Across the lawns, pandemonium ruled. A stableman was doubled over in pain, the arm he cradled bent at an odd angle. Another man skirted across the paddock, shouting over his shoulder, “He’s over there!” Two other men ran toward the house.
Highly agitated, Phantom snorted loudly and pranced in a circle, tossing his massive head from side to side. Abruptly, he stopped and rubbed his muzzle against a leg, then reared and pawed the air, trumpeting his unfathomable anger to the heavens. He repeated the fierce dance again and again, his hooves clattering on the cobblestone.
Three grooms approached gingerly, bridle and rope in hand. But the stallion charged them, a surprise attack that caught one man off guard and clipped his shoulder, catapulting him backward. Before he could jump to his feet, the beast reared again and the lethal hooves came pounding down, missing him by inches.
Cursing, John dashed through the nursery. Pierre slept on. Without a thought, he reached the hallway and took the stairs three at a time.
John was leaving. Frederic paced his chamber, allowing the words to reverberate in his mind. His son was leaving—for good, this time. Damn him for going now. Damn him for going alone!
Frederic hadn’t slept last night; nevertheless, he savored the burning sensation behind his eyes, the fatigue that was creeping in. He relived the scene at the dinner table over and over again. Would his family never know happiness? Would this be his legacy to his children?
Poor little Pierre—so young, so beautiful, so innocent. Frederic loved the boy in a way he’d never loved John, or even Paul at that age. He’d been given a second chance with Pierre. And what had he done with it? He’d spurned it. With bitter remorse, he remembered the months following his seizure, those wretched days when he’d languished as a mute cripple. He recalled the first time Rose had placed the tiny babe in his arms. The woman had been wise, for ironically, it had been that innocent infant who had coaxed him out of miserable nonexistence. Now, when the child had come to mean the most, when holding the three-year-old on his lap was the closest thing to happiness, he realized it was time to let go. John deserved Pierre’s love far more than he did. But John wasn’t about to hurt the boy by tearing him away from all the things he treasured, namely his sisters and his governess. That was why John had asked for the girls, why he’d set all pride aside and practically begged to have them. Where Frederic had schemed, John had been honest, braving his contempt and asking for the children even though he could have stolen them the week before. And what had he, his father, done? He had denied him, again. You keep your children close not by giving them what they need, but by withholding it. Dear God, John was right.
Frederic raked his hand through his hair. He knew what he should do, what Colette, even Elizabeth, would want him to do. Reaching a resolution, he opened his safe and pulled three documents from his will. He sat and scrawled a last declaration on each one.
A movement at the French doors caught his eye. He blinked twice. Colette stood in the casement, an apparition so real he questioned his sanity. Perhaps he’d fallen asleep. In a rush, he stood, but for every step he took in her direction, she remained out of reach, a sad imitation of their marriage. He exited the room and pursued her along the veranda. But the wraith floated westward, slowly dissolving into the morning air. He shook his head once, twice, unsure if he tried to rid his mind of her image or recapture it.
His eyes were drawn to the edge of the pine forest. He thought he’d seen some movement at the base of the trees. Something was definitely there; something had grabbed his attention. He didn’t know what precisely, and he cocked his head to better see. It did not help. Still, his eyes remained riveted to the spot—the opening that marked the path that led to the lake.
His heart quickened, and blood surged through his veins. He tried to discount the anxiety that gripped him, but could not. Unmindful of the cane that clattered to the balcony floor, he hastened back into his room, reaching the bell-pull in five large, unencumbered strides. Someone would come. Not everyone was at Mass. Again, he yanked on the rope, praying someone would respond, cursing when another minute passed and still, nothing. Enough! He was down the hallway before Felicia had reached the top of the stairs.
“Sir? You wanted something?” she asked, curious as to why his face was ashen, why he was even in the corridor.
“Get Travis.”
“But he’s at Mass, sir, as is the rest—”
“Get him, damn it, and get him now! Tell him to go into the forest—behind the house! Something’s wrong at the lake!”
“Sir?”
“Just do it, girl!” he shouted, his fervor sending her racing down the stairs. “If Paul is there, tell him the same! Remember—they’re to check at the lake!”
The churchgoers congregated in the small vestibule and spoke in hushed tones, attempting to make sense of the interruption that had halted Sunday Mass and sent Paul and Travis on a crazed mission to the lake.
“I want some answers,” Agatha demanded, dismissing Benito’s outrage.
“I don’t have any, ma’am,” Felicia replied. “Like I told you, the master, he rung while everyone was at Mass. But before I could reach his apartments, he was rantin’ and ravin’ in the corridor, demandin’ Travis and Master Paul be sent to the lake to check on somethin’.”
“To check on what?” the mistress pressed. “What was to be checked?”
“A problem of some kind. He didn’t say what.”
As the hour lengthened, and it became apparent the Mass would not resume, the assembly slowly dispersed.
“Come, girls,” Charmaine urged, “let us check on Pierre.”
The nursery was unusually quiet. Then Charmaine knew why: John and Pierre weren’t there. For all the times she’d found the boy’s bed empty, experienced that heart-stopping panic that left her limbs painfully weak, this time it did not, this time she smiled. Pierre was with John. John had him. One last hour together; they needed that.
A chilling scream annihilated the happy thought, then thundering footsteps.
Paul’s desperate voice reached them—rapid-fire orders shot from the foyer. “Get Blackford! Now, damn it! And blankets, I’ll need blankets—all you can gather! Then Rose—find her and find her fast!”
Silence—a second’s silence and then: “John—my God—where were you?”
Another voice—John’s. “What the hell—”
Then Paul again: “We’ve got to get him upstairs! Damn it, John! He’s swallowed a great deal of water! We’ve got to—”
“What water? Where in God’s name did you find him?”
“The lake! Jesus Christ, John, there’s no time to explain! We’ve got to get Robert!”
“Give him to me, Paul. Goddamn it, give him to me!”
Wednesday, October 11, 1837
For the third consecutive morning, the sun broke free of the horizon and captured the navy blue heaven, blessing the world below with its promise of a new day. And for the third morning in succession, this was not so within the great manor, where family and servants alike awaited word from the governess’s bedchamber.
Pierre lay in a state of delirium. A raging fever swept him along a maelstrom of hallucinations in which his amber eyes grew wide, perceiving monstrous images crawling on the ceiling. Charmaine called to him, but he did not respond.
Rose changed the saturated bed clothing, but no sooner were the fresh linens tucked in place than the boy was drenched in sweat again. With a click of her tongue, she returned to the task of bathing his fiery brow, laying a chilled cloth upon his forehead. He vaulted against the polar contact, but she held it in place. The compress was instantly branded. Undeterred, she removed it and tried again. Thus far, her remedies had been ineffectual, but she refused to cave in to despair. Instead, she relinquished the cloth to Charmaine, picked up her worn rosary beads, and knelt beside the bed, petitioning the Lord’s Blessed Mother to intercede. Her lips mouthed the prayers while her crooked fingers counted off the smooth beads one by one, decade by decade.
As the day wore on, Pierre’s condition changed. His limbs flailed against the blankets that suffocated him one moment and failed to warm him the next, his small teeth chattering in his scarlet mouth. He began to moan and call out names, incoherent phrases that slurred into “Mama” or “Mainie.” Charmaine consoled him with gentle caresses and endearing whispers, cursing her inability to do more.
The shadows lengthened, and at the toll of seven, an uneasy calm descended on the infirm chamber. The tossing and turning stopped, but Pierre’s lungs labored to capture what little air the selfish room offered, his wheezing amplified, though the rise and fall of the coverlet was barely perceptible. Rose tiptoed from his side and left the room. Charmaine took over her post, refusing to succumb to fatigue. She would not leave the boy until she was certain of his recovery.
Her resolve was not singular. Of all who had come to check on the boy’s condition, those who remained an hour or two, or those who milled in the hallway beyond, one person had not abandoned Pierre for more than a minute at a time, departing only to see to necessaries, eating nothing. Charmaine’s regard traveled across the bed to John. He had finally fallen asleep, his neck arched and head pressed into the back of the armchair. She sighed, grateful her eyes had not met his. She despised the desperation and guilt she read there. His momentary surrender to exhaustion was just as disconcerting. Yet, at least he was not pacing, a march that tore at the carpet as surely as it tore at her sanity.
For three days, he had measured the room by the length of his stride, an eternity of steps interrupted only when a knock fell on the outer door. The chamber had become a fortress he fiercely guarded, barring most, allowing entry to those few he himself selected: Paul and George, Fatima, bearing trays of food. The rest did not question his restrictions; perhaps they thought him mad. By all outward signs, the apathy apparent in his unkempt state, he was. His face had become drawn and ashen, the cheeks hollow, the chin prominent. Both carried the stubble of a beard. His sunken eyes were listless. The usually tousled, glossy hair was matted and coarse, clinging to his dampened brow. He looked like a man possessed.
Time drew on. Rose returned, though not alone. Paul was with her. Neither spoke as they stepped deeper into the room and stopped at the foot of the bed. Paul clasped a bedpost, his visage grim. He regarded Rose, nodding slightly to her. Taking the cue, she moved to John’s chair.
Sensing her presence, he opened his eyes. She considered him, noting the lassitude that had taken hold, his faltering lucidity. Inhaling, she spoke. “John, I’ve asked Paul to call on Robert. If you’d give your consent, he’ll leave immediately.”
The bleary mind was instantly sharp and attentive. “No,” he growled.
“But, John—”
“No!” he bellowed. “I don’t want him near the boy!”
“John, I’m not a physician. I’m not schooled in the remedies employed—”
“You are,” he stated vehemently, his rough voice growing earnest. “When we were young, never once did you fail us. No matter the illness, you always found the cure. Though you doubt your ability, I know you can help Pierre.”
“You expect too much of me. I’ve done everything within my ability.”
“If you can’t help him, then no one can.”
“You don’t know that, John. We have a physician on the island who—”
“I said ‘no,’ damn it! I won’t allow that incompetent ass to touch Pierre. My God, the man killed the boy’s mother. He killed my mother!”
“John, you’re wrong,” she whispered woefully.
“Think what you like,” he snarled, “but I swear, if Robert Blackford takes one step across that threshold, I’ll wring his neck with my bare hands. I swear I will.”
“Very well,” Rose soothed in resignation. “I’ll not press you on the matter. However, you will go downstairs and have something to eat. Fatima has prepared some broth, and after you’ve finished that, you must get some sleep.”
“No.”
“Charmaine and I will remain right here,” she persisted. “If there is any change in his condition, we will come and get you immediately.”
“No.”
“John, I won’t take no for an answer. You need nourishment and sleep.”
“No! I said ‘no’!” he barked. “I won’t allow you to sneak Blackford into this room by shooing me away!”
Rose gritted her teeth, unintimidated. “I wouldn’t do that, not to you or to anyone else to whom I’d given my word.”
The planes of the man’s face remained set, far from contrite.
Rose proceeded with care. “You’re working yourself into a state of collapse, and then I’ll have not one, but two patients to attend to.”
“I’ll be fine. Just minister to the boy and forget about me.”
“Rose is right,” Paul interjected, stepping forward. Though his words bordered on a command, they also rang with compassion. “John, please listen to her. You know she has Pierre’s best interest at heart. I’ll take up your vigil for a while.”
“You?”
“Yes, me,” Paul answered softly, impervious to the snide query.
“It would benefit me to stay. If I hadn’t wasted precious time arguing with Travis outside the chapel, if I had rushed to the lake right away, I might have gotten there before the boat capsized. I’d like to do something, know I’ve helped in some way.”
“You’re not at fault,” John refuted tightly. “I know who’s to blame.”
“John, please. I’ll not fail you this time. I swear I won’t.”
Paul awaited his brother’s response, unsure if his pledge had met its mark.
John pushed out of the chair, swayed, then cast imploring eyes to Charmaine. “Promise me you will not leave Pierre—you won’t permit Blackford access to this room.”
“I—I promise,” she stammered.
“Swear it.”
“I swear it.”
Satisfied, John stared down at Pierre, combed his fingers through the boy’s hair, and staggered from the chamber. Charmaine watched him go, disturbed by a sudden sense of desolation. Even in his incapacitated state, John had radiated an intensity of purpose that had guarded against the enemy. She feared his abandonment and turned worried eyes to Paul.
“No need to fret, Charmaine,” he said, “John will not hold you responsible.”
“Responsible? What do you mean?”
But he hadn’t heard her, for he’d already turned to Rose, who was speaking urgently to him. “You’d best leave immediately if you are to get Robert here before it’s too late.”
Charmaine reeled with the plot being hatched. “What are you talking about? You mean to bring Dr. Blackford to this room when you know how John feels about him?”
No answer, their muteness branding them guilty.
“I can’t believe it! You gave your word!”
“Charmaine—”
“Child,” Rose soothed. “There’s no time for explanation. Pierre is dying.”
“No!” Charmaine refuted fiercely. “You’re wrong, terribly wrong!”
“I wish I were. Like John, you deny in your heart what you know to be true. The boy is dying and if we don’t call on Dr. Blackford now, tomorrow John will blame himself for more than just this terrible accident.”
“No, he can’t be,” she whispered, her eyes sweeping to Paul, desperately seeking some ray of hope from him, finding only defeat. “You’re betraying John. You’ve deliberately deluded him—tricked him into leaving this room. And I won’t believe Pierre is dying. God wouldn’t claim the life of an innocent boy, not when there are so many praying for his recovery.”
Her words echoed off the walls, then died. No one spoke, though their minds raced, searching for solutions, finding none, aware only that there was no hope to be found in hopelessness, no miracle to be wrested from the firm hand of the Almighty. Charmaine studied Paul. He quickly diverted his distraught gaze. When Rose cast her eyes to the floor, taking on the yoke of the accused, Charmaine turned away, a tear trickling down her cheek.
Silence reigned. She slumped into John’s chair and took succor from the silence, reveling in its blanketing void. It was an unsullied silence, offering a peace she had not enjoyed for three long days. But suddenly, it seemed as if the room had become overwhelmingly silent, as a deeper, more intense silence enveloped her, severing itself from time and becoming an entity in and of itself. She concentrated on the silence, wondering what made it different. It was a silence that negated the gravity of the situation, a silence that lulled one into a false sense of security, a silence undisturbed. The wheezing had stopped.
Charmaine bolted to her feet and threw herself at the bed, grasping Pierre. “Rose! He can’t breathe! I don’t hear him breathing!” She tore away the suffocating blankets and shook him. “Pierre—breathe! Dear God—breathe!”
Her petition went unanswered, and slowly, painfully, the terrible truth took hold. Charmaine looked down at the feeble head that lolled against her arm, the long eyelashes fanning flushed cheeks. With an agonizing groan, she cradled the limp body to her chest, buried her lips in his matted hair, and sobbed.
“Charmaine…”
From far away, she discerned Paul’s voice, felt him loosen her hold on the boy, watched Rose restore the lifeless body back to the center of the bed, was cognizant of being drawn farther from it, her vision blurred, then farther still…
“Let me go!” she protested savagely, reclaiming her sanity, attempting to reach Pierre again.
“Charmaine! Don’t do this!” Paul commanded. “The boy is gone. You’ve held on long enough.”
With the strength of one possessed, she wrenched free, but came up short as she stormed the bed. Pierre lay so very still.
“He’s at peace now,” Rose murmured.
The statement was like a knife in her heart. Refusing to accept it, she fled.
“Charmaine—wait!”
“Let her go,” Rose advised, grabbing hold of Paul’s arm. “She needs to be alone, and I need you here.”
Charmaine reached the stairs and stumbled down them, for blinding tears distorted the shadows around her. More than once, she clutched the banister, catching herself before she fell to the landing below, still, she did not falter in her demonic pace, not even when she reached the foyer. Her legs carried her through the disused ballroom and toward the chapel doors. With muffled sobs, she closed her burning eyes, a fervent prayer racing through her mind, already on her lips: Dear Lord, help me to accept Your will and bereave the loss of my loved one. Please…give me the strength to go on…
She passed through the vestibule’s archway before she saw him. Head bowed, John was half-sitting, half-kneeling in the pew nearest her. His elbows were propped on the bench in front of him, his forehead pressed into the white knuckles of his entwined fingers.
She rushed forward, and his head lifted. He jumped up and grabbed hold of her. “What is it?” he demanded. “Pierre—is he all right?”
She hesitated, until he shoved her aside and raced for the doorway.
“John—don’t go up there! You mustn’t go up there.” She put a hand to her mouth as another wave of tears erupted in her throat. “Pierre is dead. Oh God, John, he’s dead.”
He stared, unseeing, as her words amplified—laid siege to his heart and ravaged his soul. Then silence reigned, carrying with it a cross and nails. He threw back his head and laughed pitifully. “And I came here to beg mercy from a God who has none!”
“You mustn’t say that!”
“Why?” he growled. “Because I’ll provoke His wrath?”
He stepped back and shouted at the crucifix suspended above the altar. “Must you punish me forever? Will I never see an end to it?”
“John! Stop it! Please stop!”
“He’s taken everything from me—everyone I’ve ever loved.”
“No, John, it wasn’t the Lord’s doing. He has no reason to persecute you, and you need Him now—the solace only He can offer.”
“I don’t want His damned solace!” he exploded. “I want my son! Can’t you understand that? I want my son!”
“Merciful God,” she murmured. I was right!
Unconsciously, she stepped back, her reaction catching his eye.
“Poor Charmaine Ryan,” he snarled diabolically, “subjected to evil and decadence. See, you were right about me all along! I fathered that child you loved. He was nothing more than a bastard.” His voice cracked, the anger failing him, though he strove to hold it, command it. “I require no audience, my dear, so why don’t you run along, back to your pristine world of morality and self-righteousness? I’m capable of dealing with this on my own, have been for quite some time now.”
His cruel remarks did not affect her; no words remained to chase her away.
John damned her for holding fast to the macabre sanctuary, for gawking at him. He’d make a fool of himself soon; invading visions of Pierre assaulted him with such clarity he could feel the boy’s hand in his, the brush of his pursed lips on his cheek—a swift, piercing embrace.
“Dear God,” he groaned, “I loved him. Why did you take him away? Why?”
He drove a trembling hand through his matted locks and swallowed hard, as ineffectual at dislodging the lump in his throat as he was at barricading his grief. The tears gathered, so he tilted his head back to catch them, but they spilled over, trickling into his hairline. He was losing the battle and, with a moan, the fortress caved in.
“Oh God, Colette!” he implored, his head still thrown back as if he could see through the stone ceiling to the heavens, as if she could hear him. “Why did you abandon me? For what? What did you gain—but misery and death? I loved you and I needed you, but you sent me away. Why didn’t you turn your back on this evil place when I begged you to? You would still be alive—our son would still be alive! Why did you think this—this was for the best?”
“John, don’t do this! Please, don’t do this to yourself!”
Someone was beseeching him, tugging on his arm. Suddenly, that someone was in his arms, and he was clinging to her for dear life, unable to let go, certain he’d be submerged in a cauldron of fire if he let go. His world was crumbling; the lofty summit upon which he was perched was quaking precariously, and the jaws of madness waited hungrily below.
Charmaine returned his fierce embrace and caressed his broad back, her yearning to be held just as desperate. His head was buried between her shoulder and cheek, and she could feel his tears on her neck, the desolate phrases he uttered, incoherent at times, painfully clear at others.
“Colette…Hold me! Please, hold me!”
Her arms tightened around him, pulling him closer. Then she turned her face into his chest and wept bitterly. She didn’t know for whom she cried: Pierre, the tender lad, Colette, the melancholy woman, or John, the brooding man, full of life, laughter, tears, hatred, and love. A man she had yet to understand. Her heart ached for them all. And she cried for herself, the immeasurable loss she was just now beginning to experience; would have to live with the rest of her days.
“I killed him! Dear God—I killed him!”
“No!” Charmaine countered, pulling away. “No, you mustn’t blame yourself! It was an accident, a terrible accident.”
“Accident? No, Charmaine, it wasn’t an accident. Accidents happen when people have no control over a situation. When I learned of Pierre’s conception, he became my responsibility. I should never have abandoned him, but I did. I set everything on course to this end. The sins of the father were laid upon the son. He’s dead because of me.”
“No, John,” she disputed fervently. “You are wrong. God wouldn’t hurt Pierre to punish you. He was a dear little boy, whom God loved as much as you did. As for your past transgressions, they are in the past. Pierre had nothing to do with them.”
“He was at the center of them!”
His voice was heavy with guilt. What was she to say to a man who had taken his father’s wife and witnessed that woman bear his child?
“I should never have come back,” he bit out. “He would have been spared if I had never entered his life. I should have remained a distant brother, a name occasionally mentioned, a name without a face. But Colette insisted I come, and once I’d seen him—he was such a fine boy—I couldn’t turn away, I just couldn’t. I knew I was making it harder on myself—on him—but I thought if I gathered enough memories, I’d be able to make the final break. I never meant to hurt him.”
He turned aimlessly to the pews again, slumped onto the bench, and buried his head in his hands.
“I know you didn’t, John,” Charmaine soothed, joining him there.
“I didn’t deserve him,” he ground out. “He was too fine a boy to have a father the likes of me.”
“That’s not true!”
“It is true! If I were any kind of a father, would I have left him alone?”
“John, you had no way of knowing Pierre would leave the room!”
“Didn’t I? He was determined to go to his boat only the eve before! I knew he didn’t want me to leave, knew he wanted to come with me. And what did I do? I refused him, and I hurt him. I broke his heart. I saw the pain on his face—saw him choke on his tears, and then, because I couldn’t stand to see him cry, I turned my own misery on him and threatened to desert him without a final farewell. God forgive me,” he sobbed, “that was the gravest sin of all! Is it any wonder when he awoke he’d assumed I’d left and ran to the lake to follow me?”
“You didn’t know. How could you know?”
“No, I didn’t know, but I could have prevented it! I could have told him what he wanted to hear. I could have taken him with me. Or I could have stayed. But my father was right,” he sneered. “I wasn’t man enough to claim what was mine. I abandoned him—not once, but twice. All these years I’ve hated my father for the very same thing. What a hypocrite I am, and my, how he must be laughing!”
“He’s not laughing, John,” she averred. “I know he’s not laughing.”
“Oh God, Charmaine, I did love him,” he cried. “I swear I did. The only reason I didn’t take him from this god-forsaken place was because I didn’t want to hurt him, or his sisters. How could I tear them apart? Let the girls believe I had chosen him over them? How could I even dream of taking him away from you? I knew eventually he’d despise me if I did. But I was growing too attached to stay any longer. That’s why I thought it best to leave, before it became impossible to live the lie.”
Charmaine dabbed at her own tears and put a hand on his shoulder. “John, it serves no purpose to torment yourself.”
He was quiet for a time, head buried on his arms. “Why couldn’t God have taken me instead? He could have prevented me from hurting anyone else.”
“Don’t say that, John!”
“But I have. First Colette—I loved her more than I’ll ever love anyone. She was never really mine, and still I took her, and I hurt her…”
“John, please—you’re turning in circles. The past cannot be changed, but you have your entire future to look to.”
“Future?” he snorted dismally. “My future will always be shadowed by the sins of the past.”
“Those sins were pardoned long ago,” she replied with fierce determination. “They no longer exist. If you continue to dwell on them, they will destroy you. It is far better to remember your love for Pierre and pray for him.” She cleared her throat. “Pray he has joined his mother in heaven.”
“Heaven,” he murmured, comforted by her forgiving heart. “If only I could believe such a realm exists, that they share it. Perhaps I could find some peace then.”
“It does exist, John,” she promised, “and I know they are there, together, praying for you.”
He was quiet again, as if weighing her sincere words. “Sweet Charmaine,” he whispered, “I know you grieve, too. I shouldn’t have burdened you with this, forced you to become my confessor. You should be appalled, and yet, you are compassionate. You haven’t condemned me. Why?”
“Because I know you loved Pierre. I do not think you are wicked.”
“Then what?”
“Lonely.”
“Aye,” he nodded, “lonely and alone.”
“Again, you are wrong,” she argued softly. “You have your sisters. You have Rose and George, even Paul. And you have me. If you ever need a friend, I will always be here for you.”
“Aren’t you afraid I might tarnish that friendship?”
She chuckled plaintively. “If you didn’t succeed in tarnishing it in the beginning, then it certainly won’t happen now.”
Her response brought a doleful smile to his face, but it swiftly took wing.
“If you’d prefer to be alone, I’ll retire.”
“No, stay with me,” he said, taking her hand in his and clasping it lightly.
They remained that way for a long time, contemplating the consuming sorrow, drawing solace from the peaceful sanctuary and each other.
Charmaine sighed deeply. ˜e greater the wealth, the deeper the pain…Sadly, her mother had been right. For all their fortune, the Duvoisin family had suffered greatly, would continue to suffer. Marie’s presence was strong now, and Charmaine took succor from the aura of commiserate love.
When they eventually left the chapel, they found Fatima waiting for them outside the doors, dabbing at her eyes with her apron. She coaxed them to the kitchen, though they ate little of the soup she set before them.
Charmaine faltered first, bowing her head as she succumbed to weariness. Visions of a dimpled-faced Pierre besieged her. She closed her eyes, and they grew stronger, distorted by her exhaustion. “Dear God,” she whispered.
“Charmaine,” John called, his hand tightening over hers.
Her head came up at the sound of his voice.
“Come, we must get you to bed.”
She felt his arms enfold her, leading her through the dining room to the staircase. She was at the top step without remembering how she got there, and suddenly, she was facing that room again—her room, John’s room—knowing what lay inside. Her mind snapped into focus.
The chamber door opened, and Father Benito stepped out. He assessed them, his dark eyes condemning John. “I’ve blessed the body,” he said curtly. Charmaine was certain he wanted to say more, but he turned away.
“I’d like to look at him one last time,” John whispered once the priest had left them. “Then I will take you to a guest chamber. Will you come with me?”
She nodded, allowing him to lead her into the chamber that had been their prison for so many days. Rose was still there, preparing the small body for burial. She looked up from her labor, her worried eyes waxing thankful when John moved forward. Paul pushed away from the wall where he had been leaning, exhaling once he noted his brother’s lucidity. George was there, too. He’d spent the past few days with the twins, and suddenly Charmaine fretted over them, wondering if they knew, and if not, how she would tell them.
John stepped up to the bed. Charmaine stayed close behind, fearful of leaving his side, knowing the last time she had allowed him to depart, the gravest disaster had befallen her.
He looked down at Pierre for untold minutes. The boy was no longer drenched in perspiration, his face no longer twisted in pain. The desperate struggle had ceased, the battle relinquished, and now a desolate solitude settled upon the room. Pierre was at peace. John studied him still. Had he come to grips with his death? In that moment, it became Charmaine’s sincerest prayer.
Then he was speaking, not to his son, or to those gathered in the stark room, nor to God, but to Colette. “I entrust him to you, my love. Take him and keep him safe until the day when we are all together.”
The supplication sent shivers down Charmaine’s spine. A stillness greater than death came to life in the room, and she was infused with the power of its resurrection. Her eyes swept across the chamber, yet no one seemed affected by the tangible presence vibrating through every fiber of her being. Just as quickly as it coursed through her veins, the invader retreated, draining her of every sensation save the thud of her hammering heart. When she looked down at Pierre, a smile kissed his lips, one that had not been present before. Colette had claimed her son.