The more Patrick read the poems of John Donne the more something began to form in his mind. As if the mystery of the poems was slowly unlocking itself to him. What finally sprung the lock was a long, longed-for letter from Emmeline.
‘Mother manages things well with some small help from Cordelia and me – and letters from Father on how to conduct matters.
In the evenings, I bring your most recent letter and place it beside me on the piano …’
Piano … ! Patrick had stopped, re-read the line. The piano … ! ‘Place it … on the piano … !’ he said aloud.
But it was a book … not a letter, on a piano! A similar volume to this book once left on a piano by his mother.
All night he lay awake turning over in his mind the poems he had read. And what of Stephen’s motivation in giving him the book? Patrick sifted through the events leading to the disappearance of his mother.
Her parting letter. The words were stamped on his memory. ‘I must leave your lives … and I pray forgiveness for the ruin I have brought upon them.’
What if the ‘ruin’ was not the business ruin, as they had imagined, for which she had so abjectly blamed herself? He had often thought it not a strong enough reason for the finality of her leaving. Lavelle had argued with him that the strain on her mind would have produced such drastic action, illogical to all save herself!
What if the ‘ruin’ was of a different, darker nature? Of a nature that, if revealed, would indeed bring ruin – and shame – upon her family?
The thought that his mother had had an illicit affair with Stephen now began to take root in Patrick’s mind. The same Stephen Joyce, first his father’s comrade-in-arms and then Lavelle’s compatriot. Finally, his mother’s lover.
It had to be Stephen. It was all so simple, so clear … so maddeningly clear. The book in his possession was his mother’s. Stephen must have had some meeting with her since her disappearance – and all this time he had kept silence.
Angrily, book in hand, Patrick went to Stephen’s tent. He would have it out with the man now before tomorrow’s skirmish.
‘Is this book related to my mother?’ Patrick demanded, brandishing it at his commanding officer.
‘Yes, it is, Patrick!’ Stephen Joyce answered, no hint of surprise in his voice. ‘I thought you would have discovered the truth sooner!’
‘You and she were lovers behind Lavelle’s back?’ the younger man accused.
‘Yes, Patrick, and I am sorry for that deception,’ his captain answered.
‘Sorry?’ Patrick fired back at him. ‘You’ve kept up the pretence all this time – New Orleans, Versailles, here in battle! You know where she is, you’ve seen her – the book!’ Patrick charged, shaking the proof, before the other man’s face.
‘No, I haven’t, Patrick!’ Stephen answered strongly. ‘We have had no contact since … since before. I am as much concerned as to her whereabouts as you are. This is not her book. There is another copy which she still holds, which once was mine.’
‘How can I believe you, Stephen?’ Patrick challenged.
‘It is true … by the honour of the South it is true.’
He went on to tell Patrick how, recognising their transgression, he and Ellen had decided to never meet again – ‘More sorrowed than I had ever previously known.’
Patrick said nothing, a look of utmost derision masking his face.
‘On the eve of tomorrow’s battle, Patrick, I ask your forgiveness. I have dishonoured you all, not least your mother’s good name.’
‘Live with it, Stephen … and die with it!’ Patrick retorted angrily. The betrayer would get no easy forgiveness from him.
Back in his own tent, he failed to find sleep.
So, he was right about her. Stephen had made a full confession. He didn’t blame the man entirely. It wasn’t the first time his mother had betrayed them.
She had left them as children, with their father not cold in the grave. Fled to America. Found herself a ‘fancy man’ – Lavelle – before coming back for them. Then, cuckolded Lavelle for Stephen Joyce. God knows in what corner of America she now was with her latest ‘beau’.
She was alive, of that Patrick was sure. Oh, yes – and he and Lavelle like fools traipsing every hill and hollow looking for her. Lavelle, like a father to him in the end. He wondered if by now Lavelle knew her story?
‘He’s better off deluded,’ Patrick muttered to himself, knowing that Lavelle would criss-cross America to find her.
When his first furlough came up, Patrick would seek out Lavelle, tell him.
He would not immediately go south.
Emmeline would understand.