Castillon wiped his hands on his apron. “What did you learn?”
“Nothing. No missing persons, no unaccounted for bodies, no wounds of my own.” Brazos shrugged. “I couldn’t eat for three days afterward. It scares the hell out of me, Louis.”
Louis leaned back in his chair. “Traveling as you were, it is quite possible you hunted food, Brazos. That would account for the blood.” The Creole’s brow furrowed thoughtfully as he asked, “And the Swiss doctor, the one I sent you to see. You left so much out of your letter my friend. What did he say?”
Brazos’s laugh sounded like death itself. “I traveled thousands of miles to see your ‘expert,’ Louis, on board ship—which, by the way, is the greatest torture known to man—and the one solution the good doctor had to offer is the one thing Christ Himself couldn’t convince me to do.”
“Which was?”
“He told me to return to Perote and face my demon.”
“Salezan.”
“No, he meant the demon inside of me. The one who protects whatever truth is hidden within my memory.”
Louis nodded and drummed his fingers on the table as he looked at Brazos and said, “It makes sense, son. I’ve always believed that physically, nothing is wrong with you.”
“I know. You’ve always thought I was crazy.” Brazos slapped the spoon down onto the work counter next to the stove. He turned his head toward the kitchen’s open window and gazed across the bay, where a line of the Texas mainland was barely visible.
A salty breeze brushed his face as he heard Louis Castillon say, “No, Brazos, that is not what I have thought. But I do believe that the Swiss is right. Something has a hold on you, and until you face it, you will always be troubled. Quit running, son; one cannot flee from oneself. How old are you, thirty-two, thirty-three? It’s time you settled and had a family.”
“I’m thirty-four.” Brazos crossed his arms and leaned against the wall facing Louis. “And I’ve got another problem that’s giving me some grief.” He took a deep breath, then said, “The sting’s missing from my stinger.”
Castillon looked at him blankly.
“There’s no lead in my pencil,” Brazos said through set teeth.
Still the doctor failed to react.
“Hell, Doc. Do I gotta say it out loud?” Scowling, he said succinctly, “I’m impotent.”
“Oh.” Castillon’s eyes widened, and he leaned back in his chair. “This is a little detail you neglected to mention before in our discussions?”
“No, it’s a recent, singular development,” Brazos replied, and briefly went on to explain the particulars. He finished with a question. “So, Louis, please, as a physician, tell me. Could this trouble reoccur?”
Castillon frowned and began to shell another shrimp. He asked a few pointed and personal questions of his own before answering Brazos by saying, “I believe this to be a physical manifestation of a mental problem. Until that is dealt with, you will always risk a return of your difficulty.”
Brazos slumped into his chair as Castillon held up his hand and shook his head. “No, no, don’t jump ahead of me. I don’t anticipate it happening again unless you re-create the circumstances.”
Glumly, Brazos replied, “Well, that damn sure isn’t going to happen. Not the exact same circumstances anyway. I’m never sailing on a ship again for as long as I live.” And he’d never be with Madeline Christophe Sinclair again, either.
“Then don’t borrow trouble, son. From what you’ve told me, you’ve little to worry about. Now, we’ve still fifty shrimp here to deal with. Get to work, boy. Earn your supper.”
A short time later Dr. Castillon stood on his front porch and watched his young friend saunter down the street toward the city. “I fear my Swiss colleague is right,” he murmured.
Brazos Sinclair would know no peace until he faced and defeated his fears. He would continue to run from himself and from those he loved, those who loved him. Louis pitied the boy, but he agreed that Brazos must return to Perote. But what would it take to get him there? What force could be greater than the terror he held inside himself?
A carriage pulled up in front of the house, and he heard the sound of his wife’s gentle laughter and his grandchild’s giggles. Then Louis knew the answer to his question. His gaze followed the direction in which Brazos had disappeared. “Yes, it might just be your salvation. Look for it, son. Find it.”
Brazos Sinclair needed the greatest force on earth to defeat his beast. He needed love.
Chapter 8
CHÂTEAU ST. GERMAINE
PUFFS OF GRAVEL DUST trailed the horse and rider as they thundered up the drive toward the château. Reaching the courtyard, Pierre Corot lifted his voice above the clatter of hooves against stone and shouted, “Julian!”
A young servant boy came running as the sound echoed off the stone walls surrounding the U-shape courtyard. Sliding from his horse, Corot tossed the boy the reins and ran toward the east wing. Without pausing to knock, he pushed open the doors and rushed inside. “Julian,” he called again, going directly to the first-floor office. Empty.
His boots clacked against the floor as he crossed to the staircase and took the steps two at a time. “Julian, it’s Pierre,” he called from the first landing. “Where are you?”
Julian Desseau’s rumbling voice answered from the second-floor hallway. “Here, Pierre. What is it?”
At the top of the stairs, Corot paused just a moment to catch his breath, then said, “I’ve found them, Julian. I’ve found Elise and the woman.”
Julian froze. Sunshine beaming through one of the tall windows that lined the hallway illuminated the sudden, exultant expression on his face. Slowly, he leaned a hand against the wall for support and asked, “She’s safe?”
Corot knew that Julian spoke of his daughter and because his information was weeks old, he hesitated before answering, “Yes.”
Julian’s jaw hardened, and a winter’s chill dripped from the single word he uttered, “But?”
“They have left Europe, Julian. In January. My investigators found them listed on a ship’s manifest. They joined a group of immigrants and sailed for America.”
“America!” Julian exclaimed.
Pierre nodded. “Texas. The Sinclairs sailed with members of an organization called the Colonization Society of Texas. A roster of their membership includes one Madeline Sinclair and daughter, Rose.”
“So you’ve no knowledge of my daughter’s safety since they sailed?”
“I’m afraid not. But barring any problems, the ship should have reached American shores by now.”
“Should have reached,” Julian repeated bleakly. “The ship, what kind of ship? Was it sound?”
“Yes, Julian. These colonists were for the most part wealthy people. They chartered a Liverpool-built packet whose captain makes the run routinely. I’m sure they reached America just fine.” In response to the hard gaze Desseau fixed upon him, Pierre added softly, “Don’t doubt it, my friend.”
Julian shut his eyes, threw back his head, and sighed. “You are right. I cannot believe any differently, or my sanity would be lost.”
After a moment, he shrugged and said, “Come to my rooms, Pierre. I’ll fix you a drink. You look as though you made the trip from Paris in an hour.”
“Not much more than that,” Corot replied, dragging a weary hand through his hair as he followed Desseau down the long hallway.
As they walked, Desseau mused, “The Colonization Society of Texas. I’ve heard of them. They solicited money and sold shares in their company. Fellow named Condé or something—“
“Considérant. They follow the philosophical teachings of Charles Fourier.”
Julian stopped and snapped his fingers. “That’s it. Fourierists. They’re the fools who plan to allow women to vote. I remember hearing the Smithwick woman pattering on about it with Celeste.”
Corot halted in front of a window. He stared out at the green, rolling farmland that surrounded Château St. Germaine as he thought aloud. “Madeline Christophe purchased membership in the colony. Not Mary Smithwick. I doubt she planned the trip until after Celeste died. Julian”—he looked over at his friend—“have you ever deduced why Mary Smithwick chose to steal your daughter?”
Julian’s expression grew as cold and as hard as the stone walls of St. Germaine. “I may have. I have spoken with Bernadette.” Saying no more, he marched down the hall toward his rooms, the sound of his footsteps echoing from the walls.
“And?” Corot called, following him.
“Suffice to say that she found a way to interfere in my marriage,” Julian answered.
“You proved she planned the kidnapping?”
“No.” Julian stopped abruptly and looked over his shoulder. He wore a mocking smile as he added, “If I had, she would be dead, and Bernadette is still alive, Pierre.”
Pierre waited for Julian to elaborate, and when he didn’t, the investigator sighed in frustration. Leave it to Desseau to hire a man and provide only half the facts needed to do the job properly. “Julian,” he said, “it’s bad enough that you didn’t share with me your suspicions about Bernadette in the beginning of this investigation. But for my men to successfully return Elise to your arms, they need every bit of information I can give them. Please, tell me what you know!”
A ghost of a smile flickered in Julian’s eyes. “Pierre, you have my most profound thanks for your superior work. If it will ease your mind, I’ll tell you that Bernadette is now confined to St. Anne’s convent. A lifetime of prayer is just what the woman needs. And as far as Mary Smithwick is concerned, I care not what her motives might have been. The fact remains that she stole my child. For that, she will pay.”
“But, Julian, it will help my men trace her if they understand—”
“They don’t need to understand, Pierre. Now that you’ve told me where my daughter is, I shall see to bringing her home. I wish to deal personally with Mary Smithwick. I am going to Texas.”
His eyebrows lifted as he looked at Corot and asked, “I trust you brought sailing information with you?”
Pierre nodded. “A ship sails for Galveston in three days.”
“Good.” Entering his bedroom suite, Julian stepped straight to the liquor decanters as he called to his valet, “Henri, pack my bags.”
GALVESTON, TEXAS
SINCLAIR SPOTTED his brother as he rode his horse into the stable at his home south of the city. Brazos stood on the captain’s walk at the top of the house, peering through the telescope Tyler used to watch ships at sea. Brazos, however, had the telescope pointed toward town. “Probably peeking through windows,” Tyler muttered aloud.
He wondered just what was going on with his brother. Brazos never had come by the office, although Trixie had stopped by with the message that Brazos would see Tyler that evening at his brother’s home. Until then, Madeline had waited in his office for her husband to arrive and sign the papers ending their marriage. As time passed, she’d grown agitated, and eventually Tyler had questioned Brazos’s commitment to seeking an annulment. Madeline had smiled stiffly and said, “Your bother has insisted on a daily basis that his first order of business upon arrival in Galveston would be to contact an attorney at King and Associates.” The following sentence she had whispered to herself in French, and Tyler carefully masked both his comprehension and his astonishment. The woman certainly possessed a broad, if not necessarily polite, vocabulary.
They’d gone on to discuss a wide range of topics, and he had begun to wonder if Brazos wasn’t making a big mistake. Madeline Christophe Sinclair seemed like just the sort of woman to whom his brother should be married.
With his horse cared for, Tyler entered his home through the back door waving a greeting to his housekeeper, an Irish widow named Bridget Callahan, and ruffling the hair of her young son, Sean. “Supper will be ready in half an hour, Mr. Sinclair,” Bridget called.
Not for the first time, he noted the way the calico stretched across her bosom. One of these days, he’d do something about that. Not today, however. This afternoon he had his brother to deal with. “Why don’t you head on home, Bridget. Brazos and I will manage all right by ourselves tonight.”
She looked doubtful. “Are you certain?”
“Yeah.” He pulled a coin out of his pocket and gave it to Sean. “Here, scamp. Make your mama take you by Cooper’s Mercantile and buy you a rope of licorice.”
The boy beamed at him, and Tyler ruffled the child’s hair once more before climbing the stairs to meet his brother.
Brazos heard Tyler thumping up the stairs. Not lifting his eye from the telescope, he said, “I congratulate you on your taste in housekeepers, Ty. I imagine Mrs. Callahan is a right fine cook.”
In the manner of brothers, Tyler suggested Brazos do something anatomically impossible. Brazos grinned and shifted the scope toward the left, seeking a clearer picture of the garden party taking place at one of the mansions on The Strand.
Tyler asked, “Do you want a drink?”
“No, thanks,” Brazos replied. “I had one—or was it twenty-one—earlier with Trix.” He’d been on his way to get unmarried at King and Associates when he stopped by The Gentleman’s Club long enough to get a little loop-legged. Then he’d stumbled his way over to Powhattan Hotel in time to discover that Madeline had come and gone. All Lillibet would say was that Rose had been nursed for the final time that day and that a man who drank too much didn’t deserve to know where his wife spent the night.
He’d not been at all happy to return to the Club and the news that his soon-to-be-former wife had been waiting on him at his brother’s offices. Especially when Trixie couldn’t tell him a thing about Emile.
Brazos considered asking first about The Flower, but he realized other matters came first. “So, how’s the family?”
Tyler folded his arms and looked toward the harbor and the collection of masts and sails reaching toward the sky. He said, “The folks delayed this trip to Georgia for a year while waiting for you to come home. Pa finally convinced Mama they could put off visiting his family no longer. I’d hate to be Pa when she learns you managed to drag yourself home only two weeks after they left.”
“She’ll be spitting knitting needles,” Brazos replied, wincing at the thought as he stepped away from the telescope.