Decision and Destiny (25 page)

God, how he hated this prison that had shackled him for so many years! He could not advance, he could not retreat, he could only remember and curse heaven for the hard hand dealt him, the hand he had chosen to pick up and play. And yet, something had to be done. If nothing else, he’d be damned if he’d pass another three hours in his rumpled bed, tossing and turning in exhausted turmoil.

He threw aside the linens and jumped up. But as he started pacing again, piercing memories took hold. He had devoutly embraced those recollections, hoping the future would set them free. The future had never come; the past had never died. It was time the two met and were buried, peacefully. Perhaps there was a chance for that, if only he could evoke his passion and release his despair. Suddenly, he knew where to turn. He pulled on his robe and, unmindful of those he might disturb, slammed the door as he left his room.

Charmaine bolted from a fitful slumber, feverishly tracking the tread of heavy footsteps diminishing in the corridor beyond. She knew who was stalking the house at this late hour. She strained to detect the returning steps of her predator, certain they would be menacingly soft, perhaps imperceptible. Even though she’d locked her door, she feared access from the veranda or the unused dressing room, or even the nursery. Seconds gave way to minutes and, as her racing heart lulled, so too did her breathing. Nothing—no sinister sound of danger. Had the man left the house or merely his chambers? Was he once again pacing in the study, perhaps plotting his assault of the vulnerable governess? John wasn’t like that, she reasoned. He’d never given her reason to believe him capable of rape. After all, she’d been just as defenseless the night of his arrival. Still, that first night had not offered the same unencumbered opportunity. Tonight, there was no Paul, no servants, no one to come to her aid should she scream. Rape…She shuddered. But wouldn’t he
have accosted her sooner? The night was half spent and, save the fact he could not sleep, would be no different than any other.

Then it came: an abandoned melody.
Am I dreaming?
She canted her head, but could only capture wisps of the blossoming sonata. Instantly, she was out of bed. She wasn’t dreaming! Someone was mastering the incredible score, calling her to come and listen. She rushed out of the barricaded room, pulling on her robe as she went, following the music that floated up to her on silken wings. If only Colette were here…

She found herself standing barefoot in the drawing room doorway without memory of her descent. John was seated at the piano, his back to her, head slightly bowed. At first, his hands caressed the keys, coaxing from the instrument a heart-wrenching loneliness, a fervent yearning. Abruptly, his irate fingers struck out, evoking a tidal wave of passion. Her eyes were drawn to the candelabrum, mesmerized by the flickering flames that danced wildly to the amplifying rhapsody, the man’s movements displacing the air nearest them. She felt akin to the wick, scorched and devoured, spent in the wake of such power and majesty, yet transformed and at peace, like the hot wax that wept onto the piano’s ebony surface.

As the climax broke, John faltered. A jarring dissonance echoed off the walls, and he pulled away as if cauterized. Then, his hands came crashing down again, as if he could pound his mistake from existence. The keys locked, and a deliberate, brutal cacophony seized the air.

Charmaine grimaced, aching for the loveliness that had been annihilated.

Slowly, the punishment ebbed. Laying both arms across the keyboard, John buried his face there, weathering the constricting thud of his battered heart. He’d hoped to exorcise his demonic desolation, not conjure it. He inhaled deeply, then shuddered as he released the pent-up breath, unaware of the young woman who stood in the shadows, observing him in this new light.

Much later, Charmaine would wonder why she hadn’t escaped back to her room. “Don’t stop,” she implored, stepping into the parlor.

John turned and scowled. Tonight he needed to be alone.

“What I mean is—you play very well.”

John grunted. “The one thing I’m able to do right.”

“Except for the last few measures.”

“Except that,” he agreed, his voice hard.

She took no offense. He seemed to be chastising himself. “Even so, one mistake shouldn’t cause you to dismiss the piece entirely. After all, look how well you’ve played most of it. Mrs. Harrington used to always say—”

“Isn’t it a bit late for you to be up, Mademoiselle?” he cut in brusquely.

Charmaine faltered. “I was awakened by the music.”

“My apologies.”

“No need to apologize. I happen to love that particular piece.”

“Do you?” he mocked. “I’ve never heard you play it.”

“I don’t do it justice. Colette used to encourage me, but after she died, I was forbidden to—”

“Forbidden?” he demanded, his vexation giving way to full-fired wrath. “Who forbade it?”

The truth had stood just behind a doorway, awaiting the portal to be thrown open, and comprehension, with all its answers, came crashing down upon Charmaine.
Forbidden
…the word that unlocked so many doors and shed light on so many questions. Playing the music—forbidden. Mentioning John’s name—forbidden. Writing to him—forbidden. John seeking out the children—forbidden. Bearing more children—forbidden. John and Colette—
forbidden!
Everything Charmaine had surmised was true! Had to be true! Pray God it wasn’t true!

“I—shouldn’t have come down here,” she stumbled aloud.

But before she could reach the archway, John caught her arm
from behind. “Not so quickly!” he ordered, pulling her around to face him. “You haven’t answered my question.”

She didn’t flinch, neither did she pull away. Her melancholy eyes lifted to his, dousing his fiery reaction. “Please…don’t go,” he whispered, releasing her arm. “It was my father, wasn’t it? He was the one who wouldn’t allow you to play the piece, wasn’t he?”

“Yes,” she conceded. “I’m sorry.”

“Why? Why should you be sorry?”

“I don’t want to make matters worse between you and your father.”

He snorted in disgust. “Colette used to say the very same thing, but you have less control over this miserable situation than she did, and she had precious little then. As I’ve said before, it took twenty-nine years to live. Nothing can worsen what is already the most deplorable of relationships between a father and son.”

“Even so, it must pain you, though you deny it.”

“I deny nothing, save the fact neither you nor Colette are to blame.”

“But I am responsible for mentioning it. It doesn’t please me to know I’ve hurt you.”

The statement seemed to confound him. “Why would you harbor any compassion for me?”

“I don’t know,” she answered truthfully. “Perhaps it’s because I’m beginning to comprehend your past. I’m not certain what happened here years ago, but I think it transcends your childhood and…” She hesitated, reticent.

“And?” he probed.

“I think I’ve grown to like you, in some ways, even respect you. In either case, I don’t think you deserve to be hurt.”

“No one deserves to be hurt, Charmaine, least of all an innocent child.”

At first she thought he spoke of himself and his father, but his eyes betrayed no sign of self-pity or resentment. He appeared instead
to be at peace, as if he finally understood something that had eluded him for hours. When he spoke again, she was completely baffled. “Would you like to hear the entire piece?”

With her affirmation, he returned to the piano, and she followed. He sat, rested his fingers on the keys, and contemplated the first flourishing stroke.

The initial measures were soft, poignant. Then the room exploded with sound. Not once did his fingers falter, rather they bent to his will, summoning from the instrument a fine-tuned cadence, an unfathomable longing that swelled and ebbed like the tides of a tempestuous sea. Without warning, the last strains cried out, heralding the final chord.

Doleful, yet satiated, Charmaine could not speak, sighing deeply instead.

“You seem displeased, my Charm.”

It was a moment before she realized John had spoken.

“Displeased?” she queried. “No, I’m not displeased, just sad it is over.”

“I shall play it again whenever you wish,” he promised with a lopsided smile, “that is, if you can abide this particular rendition.”

“Oh yes, I can!” she answered fiercely. “The last measures are extremely difficult. I’m certain the composer would be satisfied with your conclusion.”

“It was the only one open to me.”

Before she could reflect upon the bizarre remark, he approached her.

“I’d like to apologize for my behavior today,” he said, standing only a breath away. “I know it must have been unnerving.”

Charmaine inhaled slowly. “I feel quite safe at present.”

He chuckled softly, just now savoring the femininity before him, a vision imbued with the tantalizing fragrance of purity, an invasion of the senses. At this moment, she was more desirable than ever before. “Perhaps you shouldn’t.”

Suddenly, she was in his arms, and his mouth captured hers. He kissed her thoroughly, stealing her breath away, his lips playing a seductive, coveting game, soft one moment, intense the next. She did not resist, nor did she respond, rather she caught hold of him and drew strength from his solid form. Her heart soared and every nerve in her body, down to the tips of her fingers, tingled. Her legs turned liquid, and she clung more tightly to him, submitting completely to his will. She was certain the moment lasted an eternity, yet it was only a moment, she told herself, one unexpected moment. Later, she would argue: if she had been forewarned, she would have fought off his advance—successfully. For now, she permitted John his embrace, her eyes closed to reason and reality, her senses open to the sweet sensations this man stirred inside her: his warm palm on her cheek, his sinewy arm cradling her head, his hard chest pressed to her breasts. He traced kisses along her jaw until his face burrowed deep in the hollow between her neck and hair, where his lips nuzzled the ivory column and his tongue caressed an aching earlobe. She was paralyzed by his magnetism, her agony most manifest when his head lifted and his arms fell away. She swayed on unsteady legs and could hear her heart pounding in her ears.

“We had best leave it there,” he whispered raggedly.

He, too, was bereft and studied her for one hopeful moment. When she said nothing, he smiled. She was an innocent, completely unaware of the effect she had on him, the blood that thundered in his veins and quickened in his loins. She certainly didn’t deserve to get mixed up with someone like him.

“Dawn is only a few hours away,” he continued determinedly, “and we both need some sleep. It shouldn’t be too difficult to find that golden slumber now.”

She disagreed, but wisely held her tongue as he lit a candle and snuffed the candelabrum. When he grasped her elbow, she began to speak, but he put a finger to her lips. “No need for words, my Charm. They’d only mar the moment and spoil the calm.” She took heed.

They walked through the foyer and ascended the staircase, a climb that seemed endless in the shadowy darkness. As they neared the crest, her apprehension mounted, and she drew her robe more tightly around her.

“Cold?” he asked, misreading the action. “Not to worry. You’ll soon be warm beneath the covers.”

She was reassured he hadn’t mentioned joining her there. Still, she mistrusted herself and looked up at him slowly when they reached her door. His regard was intense, an unusual warmth in the amber-brown orbs. He leaned forward and placed a fatherly kiss on her forehead. “Thank you,” he said, looping a stray lock behind her ear.

“For what?”

“For the past few moments—for tonight. It wasn’t the resolution I’d expected to reach at the onset of this day, but it’s not one I scorn. You’ve given me something precious just now, something I couldn’t have given myself.”

“What’s that?” she asked, intrigued.

“Hope—in the future. I’ll float with the tide, not against it, and perhaps someday, it
will
right itself. Goodnight, my Charm.”

He walked away, but Charmaine stared after him until the light from his candle died with the closing of his chamber door. Certain she would not sleep even if he did, she heaved a perplexed sigh and went into her own room. But as she nestled into bed, the rhapsody resounded in her head, and she felt John’s strong arms enfolding her in a cocoon of contentment.

Tuesday, October 3, 1837

Much as she longed to shirk her duties, Charmaine could only groan at the light, yet insistent, knock on her bedchamber door. “Come in,” she beckoned as she stood and retrieved her discarded robe.

Mrs. Faraday pushed into the room carrying fresh bed linens. Bleary-eyed, Charmaine watched as, without a word, the woman
bustled about the chamber, drawing a drape here, extinguishing a lamp there. She turned to the bed.

“That won’t be necessary, Mrs. Faraday. As I’ve told you before, I’m capable of making my own bed.”

“Be that as it may,” the older woman commented sharply, “today is Tuesday, wash day. The mattress must be stripped and fresh linens spread.”

“And I’m capable of doing that as well.”

“If you were capable, Miss Ryan, it would have been done already. I cannot afford to have my schedule upset by someone who sleeps the day away. As it is, I’m short staffed.”

Charmaine frowned. “What time is it?”

“Nearly eleven.”

“But it can’t be! The children would have awakened me!”

“It is, and they would have had Master John not interceded on your behalf.” She clicked her tongue in evident disgust, tearing the sheets from the bed without a glance in Charmaine’s direction.

“Why the master of the house would take it upon himself to mind three children when his father is paying a governess to do so is beyond my comprehension. I’d say it’s a trifle queer she’s in bed, regaining her—how did he put it?—needed sleep, when he’s up and about, full of vim and vigor. Very queer indeed, if you ask me.”

Charmaine groaned inwardly, certain her crimson cheeks condemned her. “I didn’t ask you. I’m sorry you’ve misconstrued a kindness for something lewd.”