Decision and Destiny (31 page)

“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.