Decision and Destiny (33 page)

“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.

Thursday, October 12, 1837
Midnight

P
AUL
raked his hand through his tousled hair, breathed deeply, and entered his father’s chambers. The man was as he had left him hours ago, despondent and disheveled. He hadn’t moved from the chair near the French doors. He wore the same clothes as the day of the accident, his eyes were red and distant, and three days’ growth of beard marked his drawn face. His visage mirrored John’s.

Paul walked over to him, and slowly, his gaze lifted. “He’s gone,” Paul rasped, swallowing hard against the blistering pain in his throat.

Frederic’s head bobbed forward.

Realizing his sire was crying, Paul turned to leave.

“And John?” came the deep voice, cracking.

“He’s managing.”

Again Paul attempted to leave. After the last three days, he couldn’t take on the burden of his father’s agony as well. But this time, a piece of paper lying on the floor halted his step. He picked it up, his eyes skimming over the document as he returned it to the desk. He found two replicas there. “What is this?” he asked incredulously.

His father looked up, then averted his face. “My legacy to John—too little too late.”

“You were signing custody of the girls and Pierre over to him?”

“It doesn’t matter now, does it?” Frederic whispered.

“But Yvette and Jeannette as well as Pierre?”

“John asked me for custody of all three children on Saturday. But because I refused to take a good look at myself, I denied him again. By the time I thought better of it, it was too late.”

Frederic breathed deeply, his face masked in sorrow. “My grandson is dead because of me. Colette, forgive me…he’s dead because of me.”

Moonlight spilled into the chamber, cascading across the carpet, illuminating the foot of the bed and the man who could not sleep. In a daze of fragmented slumber, John contemplated the room, his wretched life, the dust motes suspended on moonbeams above him, moving neither this way nor that, silently mocking him.

This time he had floated with the tide. The outcome was worse than when he attempted to twist circumstance in his favor. Stupid fool! When would he learn his actions always led to disaster? Never! He had continued to challenge God, his father. And because of that, Pierre was dead, Pierre and…

The night air blew into the room carrying with it the scent of lily. She had come, a presence as alive as the past. It was not the first time she had haunted him in the hours before dawn, so he knew he was dreaming.

Colette…on the threshold of his chamber, her limitless charms unbridled for the hour’s love, her flaxen hair unbound, suspended on the buffeting breeze, her eyes, pools of blue, her full lips slightly parted, inviting his impassioned kiss. The moonlight silhouetted her naked body beneath a sheer gown of cerulean silk.

With a groan, he closed his eyes. Undaunted, she floated to the bed as if certain he could not resist. “John,” she whispered, “my dearest John.”

Never before had she spoken, and thunderstruck, he jumped to his feet. With hand outstretched, he tentatively touched her arm, expecting the apparition to evaporate. It did not, and he was overcome by rage, his fingers closing over her shoulders and digging into her flesh. “Leave me alone! You’ve tormented me enough!”

She placed her cheek against his chest and encircled his waist with her arms. “Don’t send me away,” she implored. “Not yet.”

“Send
you
away? It’s you who’ve abandoned
me
time and again!” He shook her until her head jerked back and tears spilled from her eyes. Still, he persisted. “Go away! You’re dead, goddamn it, you’re dead!”

“Not while you suffer. I longed for you to come back to Charmantes, John, but not for this. You know what you have to do, what I’ve begged you to do.”

Death…So simple a solution.

John pulled her to him, and his lips snuffed out her petition. He lifted her into his arms and laid her on the bed, tearing away the transparent veil. He pressed himself upon her, making love to her more fiercely than ever before, entwining her dark hair through his fingers, kissing the hollow of her neck, that delectable spot he’d tasted only once before. Her soft panting and timid endearments heightened his desire. She was so unlike the woman he remembered, and he reveled in this unfamiliar innocence, her virginal touch.

The clean redolence of morning dew invaded his senses, an airy breeze liberated of the heavy essence of lily. His mouth traced her jaw, coming to rest on her parted lips. Her inexperience reignited his ardor, and he took her again, his breathing ragged when finally he lifted his head to behold her.

“Charmaine…” he whispered hoarsely in confusion. Her arms
were slipping from him, and though his embrace tightened, she melted into the bedclothes, and he awoke.

“Damn!” He sat up and buried his throbbing head in his hands, his eyes burning like white-hot coals. “Damn,” John murmured again. Of whom had he been dreaming—Colette or Charmaine?

Paul loitered indecisively in the empty hallway. More than once, his fist lifted to the guest chamber door before dropping again to his side. Ten steps forward and another ten back.
She is likely asleep. I shouldn’t disturb her. Yet, perhaps she isn’t. Perhaps she needs a shoulder to cry on.

He wanted to be there for her, had wanted to comfort her and hold her last night. But Rose had detained him.

Now, hours later, with the body prepared, he remembered Charmaine, how she had returned to Pierre’s deathbed, dry-eyed and standing stalwart beside his brother. Her pretense at inner strength was as heart wrenching as her initial bout of hysteria. He knew her fortitude was a drama enacted for John’s benefit. She’d been there for John, enabling him to return to the death chamber and behold his son’s corpse. But who had been there for her? With new resolve, Paul quietly stepped into the room.

Agatha sat before the looking glass and studied her reflection. For all her years, she was still quite fair. She smiled prettily at her flawless ivory neck framed by the stark black collar of her unadorned gown. A touch too drab, she decided. She flipped open the jewelry case and selected one of the few pieces that remained. She’d been using Elizabeth and Colette’s jewels to pay the blackmailer, occasionally dipping into her monthly allowance, but never touching the estate she’d inherited from her deceased husband. What a sage decision, that! Her crafty eyes narrowed. She’d have to accept the loss of some of her hard-earned wealth. It was an investment, and today that investment would pay off.
All of this will soon be behind you, my
dear
. She pinned a diamond-encrusted brooch to her widow’s weeds, and patted back the wisps of hair at her temples. Peering into the mirror again, she subdued her enthusiasm and twisted her face into a mask of remorse. Satisfied, she stepped gracefully into her next, most promising, role.

Charmaine stirred, rolling from her cramped side onto her stiff back. It hurt to breathe deeply, a pain that comes from crying for too long, and she had a throbbing headache. Still, she smiled as she awoke. She’d been dreaming! Thank God it had only been a terrible nightmare.

She stared at the white ceiling, then turned her head.
˜is is not my room
. She shifted uneasily and clutched the coverlet. Not a dream.
Dear God—not a dream!
She closed her eyes to the searing pain, but they flew open, taking in the man slumped in the armchair across the room.
Paul.

She turned her face aside and whimpered into her pillow. Horrific, indelible images assaulted her: the death room, Pierre, the chapel, John—each one impossible to suppress. And yet, to get through this day, she must.

Slowly, she mastered her anguish and forced herself to sit up, then stand. She crossed the short distance to the sleeping man. Kneeling beside the chair, she laid a gentle hand on his brow, furrowed in exhausted slumber, and chased the lines away, placing that one stray lock back into place. He did not stir, his breathing even and deep. She studied his handsome face in the first rays of dawn, so youthful in sleep, dark lashes fanning his cheeks. Her hand dropped to his arm and patted it once. “Thank you,” she whispered, heartened by his protective presence. Then she withdrew to dress.

“Did you hear me?”

“Yes, Agatha, I heard,” Frederic grumbled from the French doors, gracing his wife with a slight turn of the head, his grim
profile silhouetted in the early light of dawn. He’d just finished bathing, making himself presentable for the agonizing day ahead, and already his wife was pestering him. “Charmantes is lacking in social graces,” he reiterated as if by rote, “and I should consider sending the girls to a female academy in London.”

His thoughts were far away, his senses reeling from lack of sleep.
I must visit my daughters first. ˜is time they won’t suffer alone…

“…and you, my dearest, will rest easier knowing they are in safe hands.”

“Agatha, please, I don’t want to discuss this—”

“I know,” she interrupted compassionately. “You are troubled by more pressing concerns. But this will be the last time John hurts you.”

Frederic faced her with a scowl. “What are you talking about?”

“John is unfit to be called your son,” she pronounced rigidly. “Surely you can see that now.”

“I see no such thing,” he countered, his voice deadly.

“Then you are blind!” she rejoined, steeling herself to meet his ire. “The boy was placed in his care, and John abandoned him for that beast of his. He knew the child was desperate, but did he care? No. In fact, he reveled in Pierre’s heartache.”

Frederic stood stunned at his wife’s incredible assertion. “Are you mad, woman? John loved the boy—is grieving this terrible tragedy.”

“A tragedy that could have been averted. Perhaps John didn’t foresee Pierre reaching the lake, but you can be sure he hung his hat on the hopes the child would wake up, become hysterical, and throw this family into turmoil again. He’s deviously exploited all three of your children, Pierre in particular.”

“That’s preposterous. I’m to blame for what happened, no one else.”

“Really?” she asked wryly. “Then you’ve been duped, duped into believing everything is your fault. Granted, you may have been
roused to anger, Frederic, but that does not make you culpable—naïve, perhaps, but not culpable. I, on the other hand, have sat back and watched, and what I’ve witnessed over the years has been difficult to stomach. The first night you joined us for dinner is a perfect example. John spoiled our meal that evening. He was hostile from the start, cleverly bringing his mother into the conversation, ridiculing your love for her, ridiculing me.” She paused momentarily in disgust. “How dare he behave like that in front of family and servants?”

“He has every right to hate me,” Frederic replied sadly.

“No, he does not,” Agatha refuted. “You’ve been far too clement with him. How long will you allow your love for Elizabeth to be the reason for excusing him? She’s been dead for thirty years, and she doesn’t live on—not in her son!”

His eyes turned black, but she was not shaken. “You yourself admitted he was not a reflection of Elizabeth. What is left then—the seed of a brigand?”

“My seed,” came the deadly response, “
mine
. Anything he is comes directly from me. I am his father.”

“But—”

“Don’t,” he snarled contemptuously, “don’t resort to your ugly premise concerning John’s paternity. I ceased to believe it long ago. He is
my
flesh and blood.”

“That is impossible!”

“I thought so once, but not anymore.”

“But you cannot be certain!” she objected vehemently.

“I am certain. One has only to look at him to know he is mine. You said I was blind. Well, in fact, I was, and it has cost me dearly. I believed your brother when he delivered John, worrying over his small size, determined to convince me John was born a month early. I believed him when he blamed the babe for his mother’s death. And, God forgive me, I believed him when he calculated the date of conception and—even though he knew Elizabeth and I had been
lovers before her abduction—concluded he was no son of mine, rather the spawn of some heinous crime against her. But I believe him no more, Agatha. I’m through listening to this nonsense.”

“But, Frederic,” she implored, “Robert would never deceive you. You do him a great injustice.”

“There is only one person in this house who has suffered an injustice, and that is my son. For the first ten years of his life, I scorned him. By the time I realized what I was doing, it was too late. I know that now, know it will always be too late for John and me. I wasn’t fit to be called a father, and he has every reason to hate me. But I won’t ever do anything to hurt him again.”

“But you’ll allow
him
to hurt
you
,” she bit out, marshaling her rage in order to make the most of this opportunity. “Is that how Colette conceived his child? You were so determined not to hurt him you overlooked the most reprehensible of behaviors—the seduction of your wife! What’s next?”

Frederic’s eyes turned blacker. “How do you know that?” he growled.

Agatha grimaced in disgust. “Then Robert
was
right.”

“Robert—always Robert!”

“What else would he think? Yes, he told me all about the twins’ birth, how Colette cried out for John during their delivery. Tell me, are they his, too?”

“No, Agatha,” he ground out, “they are mine.”

“Then how can you be certain of Pierre?”

“Let us just say, I’m certain.” He smiled bleakly at her. “So you see, John wasn’t exploiting anybody. He loved Pierre and only wanted to be a father to him.”

“I’ll never believe that. He puts on an admirable performance, but the truth is he despises you and you’ll
never
gain his love. He’s determined to destroy this family.”

“And how is he going to do that?”

“By alienating you from your other children,” she declared.
“You’ve allowed him to feast on his jealousy—jealousy over his own siblings, jealousy over Colette. He won’t be satisfied until you’re in the grave. Just look at the way he treats Paul! He envies the bond you share. And now that Paul has the other island, his envy has soared. But has he ever tried to be the son Paul is?
Never!”
she exclaimed with an emphatic slash of her hand. “He has, however, fostered discord and acrimony whenever possible. You want to believe he came back here to be a father to Pierre. But I say he came back only to make you suffer. Why can’t you see this? You’re too good, Frederic! He’s had two months to ingratiate himself back into the twins’ lives—Pierre’s life. And for the whole of those two months he’s been able to endure your presence in the house. Then, quite suddenly, he can’t tolerate you anymore? How gullible can you be?