Decision and Destiny (37 page)

John faced her, his eyes fierce. “You know the rest,” he murmured, his voice suddenly raspy. “She refused to leave him—to
ever
leave him. When I realized he wasn’t going to die, I went back to Virginia, alone.” He turned back to the French doors. “No longer will I be haunted by the image of her kneeling before him begging his forgiveness. I finally know the truth. She loved me.”

Frederic gave Jeannette one last squeeze, and the girls left him. His gaze lifted to Paul. “See they get back to the nursery,” he directed. “Perhaps Rose could look in on them if Miss Ryan is not there.”

Paul nodded. “I’m sorry about this, Father. I tried to calm
Yvette before she went running in search of John. You’re certain you’re all right?”

“Yes, I’m fine. You can send Agatha in now.”

Agatha drew a chair even with her husband. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I know I caused all of that.”

Surprised, Frederic scrutinized her expression, looking for a flaw in the genuine contrition he heard in her voice. “Why did you tell Miss Ryan I was sending the girls to a boarding school?”

“We did discuss it,” she replied evenly. She studied the hands in her lap, her long fingers rotating her wedding band thoughtfully. “I know. Nothing was decided, and I should have held my tongue. But Miss Ryan can be quite insolent, and I lashed out imprudently. I’m sorry.”

“And John—you made certain he heard the same tale.”

Agatha squared her shoulders. “When has he believed anything I’ve said?”

Frederic was given pause. Agatha was right. Sadly, he realized his son had been looking for an excuse to lambaste him; doing so in front of the children’s governess was vindictive, at best.

Before he could think about it, Agatha was speaking again. “I’ve been fretting over what I said to you this morning, Frederic. I was wrong, terribly wrong, to say what I did. You’ve been hurt by so many of your loved ones, and I ache with the knowledge I have gathered with them.”

“Agatha—please,” he beseeched, warding off the sympathy she seemed wont to bestow. “The funeral will be in less than an hour’s time, and I need a moment’s peace before that ordeal begins.”

“As you wish, my dearest, as you wish.” She departed his company, uncertain as to the outcome of the morning’s row.

Friday, October 13, 1837

C
HARMAINE
woke with a start and sat upright in Pierre’s bed. Someone was crying. She stood and crossed the room, settling next to Jeannette who was moaning in her sleep. “Wake up, sweetheart. You’re having a bad dream.”

Slowly, the girl surfaced from the dregs of a disturbing slumber. “Oh, Mademoiselle Charmaine,” she whimpered. “We were in the fishing boat with Johnny. It started to rock and—and Pierre fell out! But then he started to swim. I think he was all right.” She groaned woefully. “Oh, why couldn’t that have really happened? I miss him so much!”

“I know, sweetheart, I know,” Charmaine consoled. “But he’s with your mama now. She’s watching over him, and she’s no longer alone.”

Charmaine cuddled the distraught child, stroking back her hair until her breathing grew regular. When she was certain Jeannette slept, she eased her head back onto the pillow, drew the thin coverlet over her, and kissed her cheek.

Standing, she stepped out onto the balcony, happy to find it had
stopped raining. She breathed deeply, drinking in the night air that carried the wisps of hair off her neck and eased the pain in her breast. Her moment’s reprieve was swiftly stolen; she hung her head and choked on the tears she fought to subdue.

Just one week ago, they were living in paradise. One week ago today, she and John, the twins and Pierre had traveled to the lake nestled in a hidden forest and passed a wondrous day together. One week ago tonight, that flawless week came to a jarring end when cries from the front lawn ruptured her sleep, and Yvette tore into the house. Now, one week later, Charmaine could almost laugh with the insanity of it. This tragedy over a silly game of cards!

At least it was behind her. Pierre had been buried yesterday, a brilliant day that mocked all that had transpired earlier that morning: the confrontations and revelations, the lies and the truths. The breeze had been mild, the sun’s rays strong, the day clear and bright, full of mendacious promise. John’s eyes had been as dry as the day had been splendid, and that had been a lie as well.

So many lies…

Frederic had also made the journey from chapel to burial ground, one arm around Jeannette’s delicate shoulders, the other hand clasping his cane as the entourage escorted the small coffin to its final resting place next to Colette’s grave.

Yvette had attempted to console John, but he remained aloof, and after a while, she moved to Charmaine instead, head bowed, sniffing back her tears.

Everyone from the manor had been there, even Rose and George this time. The latter clasped John’s shoulder supportively, remaining with him to the end, watching as the overturned earth was shoveled onto the small pine box, his arm quickening when Jeannette stepped forward and placed Pierre’s stuffed lamb on top of the mound.

Not once did father or son look each other’s way, and no sooner had the company arrived home, the clouds rolled in and the skies
opened up, shedding the tears the two men refused to weep. The remainder of the day had passed in solemn misery. Today had been no better.

Charmaine wiped her tears away. She should retire to her own room, but she had no desire to sleep in the bed in which Pierre had died. Sooner or later she must, but not tonight.

A sound from the end of the balcony drew her round. She was surprised to find Paul there. He strolled closer, standing before her now. She had not had a moment alone with him since finding him asleep in the armchair just yesterday morning. But that was an eternity ago.

She read the sorrow in his eyes, just now realizing the depth of his grief.

“It is very late,” he whispered. “Are you having trouble sleeping?”

“Any sleep I’ve had has been fragmented and disturbing,” she replied. “I keep hoping I’ll become too tired to think and…”

Her words dropped off as Paul gathered her in his arms. She grabbed hold of him, buried her face in his chest and willed herself not to cry. He stroked her hair and caressed her back. When the tears did not come, he squeezed her tightly. “Go ahead and cry, Charmaine,” he encouraged. “You’ve been strong for so many others. Let me be strong for you.”

They came in a deluge.

Paul battled his own anguish, taking solace from the feel of her in his arms. “I wanted to be there for you yesterday,” he rasped.

“I know you did,” she whimpered weakly, her tears still effusive, face pressed firmly to his shirtfront, unwilling to pull away.

“We’re going to get through this. There will be happy days again.”

“I pray God you’re right, Paul, because I don’t know how I’m going to go on without him. I miss him so much already.”

“You will, Charmaine, I promise you will.”

They remained entwined for some time. When her pain subsided, she stepped slightly away, but Paul leaned back into the balustrade and drew her next to him, his arm resting possessively around her shoulders.

“Perhaps we can do something with the girls tomorrow,” he offered. “Perhaps a ride into town together.”

Charmaine hugged him closer, her cheek resting upon his chest, conveying how much she appreciated his concern.

Much later, he retreated to his rooms. It had begun to rain again. Brushing his lips across hers, he bade her goodnight. Charmaine watched him go.

Entering her own chamber, she strode to the bed, tore back the blanket, and climbed in. It was a long while before she slept, but as she hugged her pillow, she conjured the security of Paul’s embrace, and her eyes grew heavy.

Saturday, October 14, 1837

If you want to believe the worst about me, you continue to do so, Frederic…
Frederic awoke with a start. He’d been arguing with Colette, her eyes flashing fire at him, so much like those first few weeks of their marriage. And yet, her words were not of long ago. They had been spoken to him recently, only a month before her death.

He closed his eyes again, hoping to recapture his dream. But as the minutes ticked by and sleep eluded him, he rose from the bed.

Dawn was upon the island, and although the French doors faced north, the early morning sun shone through the rain-spattered panes, spraying a spectrum of colorful dots across the morbid room. Frederic slumped into the armchair and stared at the pinpoints, their intense brightness blinding. Still he contemplated them; if he stared long enough, everything became black and white.

He was bored of this room, weary of his prolonged internment. He thought of John, his son, and a feeling welled up inside him, a
feeling he had only begun to acknowledge. His eyes blurred with the realization he loved his estranged son, loved him intensely. More than that, Frederic admired him. For Frederic, it had been so much easier to be angry than sad, cruel than kind. And so, he had allowed jealousy and pain to keep him away from the one precious thing that could heal him: his own flesh and blood. But unlike him, John had borne life’s wounds, accepted the suffering. He hadn’t passed his cross onto an easy victim. And, for all his anger and hurt, even his mistakes, John could live with his decisions, live with himself.

Frederic bowed his head. When had he become such a pathetic fool? There would be no forgiveness, hadn’t John said so? But then, why should there be?

Pierre was dead, and the cold truth pierced like a knife.
Pierre is dead because of your hatred for me.
Frederic had never considered the far-reaching consequences of his obstinate bitterness, never imagined it could bring such ruin down about him. Had he become so depraved he would allow the destruction of his own family, or worse yet, the death of an innocent three-year-old? Now he had to face it. He’d betrayed Elizabeth, John, and Colette.

Colette…He had misjudged her from the outset. When she arrived on the island at the age of seventeen, her delicate beauty took his breath away. More disturbing was her demeanor—something in her manner of speech and behavior that constantly reminded him of Elizabeth, an attraction that grew stronger and more difficult to suppress each day.

Colette’s motives were equally disconcerting. Although John was obviously smitten, Frederic grew wary. First, there was her mother. He read the woman quickly, the worry of looming poverty in her eyes. Then there was Paul, who’d been dropped as a suitor when Colette learned John was the legitimate heir to the Duvoisin fortune. And lastly, there was Colette herself, born and bred in decadent France. Frederic had experienced its depravity firsthand, was certain this young lady could teach his son a thing or two, a suppo
sition reinforced by a few saucy conversations he’d overheard. She’d even gone so far as to flirt with
him
. So, he had serious doubts about her innocence, concluding her purported virtue was merely a hook to reel John into marriage. She wasn’t about to give up her body without a ring on her finger and money in the bank. Clearly, this was a near-destitute family capitalizing on an unprecedented opportunity to mitigate their woe.

As for John, he didn’t object to his son sewing his wild oats with her, but Frederic felt he was far too young and undisciplined for marriage. Unlike his industrious brother, John was hardly the model student at university. With the exception of his music studies, John just did not have the patience to sit through long lectures, nor the interest in doing the work to make his grades. Frederic had received numerous letters from the university complaining of John’s lackadaisical attitude and disruptive presence in class. Few instructors were willing to have him in their lectures, as John was always bent on challenging their assertions or, once he had homed in on their flaws, humiliating them in front of the other students, who would laugh uproariously at his jokes. When it became clear the Sorbonne was not about to spurn the Duvoisin money, the professors resorted to giving John passing marks just to avoid another semester of his grating presence. Since university had not settled him down, Frederic felt John needed hard work and worldly experience before he married.

When Frederic overheard Colette telling her friend the game she played with John was far more elaborate than kissing stable-hands in the hayloft, he had had enough. He wasn’t about to allow her to perform favors for some commoner and then play the virgin for his naïve son. No, Frederic concluded, the time had come for Colette to be confronted by a man who had the experience to see through her façade and handle her appropriately. If money was what she was after, he would spare his son the mistake of marrying a mercenary, young and beautiful though she was. Oh yes, John would be furious with him, but he was used to that. There would be plenty of other
young ladies to conquer. In time, the dispute would be smoothed over, and Frederic’s intervention applauded.

Unbidden, came vivid images of the sultry night that sealed Colette’s fate…

He had arrived home late, tired and aching from a grueling day in the sugarcane fields. The house was dark, save for the lamps flickering in the corridor. He’d assumed everyone was abed and headed toward the kitchen to get a drink. He had reached the dining room when he heard the giggling and whispers of young women carrying from the garden beyond. He moved into the archway, which afforded him a view of the courtyard. Colette and her friend emerged, bubbling over in animated conversation, and although they conversed in French, he remembered enough of the language to understand their banter.

“I still say Paul is far more handsome,” her friend said, “but alas, he won’t be the rich one.”

Frederic strained to hear Colette’s response, but her voice was hushed.

“Their father is just as handsome,” her friend continued. “Such a waste to leave him to your mother! Maybe I can have him!”

“Ssh!” Colette admonished, moving closer. “Someone might hear you!”

“You know,
you
could have him!” the friend pressed on. “I think he’s attracted to you!”

“Stop it, Pascale!” Colette warned, but with a wicked chuckle added, “Then again, I could practice kissing with him!”

“Yes,” the shameless girl giggled, “I’m certain he knows just how it’s done, and if he tutored you, then you would have nothing to worry about on your wedding night.” Their laughter increased.

“Pascale, you are terrible!” Colette reprimanded with a click of her tongue.

They laughed again. “We should be seeking our beds,” Pascale said. “Are you coming?”

“I need something to drink first. It is so hot here, I’ll never get used to it. You go ahead, Pascale, I’ll see you in the morning. Goodnight.”

Colette passed through the swinging kitchen door, but drew herself up when she found him standing at the table, pouring himself a glass of water.

“So, Mademoiselle Delacroix, I understand you are thirsty?”

She nodded, but blushed under his piercing gaze, her poise shaken. He poured a glass, his hand brushing hers as he handed it to her. She finished it quickly. “More?” he asked.

“No, thank you,” she murmured with a tremulous smile.

“Then if you are retiring, let me escort you to your room.”

They walked down the hallway, Colette leading the way. Frederic considered her feminine figure, the delicate arch of her neck, the graceful undulating of her hips as she climbed the stairs.

When they arrived at her chamber door, she swung around, and he stepped in close. He turned the doorknob behind her, pushing the door open. She stepped into the room, and he followed. She seemed surprised by his impropriety, but not alarmed.

“I also understand you wish to practice the art of kissing to prepare for your wedding night,” he stated, closing the door behind him.

She inhaled. “You overheard my conversation with Pascale.”

“Yes.”

He stepped close to her again and cupped her chin, gently nudging her face upward toward his.

“We were only being silly,” she replied nervously, pulling slightly away. “We are both giddy from this adventure and the excitement of being here.”

“Are you?”

“Yes,” she giggled tensely, though her blue eyes sparkled, as if titillated by the unfolding encounter.

She can’t wait to tell Pascale about this
.