Authors: Jennifer St Giles
Mignon blanched, biting her lip with concern. "
Dieu
, he asked if I enjoyed his company, and of course I had to say yes, but the truth is that he talks so much, I find myself wishing for my embroidery just to keep myself awake."
I laughed. Mignon hated embroidery. "Well, we will have to find a way to let him know you do not return his affections. He wanted to take you to the carnival Friday, and I managed to insert our whole family into his plans. We're to meet him at the cathedral at seven o'clock."
Mignon laughed. "At least he won't be lonely. What exactly do you think he meant by amenable?" she asked, her brows arching to a puzzled look.
"I think it means being like Madame Gallier with Monsieur Gallier."
"Wherever did he get that notion from? Were I Madame Gallier, I would be sore pressed to keep a civil tongue. Monsieur Gallier makes it seem that his wife's only purpose in life is to be the pedestal for his big head."
Surprise widened my eyes. "It heartens me to hear you've made such an observation. I am sure that if you expressed your thoughts on occasion, Monsieur Davis would not think you so amenable and wouldn't wish to court you. Now I had best go see to Andre and Ginette."
"I'll see to Ginette. I'll sleep on the divan in her room in case she should wake and need anything. She gave me such a fright this afternoon, seeing her on the floor pale as death itself. She did not come around until I used the smelling salts. Even then she was disoriented and did not know who I was for a moment or two."
"I had not realized it was that bad. She seemed fatigued but well when I spoke to her earlier. I will send a note to Dr. Lanau in the morning, asking him to stop by tomorrow. If Ginette—"
"Has any problems that I cannot handle, I will call for you, I promise." She hugged me, patting my back almost as if she were the elder and I the younger. I returned her embrace, realizing she was right. She had grown up, and I'd been too busy to notice.
The three of us were graced with the DePerri heart-shaped face, dark eyes, and hair as black as the Mississippi on a moonless night, but Ginette's ethereal delicacy set her apart, as if she were an angel temporarily sent to live among mortals.
I found my son in bed, though not asleep yet. He'd scrubbed his face shiny, but still had mud caked between his toes and on his bed sheets, which would now have to be laundered again.
"Andre, why didn't you take a bath?" I sat on the bed beside him, at a complete loss.
He sleepily rubbed his eyes. "I'll only get dirty again when I meet Phillipe and Will in the morning at the camp."
"I've told you many times that what a man does determines who he is. There are more important things for you to do than to spend every day off with your friends. Tomorrow you are to stay home and do the things you were supposed to do today, plus do whatever laundry needs doing by yourself. That includes the sheets you've now muddied."
He sat up as shock dropped his mouth open. "M-m-myself?"
"Oui."
"But I must go. I promised Phillipe and Will that—"
"You made a promise to
me
today."
He lowered his gaze. "You just don't want me to go back to the camp."
"That's not true." I brushed a curl back from his forehead, noting he had spread across his pillow the soft blue coverlet my mother had made him before he was born. After all these years, he still liked to feel the worn material against his cheek. "I expect you to be a man of your word. Do you understand?"
"Yes, but you don't understand about the camp. It is important"
"We'll talk more about it tomorrow. And just so you know, Friday we'll go to the carnival that's in town. Won't that be fun?"
He shrugged. "Going with Phillipe and Will to the camp my father helped build is fun."
I sighed and kissed him good night, then arranged the netting about his bed. "I'll see you in the morning."
He nodded and shut his eyes. As I left his room, I felt unsettled that he'd shown no excitement about the carnival. His interest in the army camp was understandable, in some ways I'd underestimated his need to connect to his father. I hoped Mr. Goodson's report proved what I believed in my heart to be true about Jean Claude.
I took a long bath, letting the steam ease my tension, thankful that my father had had the foresight to have modern amenities installed. My mind kept wandering to Mr. Trevelyan, and my reaction to him, and I had to force myself to concentrate on more practical matters.
I donned my nightdress, robe, and slippers, and as I left the bath, I searched the pockets of my dress for the telegram. They were empty except for Mr. Trevelyan's card. My stomach sank when I dug into the pockets of my robe and found them empty, too.
I must have dropped the note somewhere in the house. Grabbing a lantern, I retraced my steps on the third floor. After finding nothing in the corridor or in Andre's room, I hurried down two flights of stairs. A quick scan of the kitchen and the butler's pantry turned up nothing, but the tinkling of glass from the parlor brought me to a halt in the center hall. I swung around, my pulse leaping as I realized I was not alone downstairs. The parlor seemed dark and unwelcoming for the first time in my life. I snuffed out the light and tiptoed to the doorway.
Given Mr. Trevelyan's habit of being where least expected, I shouldn't have been surprised to see his unmistakable form standing at the window. Oddly, he had a drinking glass held up to the moonlight and appeared to be staring at it. After a long moment, he slowly took a sip, swore harshly, then dumped the rest of the glass's contents in a nearby potted plant
I winced that he'd found our spirits so unpalatable, even as the thought of pickled geraniums irked me. "I daresay Mama Louisa has already watered the flowers today."
He swung around and I smiled, pleased that I'd caught him off guard.
"Did I wake you?" His voice grated harshly, as if he wrestled with things greater than the night
"I'm looking for a paper I've lost."
I moved to the nearest lamp and lit it, casting the shadows from the room, but not the intimacy of being alone at night with him. He turned from the light, moving to the mantel where he set his glass.
"A telegram, perhaps?" he asked, with his back to me.
"You found it?"
He faced me then, his expression shadowed. "After dinner, on the floor of my room."
I swallowed the hard lump in my throat, my relief short lived. "I must have dropped it when showing you to your room."
"And I must have missed seeing it before dinner," he said softly as he crossed the room. The look in his eyes told me he didn't believe a word of what we'd just said. He stopped only inches away from me, so close that I could feel the warmth of his body as well as the heat of his raking gaze. The thin cotton of my nightdress and the silk of my robe were little protection from the force of his interest. I tugged the lacy edges of my robe closer together, and he smiled slowly, lifting his gaze back to mine. A dark desire smoldered in his eyes.
"The telegram, monsieur?" I held out my hand.
He reached into his coat pocket, pulling out the telegram. Instead of putting it into my open hand, he brushed my cheek with the edge of the paper and trailed it down to the neck of my gown. My pulse pounded so loudly in my ears that I knew he had to have heard it, too. Bolts of heat shot through me, curling in my center, awakening sensations I'd never known before.
My lips parted in surprise, and his gaze dipped lower for a long moment.
"I suggest you be more careful," he murmured. When he slid the paper a fraction below the neckline of my gown, I caught my breath and grabbed the telegram from him.
"You have a way of making me forget things that I shouldn't," he said softly, then turned to leave. "Good night, Mrs. Boucheron."
He had a way of making us both forget things that we shouldn't.
Somehow, I gathered my thoughts enough to douse the parlor light and dash to my room, firmly shutting the door. I crawled into bed, unable to face what I knew had to be lingering in my own eyes—a yearning response to the desire in his eyes. I didn't know him, he was a stranger, but he attracted me as no one had before—and that frightened me more than the warning telegram or the murder in town.
* * *
Early the next morning, the sound of my son's disgruntled muttering, punctuated by the thud of a heavy stick hitting the side of an iron cauldron, filtered through the kitchen window where Mignon and I worked preparing breakfast. I'd set Andre to washing his sheets first thing, and he wasn't happy. The day had not started off well in other matters, either. Jean Claude's letters weren't in the blue box in which I had left them, or anywhere in the study that I could see. Neither Andre nor Mignon had seen them.
Ginette entered the kitchen, her cheeks flushed. She grabbed an apron. "Why didn't you wake me?"
"You needed the extra rest, and by the looks of you, we were right," I replied. "Mama Louisa's tea must have helped."
"And from what I heard the boarders talking about in the parlor this morning, I was right: something was wrong last night. I asked you, and did you tell me the truth? No. A man murdered in broad daylight and you didn't say a word."
I’m sorry. I didn't want you to worry." She nodded, but the irritation in her eyes remained. "What did the boarders say?" I asked.
"Only that they had to be very careful about what they did, especially when in town."
"Who said that?"
"Mr. Fitz did. Whatever is Andre doing outside?"
"The laundry," I said, wondering exactly what the boarders thought they had to be careful about
Ginette's eyes widened with surprise. "By himself? No wonder he is unhappy."
"I feel as if this is my fault." Mignon paced across the kitchen floor.
"How can it possibly be your fault, Nonnie? You have too soft a heart." I finished kneading the biscuit dough, then leveled a look at her.
"Well," she said, frowning. "Maybe I shouldn't have demanded that he bathe before helping me. I know how he hates to do that."
"So you would rather have had muddy streaks on the boarders' bed sheets and cost us all another day's hard work instead? Andre must learn. At twelve, he is old enough that his very future could be at stake." I winced as a particularly loud bang sounded from the courtyard. His resentment at having to do "women's chores" could probably be heard at the state line.
"It sounds as if he is upset with more than just doing his chores," Ginette said.
I told them about the camp. "I think he needs to know more about Jean Claude. Which reminds me, do you have Jean Claude's letters, Ginette?"
She crinkled her brow. "Why ever would I have them? Aren't they on the shelf in the study?"
"They're missing," I said, shaking my head. "The box is there, but no letters."
"That's strange."
"You think there will be any cotton left on those sheets by the time you finish?" Mr. Trevelyan's unmistakable voice interrupted the clanging outside, and I froze with a half-shaped biscuit in my hand.
"Who's that?" Ginette whispered.
"Our new boarder," Mignon answered, moving to the window.
"Dudn't matter," grumbled Andre. "It will serve her right for making me do laundry. All the boys would laugh at me if they saw me. I bet you have never had to do a maid's work, either"
"He's a pirate prince," Mignon whispered.
"
Dieu
, Juliet. You neglected to tell me how... handsome our new boarder is," Ginette added, fanning her face.
Unable to resist, I joined my sisters at the window, trying to decide if I had a punishment stern enough for my son. Andre had stepped over the line by speaking so.
Serve me right for making him do laundry!
Thoughts of punishment flew as my gaze settled on Mr. Trevelyan. His black hair, still damp from a bath, glistened in the morning sun. Dressed in form-fitting black pants, an unbuttoned linen shirt, and no shoes, he reminded me of a musketeer I'd seen illustrated in Alexandre Dumas's adventurous story. Hot embarrassment crept up my cheeks at the thought of facing him today. Ever since lying to him last night, I knew I had to apologize and explain why I'd been in his room.
"I have been in your shoes a few times," Mr. Trevelyan said. "It's not a fun place to be."
"You've done laundry?"
"No, but I've been angry and resentful enough that I didn't care if what I did was right or wrong," Mr. Trevelyan replied. "Your feelings are more important than anything else, right?"
Andre stopped beating the cauldron. "I didn't say that."
Mr. Trevelyan squatted down to be eye level with Andre. He didn't sound irritated as he spoke. "You didn't have to say the words, because your muttering and banging are saying them for you. But it's all right to feel that way."
I saw Andre's mouth drop open. It was about the same moment that my teeth clenched. Whatever did the man think he was about?"
"
Bon
, monsieur? But that's …"
"Not right?" Mr. Trevelyan said. "Does that stop you from feeling angry? Is it going to stop you from feeling embarrassed or resentful?"
Andre shook his head.
Mr. Trevelyan shrugged. "It didn't stop me from feeling those things and worse. Everyone has a dark side and feels things that aren't exactly right, but most people are afraid to admit it. What is important is what you do with those feelings. That's what determines if you are a man or a boy."
"What do you mean, monsieur?"
"A man does what is right regardless of how he feels, even if he thinks others will laugh, even if it doesn't make him happy. Even if it causes him pain or embarrassment. A boy just does what he wants when he wants, and doesn't care if he hurts others who count on him. It seems that your mother and aunts work very hard and could use a man's help around the house. My advice is for you to figure if you are strong enough to be a man now. If you wait until you're all grown up to do it, it's not only much harder, but bad things can happen."
There was a long silence. Andre stared at his sheets in the pot, his shoulders tense as he weighed Mr. Trevelyan's words. "Like what bad things . . . monsieur?"