Authors: Eugenia Riley
She extended her hand. “I’ll be in
touch.”
After Anton Gerard left, Mercy
paced, feeling more confused than ever. She was still in a state of shock
regarding her cousin’s astounding visit.
Why had Madelaine Devereux
contacted her mother’s people in Natchez in the first place? It was most odd .
. .
Should she consider a visit? In
her mind, there was little the Dubois could do to atone to her, after
heartlessly disowning her mother.
Yet she was practical enough to
recognize a possible solution to her life’s problems when she saw it. Perhaps
her grandparents did feel deep regret for their treatment of her mother. Perhaps
she at least owed them a hearing. Afterward, if their explanations failed to
satisfy her, she could still reject a future relationship with them.
And to think that she might have a
life apart from Julian. The possibility brought a brief flash of hope, followed
by an unwelcome, wrenching sadness at the thought of leaving him. Still, he did
not want her here, as evidenced by his cruel words this morning. Indeed,
nothing had been right between them since they’d returned to New Orleans.
Then, as she recalled Anton’s
invitation to both of them, she couldn’t help but remember the beauty and joy
of her honeymoon with Julian. Much as he had hurt her, the softer side of her
still yearned to recapture those blissful days. If she and Julian went away
together, could the magic be restored in their marriage? Were they indeed
doomed as long as they remained here in New Orleans?
Could she get up the courage to
ask him to take her to Natchez?
Then she laughed bitterly at her own
foolish thoughts. She’d already tried to effect a reconciliation with him, and
he’d flung her feelings back in her face. He’d made it clear that he would
always use her to sate his lusts, and never love her. If she asked him to go
with her to Natchez, he’d likely laugh himself silly . . .
Still, she hungered for him so
much.
Mercy clenched her fists and
blinked back tears. Despite her misgivings, she very much feared she would soon
swallow her pride and ask Julian to take her to Natchez.
***
At Justine’s house, matters were
not improving. All day, Arnaud coughed and thrashed about deliriously. Julian,
Justine, and Henrí took turns ministering to the child, sponging him off and
trying to spoon medicine and broth down him. His fever did not diminish, his breathing
remained raspy, and when he occasionally opened his eyes, his gaze was glazed
and unfocused. Sometimes he recognized his parents; more often he didn’t. At
times he ripped at the covers and talked out of his head. Watching the child’s
helpless suffering wrenched his parents’ hearts.
That evening the doctor returned.
After examining Arnaud, he pronounced that the boy did not appear in any
immediate danger. Still, the physician’s expression was grave as he left.
Midnight found Julian and Justine
sitting together on narrow chairs next to the bed, watching their child with
stark apprehension. Arnaud had at last fallen into a fretful slumber, although
the sound of his shallow, labored breathing was worrisome to hear.
Justine turned to Julian. “The
doctor told us we won’t know anything tonight. You must go home now.”
“
Non
,” Julian replied
hoarsely, turning to her with vehement passion in his eyes.
“But what about Mercy? She must be
terribly worried.”
Julian laced his fingers together
beneath his chin. His tormented gaze fixed on his ill child. “She’ll just have
to understand.”
“Oh, Julian.” Justine’s expression
was deeply troubled. “That’s not fair to her, my dear. Go home to her, pray, if
only for a few hours.”
He hesitated. “I might, if I
thought you would get some rest.”
“I will. But only if you’ll go
home.”
While Julian continued to waver,
Henrí stepped up to the portal. “Go home,
maître
—I’ll see that Justine
rests.”
Both of them watched Henrí stride
into the room carrying a tray with a steaming teapot and cups. “I’ll care for
the lad tonight,” Henrí promised, staring poignantly at Arnaud. His voice
cracked with emotion. “I assure you that he’ll be in the best of hands. For,
you see, I love the boy, too.”
Julian smiled gratefully. “We
could never doubt that, Henrí. Still—”
“I’ll come get you,
maître
,
the minute there’s any change,” Henrí added gravely.
“But when will you rest?” Julian
asked him.
“When you come back in the
morning.”
“Please, Julian, go home,” Justine
beseeched.
At last he nodded and stood. Justine
also rose, and the two parents stared for a last, anguished moment at their
sick child. Julian groaned and squeezed Justine’s hand. “We won’t lose him,
love,” he whispered. “Neither of us could bear it.”
“But what if we must?” she asked
in a small voice.
Julian could only hug her quickly,
desperately, and turn away so that she couldn’t see the terrible anxiety in his
eyes.
***
When Julian slipped into bed an
hour later, Mercy was fast asleep. Should he awaken her and tell her what was
happening? He knew that she was furious with him already. Was she angrier still
because he’d stayed away so long?
He touched her arm in the
darkness, and she rolled away from him, drawing the covers up over her back.
What had he expected?
Julian lay awake long thereafter.
He remained deeply troubled over his marriage, but for now, Arnaud’s illness
must take precedence. Indeed, he felt extremely torn that he’d left his son’s
side at all, even if for Mercy’s sake. At first light, he would return to
Arnaud.
When Mercy awakened the next
morning, Julian was gone. She stared at his rumpled pillow next to her; his
musky scent still clung to the bedclothes.
She vaguely remembered him joining
her in bed in the middle of the night and reaching for her in the darkness. She
remembered turning away. What else could he have expected after he came home so
disgracefully late? She was certain he’d spent the stolen hours with Justine,
as he surely had so many times before. He would never change. Julian would
never stop hurting her. Perhaps she should go on to Natchez and try to start a
new life there.
***
Julian arrived at Justine’s
cottage to find his son much worse than yesterday, and even less aware of his
surroundings.
That morning, a heavy rain began
to fall; it seemed an ill portent. Frantically worried, Julian and Justine sat
with their child, searching his features for any sign of recovery. There was
none.
The doctor came just before noon.
He was particularly concerned by Arnaud’s hacking cough, his strained
breathing, and his general listlessness.
Throughout the day, the child’s
condition deteriorated. His eyes began to appear sunken, with deep purple lines
beneath; his cheeks were fever-bright. The teas that Justine brewed from
feverfew and horehound failed to calm his cough or lower his soaring
temperature. Indeed, attempts to spoon broth or even laudanum down the boy were
largely unsuccessful, as he choked up much of what was fed him.
Henrí flitted in and out of the
room, assisting them where he could. The rain stopped, but Arnaud only
worsened; his breathing continued to grow more shallow, and his skin grew waxy,
except for the worrisome bright red fever spots on his cheeks.
When the doctor returned toward
sundown, he examined Arnaud’s throat and heavily coated tongue; he listened to
the boy’s chest, then pronounced gravely that the child had contracted double
pneumonia. “You may wish to call a priest before too long, m’sieur,” was all
the weary man could say.
As soon as he left, Justine
collapsed hysterically into Julian’s arms. “Oh, Julian, I just cannot bear it!
It has been so sudden. There, has been no time to prepare, to say goodbye—”
“I know, love. I know.”
Julian held Justine and blinked
back tears as both of them helplessly watched their child slip farther away
from them. Justine did not even ask if Julian would go home tonight, for it was
obvious now that Arnaud would not likely survive to see another dawn.
During the endless night that
followed, Justine and Julian sat by Arnaud’s bed. Haltingly, they spoke of the
night he was born. When Julian had heard Justine’s screams, he’d burst into the
room, defying the doctor and holding her hand at the moment of birth. When
their lusty, howling infant had been placed in their arms, they’d both cried
with him.
Through tears, they recalled
Arnaud’s first babbled words, his first tentative steps. They remembered his
gurgled laughter, his wet kisses, his rosy cheeks on a cold winter day . . .
the love he’d brought them both . . .
All that love, all those dreams
seemed to be dying now.
Julian tried to be brave for
Justine’s sake. But when she left the room briefly to brew more tea, he fell to
his knees beside his son’s cot, clutching the coverlet with trembling fingers.
He stared with raw anguish at his son. Arnaud had grown so pale, he already
seemed a ghost of his former self.
Julian glanced around the room,
studying the many toys and books he’d brought Arnaud over the years—the
brightly colored toy boat, the wooden blocks, the handsome edition of
Perrault’s
Mother Goose Tales
. Each item brought a separate, poignant
memory of the wonderful times father and son had shared together. Now his son
lay so ill, so helpless, so far removed from him.
A sob welled up in his chest. He
crossed himself and issued a frantic plea to the Holy Virgin that his son be
saved. Yet somehow he knew that his prayer was futile, that Arnaud was already
headed for another plane.
Julian had known so much pain in
his life, and nothing had ever broken him. But this—this had brought him to his
knees.
***
When Justine returned to the room,
it was to watch her son slip deeper into the malaise, until he struggled for
each breath. Julian tried moving the boy about on the bed and adjusting his pillows;
yet nothing he did seemed to help. He was on the verge of asking Henrí to
summon the priest when he heard a small, angelic voice call out, “Papa?”
Both he and Justine turned to the
bed, their eyes filled with desperate hope. Arnaud was staring up at them with
glazed, fever-bright eyes. Justine issued a sob of gratitude and crossed
herself, while Julian gripped his son’s tiny, clammy hand and kissed it
tenderly.
“My son—you are awake at last!” he
cried, staring down at the child through blurring eyes.
“Why do I feel so queer, Papa?”
Arnaud asked in his weak, thready voice.
Julian fondly stroked the boy’s
damp hair. “You’ve been sick, poppet.”
The child nodded, blinking
sleepily. “Have you come to take me to the park, Papa?”
“As soon as you’re well, son,”
Julian replied in an agonized whisper.
“Will we ride Smoky Mary again?”
he asked with delirious eagerness.
“Oh, yes.”
“Will you buy me a pony for New
Year’s as you promised?”
“Of course,” Julian said hoarsely,
kissing his son’s precious fingers. “I’ll buy you many ponies.”
“
Bien
, Papa,” Arnaud
murmured happily. He turned slightly to stare at Justine. “Mama, why are you
crying?”
Justine could only sob hopelessly.
Julian hugged Justine’s heaving
shoulders and braved a smile at his son. Unable to think of a suitable answer,
he said lamely, “Mama burned herself with the iron.”
Arnaud attempted a laugh which
ended in a frightening spasm of coughing. Julian reached out to elevate the
boy; in a moment, the child managed to recover his labored breathing. Between gasps,
he forced out, “You . . . should not cry over something so . . . so silly,
Mama.”
Justine gazed at her beloved son
over her handkerchief. “I’m just worried about you, darling.”
“I am all right, Mama,” Arnaud
said bravely. “I feel as if I’m floating in the heavens.”
At that, both parents had to turn
away to hide their unspeakable sorrow.
“Women are silly, are they not,
Papa?” Arnaud was continuing with a deep yawn. “They are not brave like us,
no?”
“Oh, yes, my son—you’re so very
brave,” Julian said brokenly, leaning over to kiss his son’s damp forehead.
“I’m going to sleep now,” Arnaud
murmured, closing his eyes. “Good night Mama, Papa . . .”
“Good night, my son,” Julian
choked back.
As the child nodded off to sleep,
Justine distraughtly gripped Julian’s sleeve. “Julian, please, don’t let him—”
He pressed his fingers to her
mouth. His tortured eyes met hers. “Let him sleep, love.”
Her eyes were wild with fear and
pain. “But it’s not sleep that’s summoning him now, it’s—”
Julian caught her close with a groan.
“I know. I think
le bon Dieu
gave us these moments so we could all say
goodbye.” His voice cracked as he added, “If he’s bound somewhere else,
chère
,
I don’t think we can hold him here any longer.”
They clung to each other,
trembling and sobbing quietly, as Henrí slipped from the room to summon the
priest.
***
The moments of false recovery had
been brief and beautiful, but also cruel, as Arnaud now slipped into a deep
coma. Toward dawn, a grim group gathered over the dying child’s bed: the
priest, intoning extreme unction in his kindly, hushed voice; Julian, unshaven
and bleary-eyed, his expression stark with grief; Justine, weeping openly;
Henrí, trembling and crossing himself.
On the small bed, Arnaud was now
breathing in a death rattle, his lips chafed and cracked, his eyes closed, his
expression oddly serene. Julian well recognized the hopeless sounds from the
night he had spent with Corrine O’Shea on her deathbed. He knew that the only
justice in this entire obscene tragedy was that his son would succumb quietly.
Whatever cruel god was taking Arnaud at least possessed the mercy to let him
pass in peace.
After the priest left, the parents
sat vigil with their child. Julian held Arnaud’s cold, clammy hand, wishing he
could breathe the breath of his own life into his son’s lungs, wishing he could
die in his place. But the fates had decreed otherwise.
The final moments came quietly.
The pale rays of dawn stole across the room; the soft calling of a mourning
dove drifted in through the window. Arnaud’s eyelids fluttered; his tiny hand
went limp in Julian’s, and he breathed his last, raspy sigh.
At first both parents stared at
him stupidly, uncomprehendingly. Then reality hit them both with the force of a
mortal blow, and Justine issued a mother’s heartbroken cry. “Julian, no! Oh,
no!”
He caught her close, emitting a
howl of anguish that came straight from his shattered heart. He turned to stare
at his son—Arnaud looked as angelic in death as he had in life. Tears blinded
him and grief choked off his throat.
There was no peace left in this
world for him.
Only Arnaud was at peace now . . .
***
An hour earlier, at Julian’s town
house, Mercy had awakened in a rage, wild with jealousy. One look at Julian’s
unrumpled side of the bed told her all she needed to know.
At last her husband had done it.
The cad had abandoned all pretense and had spent the entire night in his
mistress’s bed. It was the ultimate insult!
She would confront him, she
decided quickly and vengefully. She would catch him in the act of adultery! She
would tell him to go to the devil and then she would leave him!
Because Henrí had also been absent
since yesterday, Mercy sent Risa to rouse old Rubin, with orders to prepare a
buggy for madame. She dressed hurriedly, suppressing her tears and hurt with
renewed anger.
When she left the town house ten
minutes later and emerged on the quiet banquette, she found Rubin already
waiting for her with the horse hitched to the barouche out in the street.
Dawn was breaking when they turned
onto the Ramparts. The golden rays lifted the fog and tangled in the smoke
curling from several chimneys. A fresh morning breeze wafted the scent of
honeysuckle and the odor of woodsmoke over Mercy. She leaned tensely forward in
her seat.
As soon as she spotted Julian’s
carriage ahead of them, her heart sank. She ordered Rubin to halt the barouche
behind her husband’s coach. Warning the old man to wait in the buggy, she
alighted and crept stealthily up the path to Justine’s cottage. Spotting a
light at the side of the house, she tiptoed around to the window and peered
inside.
Mercy gasped in horror. Inside the
small room, she spotted Julian and Justine, who stood tightly embraced over
their child’s bed. Since their backs were turned to her, she couldn’t see their
faces, and their bodies blocked most of her view of Arnaud. But the impact of
the tender, domestic scene was devastatingly apparent!
Choking on a sob, Mercy whirled
and ran back to the buggy. She’d seen all she needed to. Her marriage was over,
her heart broken.
Obviously, Julian had his life,
his love, and his child right here; there was no place in his heart for her.
It was time for her to seek a life
of her own.
***
Within minutes of Arnaud’s death,
Justine gave in to her grief and collapsed. Julian carried her to the parlor,
and Henrí stayed with her.
Meanwhile, Julian sat vigil with
his son, holding Arnaud’s cold, lifeless hand. “I’ll take you to the park,
poppet,” he promised brokenly. “We’ll ride Smoky Mary. I’ll buy you a pony . .
.”
Endlessly, he repeated the words,
as if they were some magic litany that held the power to bring his son back to
life.
Finally, he succumbed to hoarse,
agonized sobs, crying until he had no tears left. Then he lovingly washed and
prepared his son’s body, dressing Arnaud in a fresh gown and laying him out in
clean bedclothes.
The house was flooded with
sunshine by the time Julian left Arnaud’s room and went out to the parlor. At
the portal, he paused to stare solemnly at the scene inside. Justine sat on the
settee, huddled against Henrí. She was hiccoughing, her expression mirroring
her devastating grief.
“How is she?” Julian asked Henrí.
Henrí’s worried gaze flashed to
Julian’s. “She’s completely exhausted, but she refuses to go to bed.”
Julian stepped over to the settee
and gently shook Justine’s shoulder. When she didn’t respond, but simply
twisted her handkerchief in her fingers and stared into space, he glanced
sharply at Henrí.
Henrí stood to face his friend. “
Maître
,
you must talk some sense into her, and force her to take better care of
herself.” The manservant coughed, then added with both anxiety and pride, “You
see, she’s carrying my child.”
Julian appeared taken aback. “This
is a shock,” he murmured.
Henrí’s abrupt announcement also brought
a spark of life back to Justine. She sat up, glancing wildly at her lover.
“Henrí, no, you mustn’t—”
But Julian was already sitting
down beside Justine, taking her hands and staring at her earnestly. “Is this
true, Justine?”
She nodded, gulping.
“Why did you not tell me?”
Miserably, she bit her lip. “I
feared you would not approve.”
“Not approve?” he asked in
surprise.
“You told me once that you hoped
one day I’d find—someone upstanding.”
He shook his head ironically. “And
Henrí is not?”