“Bear down when I tell you, my child. The baby is too weak to do it on his own.” Dr. Renaud placed a gentle hand on Gabby’s abdomen and when he felt the next contraction, cried, “Push!”
Gabby strained with all her might but to no avail. For all her effort she had bitten through her lower lip and Philippe tenderly wiped the blood from her chin.
Once again the doctor commanded, “Push!” And once again Gabby’s face purpled from her heroic attempts to follow the doctor’s orders. This continued for what seemed like hours until the doctor cried exultantly, “I see the head!” Carefully, he inserted a set of forceps into the birth canal and eased the baby into the light of day.
The room was deathly still. Dr. Renaud worked over the infant an interminable length of time, then handed it to Tildy who was waiting nearby. Wrapping the baby in a soft cloth, she shuffled from the room, weeping silently.
“A girl,” said Dr. Renaud, his face sad when he finally found the courage to face Philippe. “I’m sorry. The labor was too long. I could not save her. She was extraordinarily small and her lungs undeveloped.” His voice was filled with compassion. Saving lives was one thing, but delivering stillborn babies was a chore he could easily forgo.
Philippe fought back a sob and buried his face in Gabby’s sweat-drenched hair. She appeared to be dozing and did not hear the doctor’s words. “What now?” he asked, dazed.
“We wait for the afterbirth and hope there are no complications,” pronounced the doctor hopefully. Then he put both hands on Gabby’s still swollen stomach and kneaded gently. After a few moments, Gabby’s limp body tensed, and she cried out.
“Mon dieu!”
exclaimed the doctor, astonishment lighting his drawn features. “It can’t be… it’s not possible… yet…”
“What is it, Doctor?” cried Philippe, expecting to hear the worst as his arms tightened convulsively around Gabby.
“I had no idea your wife was carrying twins! Another child is about to make an appearance!”
“Twins!” Philippe barely had time to digest the doctor’s incredible disclosure when Gabby convulsed and slammed her body down hard against him.
Almost immediately Dr. Renaud’s jubilant voice rang out. “I have it! A boy! He lives, Philippe, he lives!” A lusty wail followed. Philippe listened in awe, tears streaming unashamedly down his cheeks.
From that moment on events moved swiftly. Tildy bore the baby away to clean him. He looked incredibly small and vulnerable in Philippe’s eyes, and, for some reason, equally precious. How could he walk out of Gabby’s life now after he had participated fully in bringing that tiny being into the world? Then all thoughts of the child fled as he looked down into Gabby’s white face.
“My wife,” he croaked, his mouth suddenly gone dry. “Will she… is she…?”
“She is holding her own. Barring hemorrhaging or fever she should recover. I can truthfully say that had the birth been delayed another moment you would have neither wife nor child. But she is young, and given time, should recover completely.”
“And the babe?”
“You heard him,
mon ami
,” smiled the doctor, slapping Philippe on the back. “He is unusually robust for being a twin and premature at that. It is quite normal for twins to come into the world earlier than expected. It appears that this little fellow received more than his share of nourishment, leaving his sister too frail and weak to survive. But then, we cannot be certain that your wife’s untimely fall was not the cause of the girl’s death “
Tildy returned carrying a tiny bundle which she placed in the crook of Philippe’s arm. Startled, he stared at the perfectly formed scrap of humanity amazed at his fight for survival. With his thumb he ruffed the soft blond fluff on the top of his son’s head. The baby opened midnight blue eyes and gazed with grave concentration at his parent. Instinctively Philippe’s grip tightened on the infant. He could not help but notice that the child had not one, single feature he could attribute to cither himself or Marcel. Was the child his? Did the doctor speak the truth when he said twins were usually born early? Or was this helpless being the son of the man he hated? Unable to bear his tortured thoughts a moment longer, Philippe handed the baby to Gabby who had by then recovered somewhat and asked to see her son.
“Come with me, Philippe,” urged the doctor, pulling Philippe from the room with him. “You look as if you could use a brandy and I’m sure Duvall has some of the best. Tildy will clean up your wife and you can see her again before I give her something to make her sleep. Time and rest are the best healers known to mankind.”
Together they descended the stairs and helped themselves liberally to Marcel’s excellent brandy. Both men were exhausted and they spoke sparingly, sipping their drinks in contemplative silence. After what seemed like an eternity Tildy entered the room to inform Philippe that Gabby was ready for visitors.
Philippe labored to his feet and tiredly climbed the stairs, struggling to compose his rampaging thoughts. What could he say to Gabby after his harsh treatment and hasty words of the past? His emotions ran rampant. But one truth stood out clearly in his mind; his love for Gabby was a patent, tangible force! The tiny infant he had cuddled in his arms was his no matter who the sire!
The sight that greeted him upon entering the bedroom was like a drug to his senses. Gabby, a beautiful smile curving her lips, was pressing a swollen breast to her son’s budlike mouth, his lips hardly large enough to take in the engorged nipple. She gazed lovingly at the babe nuzzling at her breast before she turned to Philippe. He saw that her face was fuzzy from exhaustion and etched with lines of suffering and his heart went out to her.
“You’re not dead,” Gabby exclaimed wonderingly, violet eyes luminous in her pale face. “I thought… I thought I only imagined you were with me. Through all the pain your voice gave me courage. I could not have done it without you, Philippe. I… I…
merci.”
Gabby’s eyes began to droop.
“Your son is beautiful,
ma chere,
just like his mother.” His voice implied he meant every word. There was so much he wanted to say to her, so much to make up for. “I am grateful to
le bon dieu
for placing me in St. Pierre at the time of your need.” No matter whose child he helped to birth, it was a rewarding experience, one he was not likely to forget. But why had Gabby thought him dead? Aloud, he asked, “Who told you I was dead? Was it Marcel?”
At the mention of Marcel’s name Gabby roused from her stupor and smiled a secret smile. He had awaited the child’s birth as anxiously as she. He could not have been more caring d he been the real father. How pleased he would be to learn of her son’s birth.
“What is it,
cherie?”
asked Philippe, intrigued by the look on her face. “Why do you smile so sweetly?”
Gabby’s exhaustion was such that she could barely concentrate on Philippe or his questions. Mustering what remained of her flagging strength, she murmured silently, “Marcel will be so pleased with our son.” Those were her last words before she dozed off.
Philippe’s gray eyes went murky, her words like a shaft of steel piercing his heart, leaving no doubt in his mind that he had just assisted with birthing Marcel’s bastard! Yet, gazing down at the tiny, helpless being, he could not bring himself to despise him, not could he hate Gabby, for he alone had driven her into Marcel’s bed as surely as he had lost what love she once held for him.
Bending to place a gentle kiss on her still lips, he murmured,
“Je t’aime, je t’aime, ma chere, adieu.”
Then he was gone, determined to divorce himself from the lives of Gabby, Marcel, and their son, though he could not bring himself to do it legally.
During the month it took Gabby to recover from childbirth and the bruising fall down the stairs, Mt. Pelee settled down to an occasional rumble, much to the relief of the inhabitants of St. Pierre. Business continued as usual with hardly a second thought being given to that errant volcano.
Upon receiving Tildy’s message announcing the birth of Gabby’s son, Marcel had hastened back to St. Pierre to be with the woman he loved. The doctor had informed him about the multiple births and subsequent death of the tiny girl, stressing the importance of Philippe’s presence during the long, difficult delivery. Marcel was on pins and needles until he learned that Philippe had returned to Bellefontaine almost immediately afterward, fearing Gabby’s husband would demand her return. But since his hasty departure Marcel could only assume that Philippe still persisted with the fallacy that he was not the child’s father and meant to claim neither his wife nor newborn son.
Marcel became immediately enamored of the baby boy. Already he had grown to love the sturdy little fellow whom Gabby had named Jean after Jean Lafitte whose courage and strength in face of adversity she greatly admired. And the name seemed apropos for the boy had survived against all odds.
If Gabby was hurt or disappointed at Philippe’s desertion one chose not to mention it. In fact, she appeared outwardly to accept her husband’s rejection of her and the baby, believing him happily ensconced at Bellefontaine with Amalie. Gabby had confided in Marcel, relating the facts concerning Amalie’s secretive visit and the cause of her fall. He was consumed with rage over the incident. He wanted to go immediately to Bellefontaine and confront Philippe with Amalie’s violet act that nearly cost Gabby her life, but Gabby would not allow it, preferring no further contact with her husband or his mistress. In the holocaust of her mind everything that had happened to her was the result of those two lovers working hand in hand. How or why he had showed up unexpectedly on the day of Jean’s birth remained somewhat of a mystery but Philippe’s disappearance almost immediately afterward proved he cared little for her. But had she, she wondered, confused, in her delirium of pain and suffering, only dreamed his tender words of love?
As the days progressed nothing could take from Gabby the joy of holding her infant son in her arms. Sometimes she grieved for the tiny girl who was too frail to survive, but mostly she rejoiced in the son
le bon dieu
allowed to live and fill her life with a content and happiness she hadn’t known for a long time.
Marcel was inordinately fond of little Jean. He usually could be found standing beside the baby’s crib seemingly entranced by his tiny flutterings and mewings. One of his special pleasures was being present when the babe suckled at Gabby’s full breast, imagining his own lips against the smooth mounds that Jean’s rosebud mouth closed so greedily upon.
Marcel grew excited at the thought that Gabby would soon come to his bed and wondered at his patience until he realized that he loved her far too much to force her against her will, preferring to wait until she came to him willingly. Now that her recuperation was nearly complete he could barely conceal his anticipation. It was not difficult for Gabby to guess at his euphoria. She knew she would soon become the prize he had long awaited with such enduring patience.
She could think of no plausible reason to deny the man who loved her with gentle devotion and became the kind of father little Jean deserved and needed.
Mt. Pelee began erupting with renewed vigor on the day Jean reached the venerable age of one month. The fireworks spewing unceasingly from the crater’s mouth were spectacular. Even the citizenry of St. Pierre, usually blas? about such happenings, sat up and took notice. Thin streams of red-hot lava flowed toward St. Pierre but so far had posed no danger. The eruptions continued unabated night and day for five days. Even the Obeah worshipers offered more than their usual number of sacrifices to Damballa in hopes to appease the God of the mountain. Then the eruption and spewing of lava ceased as suddenly as they began.
At Bellefontaine Philippe drove himself ruthlessly. Up at down, in bed at dusk, hard work his only defense against loneliness and his deep longing for Gabby. After long days and nights of soul-searching he convinced himself to swallow his pride and jealousy; his need and love for Gabby were too necessary to his life for him to relinquish her. And the ominous warnings coming from Mt. Pelee had him worried. He had never known Mt. Pelee to remain active for so long a period. Under normal circumstances, nary a puff of smoke could be seen coming from the dormant crater. Shuddering from a nagging fear he could not define, Philippe made up his mind to go to St. Pierre and beg Gabby to return with him to Bellefontaine with her son.
Philippe found himself on the road to St. Pierre on the day the eruptions from Mt. Pelee came to an abrupt halt. It was an arduous journey made even more so by the fingers of lava, now cooled, that had turned the Trace into a treacherous, rock-strewn obstacle course. It was long past dusk when he arrived in St. Pierre, going directly to his townhouse to spend the night nervously pacing the floor of his bedroom composing speeches. Philippe had no idea how he would react if Gabby refused to accompany him back to Bellefontaine. He refused to allow such thinking to cloud his mind. Somehow he had to persuade her that he loved her, needed her. Sleep became as elusive as Gabby during their turbulent years of marriage. Finally, near dawn, Philippe stretched out on the bed and drifted into a fitful sleep fraught with visions of eruptions, death, and destruction of monumental dimensions.
Gabby awoke instantly alert for sounds that might indicate further activity from Mr. Pelee, and hearing nothing but hungry wails coming from Jean in the next room, sighed deeply and relaxed. Soon, even Jean’s cries ceased as his wet nurse put him to breast. At first Gabby had protested violently to the wet nurse, wishing to suckle the baby herself. But in the end she had reluctantly given in to Marcel’s and Dr. Renaud’s protestations that Jean needed more than she was able to provide. Because he was so small, he demanded frequent feedings, which Gabby, being in such fragile health, had been unable to meet. So to satisfy her maternal instincts and at the same time make good use of the milk flowing from her breasts she was allowed to suckle Jean three times a day with the wet nurse providing his feedings in between. A knock on the door ruptured her pleasant thoughts.
“Come in,” Gabby called, thinking it to be Luella, the nurse, with Jean for his morning visit. She made it a habit of holding and cuddling her son each morning upon awakening. She was therefore surprised to see Marcel; even more surprised to see him close the door firmly before striding to her bedside.
“Is something wrong. Marcel?” Gabby asked nervously.
“Everything is perfect,
cherie,
” smiled Marcel. “Just perfect.” His emerald gaze never left her face as he casually sat down beside her. Only then did she notice the letter in his hand. Answering her silent question, Marcel held the letter aloft. “From Honore. I thought you might enjoy sharing her news with me.”
Gabby clapped her hands delightedly. “How is the little scamp? Did she mention her new husband? Is she happy?”
Honore had not returned to St. Pierre as expected. A letter had arrived a day after Jean’s birth informing them that she had fallen in love and would not be returning to St. Pierre. Celeste had approved of the match and the wedding would take place within the month. A letter from Celeste had followed enumerating the many qualities and eligibility of Honore’s intended.
The arrangements had been heartily approved by Marcel and the wedding had taken place in New Orleans. Gabby’s eyes misted as Marcel read Honore’s letter aloud. The girl’s happiness, her pleasure with her marriage, and their love for one another came through clearly in every word. When Marcel put the letter aside Gabby was weeping openly.
“What is it,
cherie?
” Marcel asked, concern apparent in his voice. “Are you ill?” Immediately he took her in his arms, intensely aware of every curve of her supple body through the flimsy material of her nightgown.
“Nothing is wrong, Marcel,” Gabby sobbed in his shirt. “It’s just that I am so happy for Honore. Her life, her marriage will be so different from my own. I hope she never loses the love and trust of the man she loves.”
“Ma chere,
happiness shall not elude you. I intend to make you as happy, if not happier, than Honore. I have some wonderful news for you. The
Reliance
sails for France in three weeks and I have booked passage for the three of us. I have already dispatched a letter to Linette requesting that her husband, Pierre, petition the courts in your behalf. By the time we arrive, obtaining your divorce should be merely a formality. Pierre Bonnard wields much influence, his legal prestige being considerable. We will be married the moment you are free to do so. Those cruel years as Philiippe’s wife will soon become a thing of the past.”
“So soon?” Gabby asked. “Must we leave Martinique so soon? I am not sure Dr. Renaud will allow me to leave. I am still under his care.” She was dismayed by the suddenness of Marcel’s announcement. Was she making excuses, she wondered, exasperated by her line of thinking. Philippe obviously did not want her so why should she delay her departure?
“The sea air will do you a world of good,” Marcel stressed. “I’m sure the doctor will concur. He said your quick recovery was near miraculous. Is there some other reason behind your desire to linger in St. Pierre?” he asked, eyes narrowing speculatively.
“I… of course not,” Gabby insisted a bit too heartily to Marcel’s liking. “Jean and I will be ready to leave in three weeks.”
“And was the doctor correct in telling me that your recovery is complete?”
“Oui,
he was.” Her voice came out a whisper but her answer was enough to set Marcel afire.
His hands could not be stilled as they caressed her scantily clad body. His lips reverently touched her eyes, slid along a smooth cheek, nuzzled her neck. Pushing her gown from her shoulders, baring her heavy breasts, his mouth sought a milk engorged nipple. Gabby gave a gasp of protest and shoved ineffectually at his hard chest, but her feeble struggles only served to further enflame him. Suddenly, starved so long of male affection, she found herself responding wildly to his lips and hands.
“You want me,
ma amour,
I know you do,” murmured Marcel, his voice thick with desire. “Let me love you.”
Taking Gabby’s silence for acquiescence, Marcel stood up and began to shed his clothing, hands shaking, body trembling with long repressed desire. He had succeeded in removing his jacket and cravat when the nursemaid burst into the room with little Jean in her arms.
Recoiling from the intimate scene, Luelle cried out, “Oh, Madame Gabby, forgive me! I thought you were alone!” Thoroughly flustered, the girl lowered her head to cover her confusion.
Hastily Gabby pulled the sheet up to cover her nakedness while the nursemaid focused her eyes everywhere but at Marcel and Gabby, aware of their obvious intent, though uncertain of the relationship between her master and the woman who was another man’s wife. In an agony of embarrassment, she timidly approached the bed, thrust her small charge at Gabby and fled in a rush of embarrassment.
Marcel cursed under his breath, watching hungrily as Gabby put the gurgling child to her breast, which had begun to drip milk after Marcel’s eager manipulations just moments before. Though bitterly disappointed, he could not help but smile as Jean’s pink mouth pulled greedily at Gabby’s nipple, his tiny fists kneading the flesh he longed to possess.
“Lucky tyke,” he said softly, ruffling the baby’s blond fuzz gently with a thumb. Then his hand slid upward to caress the tempting, white flesh visible above Jean’s tiny face. “Tonight,
ma chere
,” he murmured, green eyes intense with desire, “tonight you shall be mine.” His meaning was quite clear, and against her will Gabby found herself anticipating the night ahead with a mixture of desire and dread.
Later that morning while Marcel was at his office, Tildy off to the market and Luella on an outing with Jean, Gabby sat in the salle trying to concentrate on a novel but having little luck. Her mind kept straying to the scene in her bedroom and how easy it was to respond to Marcel’s ardor. For a long time she knew their coming together was inevitable. What did it matter if she gave in to Marcel before they were married? Who had a better right to her love? Certainly not Philippe, who by his absence made it perfectly clear that she was free to do as she pleased. At least Marcel’s love did not hurt, was unwavering, and filled her with gentle contentment. She could do worse than become his wife. Why, then, did the feeling persist that she was betraying Philippe? Wasn’t he, even now, betraying her with Amalie?
A loud knock at the door shattered the silence and with a frown of annoyance Gabby realized she was the only one in the house and, sighing deeply, moved to answer the summons. Shock followed astonishment when she found Philippe standing before her, a crooked grin flashing big and white in his tanned face.
“Philippe!” A pulse beat madly in her throat and she licked lips gone suddenly dry with the tip of her tongue.
“May I come in?”
Gabby was struck speechless as well as motionless. Finally, taking matters in his own hands, Philippe pushed open the door and entered before Gabby could object.
“I need to talk to you, Gabby,” he pleaded, flashing her a look of entreaty. “Are you alone?”
Somehow finding her voice, Gabby croaked,
“Oui,
quite alone. Even Jean is out with his nurse.” Dropping her eyes beneath Philippe’s strange, smoky gaze, Gabby fought hard to control her raging emotions.
“Is there some place where we won’t be disturbed?” Philippe asked, his eyes shifting toward the room he knew to be Marcel’s study.
Wordlessly Gabby led the way to the small, intimate room instead of to the less private salle.
Philippe closed the door behind him, quietly turning the key in the lock, a soft, tender look glazing his features. “Jean,” he said, tasting the name on his tongue. “So you named your son Jean. Does Marcel approve?”