by DeVa Gantt
The day drew on. Robert departed Colette’s chambers. He reached the open doorway of the nursery and cleared his throat, startling them.
“How is my mother?” Yvette demanded.
“There has been a minor improvement,” he stated sourly.
Robert Blackford could have been a handsome man—tall and lean, with dark, aristocratic features. But he never smiled, his brow permanently severe, his jaw perpetually clenched.
“If you want her well again,” he continued, “you are not to disturb her until I give permission. She has pneumonia thanks to your little outing on Sunday.”
Charmaine had a great deal of trouble getting the girls to sleep that night. She thought Pierre would present the bigger problem, for he had cried nearly an hour the evening before. Without Nana Rose’s able hands—the old woman had been abed for the better part of a week with rheumatism—Charmaine feared she was in for another bout of torrential tears. Not so; he fell asleep quickly. The girls, on the other hand, were guilt-ridden and anguished over their mother. Charmaine encouraged them to pray, but it was only as she read to them that their eyes grew heavy, and they succumbed to exhaustion.
Now she was free to fret on her own. Colette had not been well for the better part of two months, her health deteriorating rapidly since Christmas. Charmaine had thought the fresh air and sunshine of Sunday would do her some good. But Agatha was right. She wasn’t a physician and should have left well enough alone; thanks to her, Colette was worse than ever. Robert Blackford’s every-other-day visits would certainly turn into daily visits now.
She went down to the kitchen and chatted with Fatima Henderson. “This house is just too empty,” the cook complained. It was true. Because Paul was away, George was overburdened. During the past weeks, they’d seen very little of him. Charmaine despaired anew. While Paul resided in the house, she felt protected. In his absence, havoc had reigned, the days longer, the nights wretched. Once the children were abed, there was little to do to while away the hours.
She needed a distraction and meandered into the drawing room, walking over to the piano. Maybe if she played something elaborate it would serve such a purpose and cheer her. She rummaged through the side table drawer until she found the dog-eared pages of a complicated piece. She propped them up, rearranged her skirts, and set her fingers on the keys.
She played the first sixteen measures, the last four a sequence that introduced the secondary theme. She sighed. The arrangement was difficult, lovely, yet sad. She played it again and again, reveling in the resonance of the finely crafted piano. This composition would never have sounded so beautiful on Loretta Harrington’s upright. It was a masterpiece intended for a master instrument, its haunting strains echoing off the drawing room walls.
One more time over the ivory keys and Charmaine smiled. The notes were becoming familiar. She had faltered only once that last time, and now the rapturous rhapsody blossomed in all its glory, like an anxious flower bud bursting open to the beckoning sun.
Though the dissonant secondary theme defiled the perfect harmonies of the first, they were suitably entwined: lovers racing to the climax, expectancy building with each successive, addictive chord, exploding into a furious arpeggio that thundered up the keyboard, then tumbled back down. After three full measures of silence, a solitary, naked chord answered the fury, bringing the piece to a close: desolate, lost, hopeless…
The evening was too warm, the quiescent air too stifling in the confining chamber, and Colette knew the panic of suffocation. She left the bed and pattered barefoot across the soft carpet to the French doors, pulling them open. There she stood, welcoming the brisk March wind that buffeted her face and carried her golden hair off her shoulders, praying it would clear her senses.
This is only a minor setback, she reasoned. Yes, her head throbbed, her throat was constricted with needling pain, and her chest was congested. But a severe infirmity of the lungs? No, she silently denied, she wasn’t that ill, though Agatha and Robert would like everyone to believe she was. And yet, after two days of coughing and fever, this afternoon she had lost the will to oppose their ministrations. She succumbed to Robert’s wicked serum and Agatha’s demanded round-the-clock bed rest.
That had been hours ago. Tonight, with the mansion so quiet and her contaminated room so oppressive, she escaped to the veranda. Breathing deeply, she welcomed the rejuvenating night air, until a hearty gale hit her full force. Shivering, she quickly latched the glass panels and wrapped herself in a plush velvet robe. Just as quickly, the sweats returned.
She should lie down. No! She’d not return to the rumpled bed where she had passed the better part of three days. Instead, she slipped her numb feet into soft slippers. She’d check on the children.
She was abreast of the staircase when she first heard it—a torpid melody long abandoned yet well remembered…Then, it was gone, indifferent of the emotion it had evoked. She hadn’t heard it. It was all in her clouded mind. She shouldn’t have stood in the night air. The exertion was taking its toll. Perhaps she should return to her apartments. No, that was foolish. She’d come this far, and she needed to see her children. If she just steadied herself for a moment, she’d be fine. There, she felt better already.
The children slept soundly. Thanks to Charmaine, they’d been tenderly mothered in her absence. She kissed each child’s forehead, tucked in a cover here, moved a head back on the pillow there. Content, she tiptoed from the room.
Everything was shrouded in silence, and yet, as Colette crossed the hallway, the familiar strain was there again, meeting her at the top of the staircase. It was beckoning her, tugging at her very soul. Yes, it was stronger now and not a bitter disappointment of the imagination. It was real! All she had to do was reach the drawing room. Already her heart beat wildly with incautious desire, the rhapsody embracing her, mocking her turmoil and demanding but one thing: she come!
Charmaine played on, the power of the piece quintessential. No poet could pen words more plaintive than the haunting sorrow dwelling in this composer’s masterpiece. She was merely the medium called upon to give it life, its spellbound prisoner, just now realizing there was more here than just the music, much more. Her hands floated flawlessly across the keyboard, her fingers exalting untamed territory. The composition consumed her in its desire to proclaim its plight: charades that hide the truth, injustices that persecute the living, and choices far from resolved…Charmaine had lived them all and wanted to weep.
The door slapped open, and she jumped, her hands crucifying the keys.
Relief flooded over her as she faced the startling wraith. “Colette?”
The mistress of the manor appeared dazed, her liquid eyes distant and her pupils dilated. Her face was flushed, and her breathing erratic. When she didn’t respond, Charmaine crossed the room and placed an arm around her frail shoulders. Colette swayed and began coughing fitfully. When the spasm passed, Charmaine coaxed her into the nearest chair. “Are you all right? Can I get you something? Perhaps a drink? Or should I have Travis send for the doctor?”
The last query snared Colette’s attention, and her detachment receded. “No,” she whispered. “I’ll be fine…in a minute. Just give me a minute.” Her eyes darted about the room as if she were looking for someone. Eventually, they came to rest on Charmaine. “You…you were playing the piano just now?”
“Yes.”
Colette frowned. “I didn’t know you could play so—well.” Her words trailed off, and again she scanned the darkened room. Is he standing in the shadows?
“I didn’t think I could play like that, either. It was as if the composition possessed me.”
Colette’s regard sharpened.
Unnerved by that gaze, Charmaine said, “You should be in bed.”
“No, I’m fine. I was just checking on the children when I heard the music. You played it so beautifully, almost as if…as if you’d composed it…”
Charmaine laughed softly, incredulously. “I could never have done that
.”
“…as if you were a part of it,” Colette continued, ignoring Charmaine’s denial. “As if you belonged to it.”
Charmaine could not disagree. “It’s exquisite. I just wish I were able to play it properly.”
“You will,” Colette encouraged, “with time and patience, you will.”
“Perhaps, but it will take a great deal of practice.” Charmaine lifted the sheets of music from the piano and studied them in the lamplight. “There are a few chords here that flow in the most unusual direction. I need to better understand their placement before I do it justice. Right now, my fingers are inclined to change the dissonant measures; they’re too unhappy.”
Colette’s eyes sparkled with tears. “An astute observation. The piece needs your touch to see it resolved.”
“Resolved?” Charmaine declared, upset she’d suggested interfering with the imperfectly perfect score. “I wouldn’t dream of tampering with it.”
“Not tamper,” Colette corrected, “enhance. The music as it stands cries out to be understood. The manner in which it is played—a gentle hand, a commitment to each measure—will enrich it. A few notes sent in a new direction will replace the sadness and sorrow with happiness and joy. You have the strength of character to do that, Charmaine, to bend the masterpiece, but not break it, to possess it, as it has possessed you. And when your love is the music, the harmony will be perfect.”
Peculiar sentiments, Charmaine thought. “Who composed it?” she asked.
“Obviously someone who has borne a great deal of pain.”
“Yes,” Charmaine agreed, “and that pain must have become his inspiration.”
Colette nodded, content for a second time that night. “Would you play it again? It has been so long. I’d like to hear it one last time.”
Charmaine placed her fingers on the keys and resurrected the rhapsody.
Wednesday, March 8, 1837
Colette sat at her desk, breathing as deeply as her constricted lungs would allow. Agatha and Robert had finally left her, and she had a moment’s peace. She refused to stay abed, certain she had exerted more energy arguing with the doctor and his sister than walking the short distance from bedchamber to sitting room. Still, she admitted the physician’s remedies had had some positive effect. Though her cough persisted, his mustard plaster had eased the piercing pain she’d experienced yesterday when her hacking had been uncontrollable. His constant care had also cured her of a two-day fever and chills.
She had slept very little last night, and yet, this morning she felt strangely untroubled and refreshed. Charmaine Ryan had pointed the way; she knew what she must do.
Picking up her quill, she began to write, allowing her heart to determine the words. More than once, tears splattered the stationery, but she chased them away with the back of her hand. Tears were for the past, smiles were for tomorrow. She would think only of smiles.
So deep were her thoughts, she did not hear her chamber door open.
“Colette, why are you out of bed?”
She jumped, nearly upsetting the inkwell, a hand flying to her mouth. “Frederic,” she gasped, “what are you doing here?” Was he reading over my shoulder? No, his eyes betrayed only concern.
“I’ve come to see how you are,” he answered gently.
She sighed in relief, but the expulsion of air ended in another coughing fit. When she looked up at him, he was scowling.
“Robert told me you’ve refused his advice. Must I set Gladys up as guard to make certain you stay in bed?”
“Do what you like, Frederic,” she retaliated, “but I won’t be bullied!”
She remembered a time when such a retort would have incensed him further, but today his countenance softened dolefully. “I am not trying to bully you, Colette. I only wish to see you well again.”
“Why?” she asked, suddenly on the verge of tears. “What does it matter?”
“The children need you.”
“The children…Just the children?” She bit her bottom lip and, for one breathless moment, thought he was going to speak the words she longed to hear.
Instead he asked, “Where were you last night?”
Confused, a multitude of thoughts raced through her mind: the suffocating room, the need to see the children, the music…and then, this peculiar question. “You were here?” she asked, noting the accusatory gleam that flickered in his eyes. Dear God, he still mistrusts me!
“Robert has painted a grim picture. I was worried and couldn’t sleep.”
“Neither could I. I went to check on the children.”
“Strange,” he snorted, “I did the same thing, and you weren’t there.”
“I did look in on the children,” she said. “Afterward, I went downstairs. But if you want to believe the worst about me, if that eases your pain—”
She was coughing again, so fiercely she doubled over, unaware of his despair. “Colette,” he urged, his hale arm pulling her to her feet, “you must get back into bed. I won’t disturb you if you remain in bed.”
Friday, March 31, 1837
Colette’s health continued to deteriorate after her bout with pneumonia, and her absences from the nursery became commonplace. Not so today. If Colette couldn’t come to the children, the children would go to her. It was her birthday. Charmaine made all the preparations: a day’s excursion with the girls and Pierre, and a visit to their mother’s chambers after dinner, where they would give her the locket they had picked out at the mercantile earlier that week.
Charmaine had just finished tying Pierre’s laces, when Frederic appeared in the nursery doorway. “Are you going somewhere?” he asked.
“Yes, sir,” she answered, quickly straightening up.
She remained ill at ease with the man, their first encounter forever etched in her mind. It was a condition she’d been forced to confront on a daily basis now. Over the past month, he’d come to visit nearly every morning, as if he were attempting to make up to his children the time they’d normally have spent with their mother, that precious time that had been stolen from them.
“Mademoiselle Charmaine is taking us on a picnic,” Jeannette offered. “Would you like to come, Papa?”
“I think not. But I do have a present for Pierre. I believe he is three today.”
The little boy beamed in delight. “I am! Where’s my pwesent?”
Frederic produced a package from behind his back, and the boy quickly dove into the wrapping. He lifted from the paper a wooden ship, a replica of the Duvoisin vessels that sailed the Atlantic. Laughing, he gave his father a fierce hug. “Tank you, Papa!”
Charmaine smiled down at him, satisfied with his manners and delighted with his joy. Already he was on hands and knees pretending to sail the toy.
Yvette frowned in disappointment. “Pierre got a present on our birthday,” she remarked sullenly. “Why don’t we get one on his?”
“Would a visit to see your mother suffice?” her father asked. “I know she would love a visit from you. She’s feeling a bit better today.”
The invitation had a magical effect, Charmaine’s planned outing quickly forgotten. As they raced out of the room, Frederic called after them. “One thing,” he lightly warned. “No jumping on her bed, and don’t forget to say ‘Happy Birthday.’”
“Of course we wouldn’t forget that!” Yvette exclaimed.
In an instant they were gone, and Charmaine was left alone with the taciturn man. He stepped slightly aside and, with the wave of his hand, encouraged her to precede him down the hallway. She did so, wondering if she had become accustomed to his labored steps, or if those steps had improved in the months she had come to know him; he did not seem to struggle as fiercely as he had before.
They found the children in Colette’s bedroom. Though the French doors were thrown open and sunlight spilled into the chamber, the room was dismal. Colette, propped among many pillows, did not look well. Large, dark circles lay claim to sunken eyes, and the smile that reached them was more sad
than happy.
The children seemed unaware of the severity of her illness. Pierre was nestled beside her, Jeannette sat next to him, and Yvette stood opposite them, near her mother’s pillow, grasping one of her hands. They were innocently happy just to be in her presence.
“We are going on a picnic today,” Yvette was saying. “We can’t wait until you are well enough to come with us again!”
“That’s a lovely way to spend Pierre’s birthday,” Colette answered. “Next year, when I’m better, we’ll plan something special to do together.”
“I’m fwee!” Pierre announced proudly.
“Yes, I know, mon caillou,” she replied. “You are growing so handsome. Soon you will look just like your father.” She brushed back the soft brown hair that fell on his brow and drew him close for a tender kiss. “I missed you.”
“When are you gonna be better, Mama?”
“Soon, I hope…very soon.”
Frederic cleared his throat. “I didn’t hear anyone say ‘Happy Birthday.’”
“Oh yes, Mama,” they all chimed in, “Happy Birthday!”
“I’m so glad we’re visiting now,” Jeannette said. “Mademoiselle didn’t think we’d be allowed until later, but Papa knew we wanted to see you this morning.”
Colette’s eyes filled with tears as she looked from one child to the next. Then she met her husband’s gaze across the room. “Thank you,” she whispered, her gratitude rivaled only by her astonishment.
Earlier that morning, she had had a dispute with Robert Blackford, gaining nothing save a warning she not leave her bed lest he summon her husband. When Agatha had hurried off to do just that, Colette had been certain she’d be denied yet another visit with her children. But Frederic had defied them.
