by Connie Mason
Awakening with a start, bathed in sweat. Gabby arched against the dull ache beginning in the small of her back, radiating to her stomach. Dismissing the twinges of pain, she heaved herself from the bed, her body heavy, her spirits fraught with vague feelings of foreboding. When the pain in her abdomen disappeared into a dull throbbing, she breathed in relief and began her day, unaware of the dark forces working against her.
Having spent the early cool of the day sewing on the baby’s layette, by midafternoon Gabby was more than ready for a nap, exhausted from her insomnia of the night before. A knock on the door halted her slow progress up the stairs. Knowing Tildy was in the back kitchen probably asleep Gabby wearily retraced her steps to answer the insistent rapping. Her shock at finding Amalie standing before her was heightened by the fact that she had just last night experienced a disturbing dream involving Philippe’s beautiful mistress.
“What do you want?” Gabby asked, trying to conceal the tremor in her voice. “You have Philippe to yourself now, why don’t you leave me in peace?”
Amalie’s strange cat’s eyes narrowed on Gabby’s protruding stomach. From the looks of her she was about ready to deliver, surmised Amalie, baring her teeth in a mirthless smile as she prepared to exact her due from the one person who stood between her and Philippe in a way guaranteed to hurt him most.
“Please let me in,” begged Amalie when she realized that she was about to have the door slammed in her face. “Something terrible has happened to your husband.”
Gabby froze, her hand on the door, giving Amalie the advantage she sought as her supple body snaked around Gabby’s bulk into the foyer.
Her heart in her mouth, Gabby closed the door and turned awkwardly to face a gloating Amalie. “What has happened to Philippe?” she asked in a strangled voice, her face a tonured mask.
“He’s dead!” revealed Amalie, reveling in her lie. “He was bitten by a fer-de-lance yesterday in the banana groves!”
Gabby’s stomach heaved convulsively and she clutched at her throat, agony, disbelief, remorse marching across her face. “Philippe dead? No! No! It is not possible! I would have felt something if he were dead!”
Only then did she remember her strange lassitude and restlessness of the day before and the dark foreboding she experienced upon arising this morning. All the signs pointed to the one truth she was forced to acknowledge. Philippe was dead just as Amalie said!
Amalie slanted Gabby a sly look, afraid to show openly her delight at Gabby’s obvious distress. “Do not fret, Madame Gabby,” Amalie purred cruelly, “I was at Monsieur Philippe’s side to give him comfort in his final hour. He clung to me and with his dying breath spoke of his love for me.” She paused dramatically, noting with barely suppressed glee Gabby’s stricken look before inflicting her killing blow. “When Monsieur returned to Bellefontaine without you I made him happier than he had ever been before. I shared his bed, his passion strong and fierce. Not once did he mention you or the bastard in your belly. He made love to me with wild abandon, crying out in…”
“Enough!” cried Gabby clapping her hands over her ears in an effort to blot out Amalie’s hurtful words. “Why must you torment me? How can you speak so when Philippe lies dead?”
“Madame Gabby,” said Amalie, squeezing out a few tears, “I have his last words to comfort me, memories of our shared passions to dispel my grief. And perhaps,” she hinted in her throat voice, “perhaps I have more than that.” Her hands moved suggestively to her stomach, accentuating the noticeable bulge beneath her colorful skin.
Philippe’s child? Did Amalie carry Philippe’s child? No longer could Gabby bear the humiliation heaped upon her by Amalie and her spiteful taunts as she clutched painfully at her middle, the babe lurching in her womb. Everything paled but the need to get away from Amalie, to give in to the grief racking her body in the privacy of her own room. With tremendous effort she moved heavily to the stairway and began the slow, painful ascent to the top, struggling to control her rampaging emotions in Amalie’s disturbing presence.
Narrow eyes, Amalie watched Gabby’s retreating back, waiting like a poised jaguar, fleet foot and treacherous, for the right moment to strike. And when it came her feet took wing as she darted lightly past Gabby’s bulky form, until she stood directly above her blocking her path.
Gabby stared uncomprehendingly, her mind in a turmoil of confusion, her body contorted by pain, the menace in Amalie’s feline features obvious. Struck dumb with horror, she watched as Amalie reached one slim arm beneath the waistband of her skirt and uncoiled an object that set her heart beating wildly in her chest. Amelia lovingly caressed the head of the fer-de-lance she held in her hands, murmuring softly to it before thrusting it within inches of Gabby’s terror-stricken face. Just as its forked tongue flicked at Gabby’s pale cheek, she stepped backward, emitting an earth-shattering scream as she lost her footing and tumbled head over heals to the bottom of the stairs where she lay arms and legs akimbo like a broken doll.
Scrambling down the stairs after Gabby, Amalie stared dispassionately for a moment at her bloodless face. When a nudge of her toe failed to evoke a response, she smiled grimly and quietly let herself out of the house, no one the wiser for her stealthy visit. Revenge was sweet! gloated Amalie. Perhaps now Monsieur Philippe would stop mooning over the wife he was too proud to admit he loved and buy back his faithful Amalie.
Gabby’s scream had brought Tildy running from the kitchen but not in time to see Amalie leave the house. From the looks of Gabby’s inert form Tildy was certain the poor girl was dead and began to wail and moan, imagining all sorts of punishment Monsieur Marcel would inflict upon her for allowing this catastrophe to befall his petite amour. Wringing her hands, she knelt beside Gabby’s still form, praying for a miracle to happen.
The slight flutter of eyelashes against deathly white cheeks was the first sign of life in Gabby, but it was enough to galvanize Tildy into action. Within minutes, she had dispatched the gardener, Herman, for Dr. Renaud, making it clear to the youth that to return without the man would be tantamount to signing his own death warrant. For what was perhaps the first time in his life, Herman’s feet miraculously sprouted wings and he sprinted off as if the devil himself was after him.
Tildy returned to her place beside Gabby, watching with grave concern as her swollen body jerked and convulsed at regular intervals. Just when Tildy thought she could no longer bear to listen to Gabby’s screams of agony. Dr. Renaud rushed through the door, pushing Tildy aside roughly as he bent to examine his suffering patient.
“What happened?” he asked while he made a cursory examination to determine if any bones had been broken.
“I… I don’t know, Monsieur Doctor,” stammered Tildy shrugging her shoulders and spreading her hands out before her. “I was in the kitchen when I heard Madame Gabby cry out and arrived to find her so.”
“There are no broken bones, thanks to le bon dieu,” sighed the doctor sitting back on his haunches, “but she is definitely in labor. Where is Monsieur Duvall?”
“At Le Chateau,” wailed Tildy, greatly distraught by the tragedy. “There was a fire and Lionel came for him. The overseer was badly burned.”
“And Madame Gabby was left alone? At this stage of her pregnancy?”
“He left only this morning, and Mademoiselle Honore was to return to St. Pierre next week.”
“Standing here talking isn’t going to help Madame Gabby,” Dr. Renaud exclaimed impatiently as another contraction ripped through Gabby’s body. “You! Gardener!” he called, motioning to Herman who had been hovering in the background. “The two of us should be able to lift her and carry her upstairs. Gently, gently,” he cautioned as they bent in unison to lift Gabby’s convulsing body.
“Philippe!” moaned Gabby, softly at first, then ending in a crescendo of sound.
“She calls for her husband,” said the doctor. “Is he here in St. Pierre?”
“I… if he is he has not been here,” sniffed Tildy disdainfully, u
nable to keep the note of censure from her voice. Far be it from her to tell the doctor that Monsieur St. Cyr has not visited his wife once since she came to live in Monsieur Marcel’s home. Surely his plantation did not keep him that busy! But she was too loyal to her master to start idle gossip.
“Go to St. Cyr’s townhouse immediately,” he ordered Herman once they had Gabby safely in bed. “If he is there tell he what happened. If he is not there send a messenger to Bellefontaine. Hurry, man!”
In surprising short older, Tildy had Gabby undressed and into a voluminous, white nightgown while the doctor fiddled with his instruments. Deeming that there was nothing constructive he could do at the moment, Dr. Renaud pulled a chair close to the bed, placed a hand on Gabby’s heaving stomach and brought out his watch to time the contractions. After several minutes had elapsed, he grunted, put the watch back in his pocket and bent closer to examine the purpling bruises on Gabby’s face. Tildy hovered anxiously at his elbow until he sent her to the kitchen to boil water and fetch soft, clean cloths.
“Philippe!” Gabby croaked weakly, running the moist tip of her tongue across her dry lips. “Philippe! Dead! No! No!”
Her ramblings made no sense to the doctor. He thought she called for her husband and at the same time thought about the child she had lost.
“Your husband will be here in no time,” promised Dr. Renaud, hoping against all odds that Philippe was in St. Pierre. Otherwise, it would be at least forty-eight hours before his arrival at his wife’s bedside.
Gabby’s eyes flew open, feverish, glazed with pain. “No! Philippe is dead!” Then she was engulfed in a paroxysm of agony and could speak no more.
“Poor child,” muttered the doctor, stroking her arm in commiseration. Privately, he thought her chances of delivering a live, healthy child virtually nonexistent. At this moment even her life appeared in jeopardy. If only he could do something besides watch… and wait…
Unaware of the drama unfolding a few short blocks away, Philippe paced his room, his mind a turmoil of indecision. He had planned on returning to Bellefontaine the next day and he fought the urge to see Gabby before he left, fearing that his visit would unduly upset her at this late stage of her pregnancy. He was oblivious to all but his warring emotions until Gerard’s voice startled him. But before he could grasp the meaning of the man’s garbled words, a slim, black youth burst through the doorway delivering a message that left Philippe cold as death. He felt as if the earth had opened beneath him, plunging him into a deep void. He barely had time to compose himeslf when Herman’s next sentence sent a knife plunging into his bowels.
“Madame Gabby is calling for you. Dr. Renaud says if you don’t hurry she will… she might not…!”
“Might not what? Dieu! Dieu! What are you trying to tell me? Is my wife dead?”
“No! She was alive when I left almost moments ago. Only… only… hurry before…”
Philippe was gone before the boy could finish.
Within minutes he was dismounting before Duvall’s townhouse where a red-eyed Tildy met him at the door.
“My wife!” gasped Philippe between breaths. “What happened to her? Is she… is she…?”
“She lives, Monsieur Philippe,” added Tildy quickly when she saw Philippe’s stricken look and white face. “She fell. Down the stairs. The doctor is with her now.”
“Where is Marcel?” Philippe demanded angrily, glancing toward the room. “How could he allow such a thing to happen?” He was shaking with rage, his icy eyes blazing with anger.
“Monsieur Marcel was called to his plantation only this morning. A bad fire. His overseer was burned,” Tildly explained fearfully, backing away from Philippe’s cold fury.
At that moment a blood-curdling scream rent the air momentarily immobilizing Philippe. Somehow, he could not reconcile that inhuman sound to Gabby’s voice. Dr. Renaud appeared at the top of the stairs, a harried frown creasing his weathered features. His expression lightened somewhat when he spied Philippe.
“Ah, St. Cyr,” he called in a rush of relief. “Le ban dieu heard my prayers. Come up, man, come up. Your wife has been calling for you.”
Philippe needed no further urging as he bounded up the stairs two at a time and entered Gabby’s room behind the doctor. What he saw sent his senses reeling and cast him into a state of shock. Gabby, her face a mass of purpling bruises, lay twisting and writhing in the center of the bed, the mound of her stomach convulsed by wave after wave of contraction, her cries of pain enough to break his heart in two.
“Can’t you help her, Doctor?” cried Philippe, rendered helpless by her suffering.
“We must wait on nature for these things,” sighed the doctor wearily.
“Do you know how this happened? The accident, I mean?”
“I know no more than you. Tildy found your wife unconscious at the foot of the stairs. By the time I arrived her labor had already commenced.”
“Do you think the sudden onset of labor pains could have precipitated the fall?” asked Philippe carefully. He could not help but take into account the date. Mid-August! Much too early for the child to be his!
“I am certain your wife would have gone full term had she not fallen down the stairs. One more month would have seen her safely delivered. I would have staked my life on it,” he muttered shaking his shaggy head.
“That is something we shall never know for certain,” said Philippe cryptically.
Suddenly Gabby roused, aware of a voice she had thought never to hear again. Had Philippe’s spirit come back to haunt her? Or was the pain ripping her apart causing her to hallucinate?
“Philippe?” His name was a question on her lips.
“She calls for you,” Dr. Renaud said turning to Philippe. “I will give you a few moments alone while I go downstairs for a cup of coffee. From the look of things it will be a long night.”
Philippe took the chair beside the bed and grasped Gabby’s trembling hands.
Gabby’s eyes fluttered open and Philippe quailed at the look of fear mirrored in their violet depths. Mon dieu, he thought remorsefully, does she hate me so much?
Shaking her head from side to side, she cried out weakly, “Dead! Dead!”
Philippe thought she spoke of her babe and answered accordingly. “Your child lives, ma chere. See how he moves,” he said, placing a hand on her quivering belly.
But even his words of encouragement did not seem to satisfy her. “Dead! Amalie! Dead!”
Amalie? What was Gabby saying? Was she reliving old memories in her delirium? Her next words sent Philippe’s mind reeling.
“You’re dead! Bitten by a snake! What is it you want from me, Philippe?” Her words were abruptly halted when another pain knifed through her and she clutched Philippe’s hands in a bone-crushing grip. “Help me, Philippe! Help me!”
Philippe was truly puzzled. Why did Gabby think him dead. Had Marcel told her some preposterous life? What could he do or say to prove he was very much alive.
“Listen carefully, ma chere. I am not dead. I am flesh and blood. Here,” he said, placing her hand against his cheek, “feel. I have come to help you.” Very gently he pressed his lips against hers, feeling her soft breath mingling with his.
“But I was told…” Gabby was unable to continue as she was gripped in another paroxysm of pain, contorting her lovely features.
“Whoever told you I was dead was lying, ma chere.” When she tried to speak he put a finger to her lips. “Shh! Don’t try to talk. Save your strength. Let me hold you; let me absorb your pain.” Privately, Philippe thought Gabby had dreamed up his death as a way of putting him out of her life forever. Pain does funny things to a person and Gabby was having more than her share of it at the moment.
Gabby seemed to relax as Philippe sat beside her on the bed and took her into his arms, cushioning her against the next onslaught of contractions convulsing her frail body. As she gritted her teeth and cried out, Philippe pressed his lips to her damp brow and whispered, “Je t’aime, j
e t’aime. “
Soon Dr. Renaud returned to the room and examined Gabby, noting her weakening condition with growing alarm.
“Is there nothing you can do, Doctor?” Philippe pleaded as Gabby’s unrelenting torture went on and on.
“I hesitate to introduce another drug into her system,” remonstrated the doctor sternly. “If you are fainthearted then I strongly advise you to leave, for the worst is yet to come.”
Philippe’s jaw hardened. He would not, could not leave Gabby when she clung to him with such desperation. “I will remain,” he replied with grim determination.
“Bon! I have a suspicion you will be needed.”
Darkness had fallen and the room danced with shadows as Tildy, silent as a wraith, moved about lighting lamps. Dr. Renaud dozed lightly in a chair. Philippe flexed his muscles to case the strain of supporting Gabby’s writhing body, her contractions growing stronger and closer together while her cries grew more feeble.
Dr. Renaud yawned, stretched, and bent to examine Gabby once more, the grave look on his face sending Philippe’s heart bounding from his chest.
“What is it, Doctor?” he asked fearfully.
“She grows weaker. Soon she will lack the strength to push the baby through the birth canal. I believe there to be a serious injury to her pelvic area, probably due to the fall. She is fully dilated but the baby remains firmly entrenched. If I am to save both mother and child your wife must find the will to assist.”
“How can I help?” Philippe asked anxiously, willing to do anything to alleviate Gabby’s suffering.
“I am going to try to get her to bear down. You can help by bracing her back and shoulders while she strains. Give her something to push against, so to speak.” With a silent prayer he focused all his attentions on Gabby.
“Listen to me, Madame St. Cyr! You must help or your child will die! Do you hear me?”
“ Oui,” came her weak replay. “Do not let my baby die!” Though her exhaustion was complete her fierce determination to bear Philippe a healthy child broke through her weariness and pain. Her own life was of minor importance.
