The Price of Love

by Vicki Hopkins

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” he grinned. “Even after I shoved you over in your bassinet, I still hold a soft spot in your heart?”

  “For the moment,” she replied coyly, shaking her index finger at him. “But if you curse or take the Lord’s name in vain in front of me one more time, I’m going to shove a bar of soap in your mouth.”

  Robert shook his head over her threat to discipline his nasty vocabulary. “God, Jolene. Had mother and Philippe stayed together, just think of all the sibling arguments we could have enjoyed. We missed out on some good times.”

  Jolene’s face grew into a broad smile. “Indeed we did.”

  Dusk had all but turned into nightfall. The wind picked up. Robert thought he caught the smell of rain in the air. “I think we better go in, it’s getting chilly out here,” he said.

  Robert offered his arm and led her back to the veranda. “Tomorrow you’ll be at the cemetery, and I’ll be purchasing a box of cigars.”

  “What if he’s not there?”

  “Then I’ll try his home. Don’t worry, Jolene, we’ll find him.”

  “Well, if you do see him tomorrow, you must tell me all about it later in the afternoon. Then I’ll go on my own the following day.”

  “Will you tell him who you are when you visit?” Robert thought that perhaps she might change her mind.

  “Oh, heavens no,” she corrected his assumption. “I’m going to see my father incognito for now. Something in my heart tells me that I may shed a tear in his presence, if I’m not careful.”

  Robert wondered if he would choke up, too, when he saw him. No, I’m not that barmy, he told himself as they returned indoors. If he did, he would blame it on Jolene.

  Chapter 20

  A Graveyard of Bones

  The driver pulled up to the entrance of Pere Lachaise and then turned slowly onto the Avenue Principale. He came to a stop and asked the duchess which one of the many lanes he should follow within the graveyard.

  Jolene had heard much about the famous cemetery. After one hundred years since it opened in 1804, it had housed 33,000 gravesites by 1830. How many more since that time had been laid to rest within its gates? Awed by the beautiful trees and landscape of graves, mausoleums, and statues of angels, she waited for Suzette’s instructions.

  “Do you mind walking to my father’s place of rest?” the duchess asked.

  “No, of course not,” Jolene replied, eager to step out into the sun. “It’s a beautiful day, and I’d prefer to walk.”

  The driver helped them exit onto the cobblestone path. Suzette opened her parasol to shade herself from the sun. The large hat upon Jolene’s head sufficiently covered her face.

  “Please wait for us,” Jolene instructed the driver.

  “My father is not far from here.” Suzette announced, walking down the avenue.

  Jolene strode by her side looking to her right and left at the grounds. The duchess remained quietly contemplative. Jolene respected her need for privacy and reflection and purposely did not initiate a conversation. Fascinated by the beauty of the cemetery, she had more than enough to keep her attention. After a few more minutes, they halted in front of a large monument where the avenue ended.

  “This is where my father is buried,” her mother said in a somber voice.

  Jolene read the location on a nearby sign, Monument Aux Morts. The huge structure with its impressive artwork gave her the false impression that Suzette’s father must have been immensely rich.

  Suzette caught the look in her eye and quickly corrected her misconception. “It’s an ossuary. There is nothing there but millions of bones behind the locked doors. The remains of my father have been added to the menagerie of death.”

  “How sad,” Jolene replied, mesmerized by the scene. She looked at the dark doorway containing the sculptures of a naked man and woman, who stood with their backs toward visitors. Other figures stood on either side as if waiting to enter. It gave her the chills.

  “My father was buried in a common grave on the outskirts of the graveyard when he passed away over twenty years ago. Later, his body was exhumed, and his bones deposited here.”

  The sadness on her mother’s face intensely touched Jolene. She had not come from a rich family, but rather one of poverty.

  “And is your mother here too?” Jolene glimpsed at Suzette staring at the closed door.

  “No, my mother has a perpetual grave on the other side of the cemetery. It’s about a fifteen-minute walk from where we stand.”

  “It must be hard for you not having a permanent grave and headstone to commemorate the love of your father.” Jolene could not comprehend being unable to stand by her stepfather’s grave nor that of Jacquelyn’s. Buried next to each other, Jolene had sworn to visit them regularly and leave tokens of flowers.

  “Here I am thinking selfishly of my own father,” the duchess said with empathy. “Please accept my condolences on the loss of your father. From what I was told that happened only a few months ago.”

  Jolene looked at her with a blank expression. She had not been thinking of her stepfather. On the contrary, it was Philippe. Without thinking of the consequences of her answer, she pointedly corrected the duchess.

  “He was my stepfather, not my birth father.”

  “Oh,” she uttered in surprise. “I didn’t realize your situation.” The duchess pondered for a moment and then continued. “Might I inquire of your birth father? Do you still see him?”

  Jolene’s stomach tied into a knot. It would be so easy to look at her straight in the eye and tell her the truth, but she could not reveal herself—not now. She circumvented the question by answering only partially.

  “I have not seen my father since infancy. My mother raised me. When she passed, the count adopted me into his family as his daughter.”

  “I see,” she replied thoughtfully. “Well then the count, by all means, is your father in heart.”

  Jolene pulled her eyes away from her mother. “Yes, he was the only father I knew, and I did love and respect him deeply.”

  After giving the duchess a few private minutes of silence, she stood by and watched her mother curiously. When she made the sign of the cross, she began to walk away.

  “If you’d like to come with me, I’ll show you where my mother is laid to rest.”

  “Of course,” Jolene replied, following by her side.

  As they wandered through the massive cemetery, Jolene studied the artwork of angelic statues watching over the dead and effigies of souls upon grave tops. The sheer number of entombed bodies and sculptures overwhelmed her emotions, giving her a morbid chill.

  A few minutes later, they traversed down a narrow lane and stopped in front of a grave that had been prominently marked with the name of Rousseau. At the head, a weeping angel with a bowed head added to the sorrow of the scene. Jolene read the dates and saw that she had passed away many years ago. As she quickly counted the decades, she realized that Suzette had lost her mother when she was a child.

  “My mother,” the duchess said. “I barely remember her now. She passed away when I was young, and my poor dear father never seemed to recover.”

  “I see your maiden name is Rousseau,” Jolene commented.

  “Yes, a French name for a very English duchess,” she replied lightheartedly with a smile. “I laugh sometimes that I have the title of an English aristocrat. The fact that I even love an Englishman would turn some of these fine French souls over in their graves.”

  Jolene chuckled at her statement. “Yes, if I remember my history quite well, your two countries have had their differences.”

  “Thankfully our barbaric days have ended,” her mother commented. “Our two societies have made peace, but…” She paused for a moment. “But old prejudices remain unspoken, I think.”

  “Do you need a moment with your mother?” Jolene asked. “Just say the word, and I’ll wander off and look at all the extraordinary and beautiful graves.”

  “Not really,” she sighed. �
��I would be talking to an unfamiliar ghost. I simply come out of respect to honor her memory. After all, she is my mother.”

  Her words wounded Jolene’s heart. Respect and honor were not feelings that she felt toward the duchess as they stood side by side.

  “What about your mother? I’m sure you have fond memories of her as well.”

  “My mother?” Her voice was curt. Her throat constricted cutting off her airflow. “I barely remember my own mother,” she finally revealed. “She died when I was three years of age.”

  The momentary pleasure she sensed earlier in her mother’s presence died. Instead, it felt as if the devil himself had risen from the graveyard and yanked her heart out of her body. The sensation of abandonment gripped her so tightly that it actually hurt. She brought her hand to her chest as a breath hitched in her throat. There before her, only a few feet away, stood the mother who abandoned her for another.

  Unable to look at her while the pain persisted, she lowered her eyes to the ground. She wanted to love her mother, but the anger toward her remained unabated. How could she have left Paris so soon after what happened to her? Had she no sense of decency or sorrow over her loss? The duchess would have abandoned her either way even if she left Philippe to go with the duke.

  Jolene wanted to collapse in a pool of bitter tears at her feet. Instead, she shut her eyes tightly, inhaled another deep breath, and buried the pain until it no longer controlled her emotions.

  “Are you all right?” her mother asked, showing concern over her demeanor.

  “Yes,” she quickly replied. “I had a stab of pain in my head and a headache seems to be coming on.” She lied.

  “Perhaps we should return now,” her mother suggested.

  As the days grew closer to her revelation, Jolene knew that the woman walking at her side was as much of a stranger as the dead bodies that lay cold in the ground. She tried to remain congenial on their trip back to the townhome, but fell quiet and removed from her surroundings. Her mother remained silent, perhaps falling into her own morose mood, as she called it, after visiting her parents’ graves.

  When they arrived, Jolene excused herself feigning a headache. The duchess wished her a speedy recovery and left her side. Jolene retreated to her room, unpinned her feathered hat, and set it on the vanity. A quick glance at her reflection in the mirror revealed her emotional turmoil.

  Feeling drawn once again to pull the diary from its hiding place, Jolene opened it and began reading the last entries.

  “My mistress asked me if I would do anything for her, and I promised that I would. When I assured her of my loyalty, I had no idea that the next day she would test my words.

  Today, she returned with an infant in a carriage. When I asked whose baby she had in her care, she stated that Philippe Moreau had entrusted her with his daughter while he took care of business. Then, without warning, she commanded me to pack our things. ‘You said you would do anything for me, Dorcas,’ she reminded me of my pledge. I nodded in agreement and quickly went about carrying out her orders.

  My mistress planned a terrible deed to steal the child. I obeyed and that night we left on a train. How could I refuse? She had suffered much heartache over the years in barrenness and unfaithfulness of her husband. As horribly criminal her action had been, I remained silent and became her accomplice.”

  Jolene’s heart pounded heavily against her rib cage. Philippe, in his own folly to regain his pride and kill the duke, had entrusted her to a stranger. She imagined the entire scene play out before her. Everyone must have felt shock and hysteria when they discovered her gone. They all played a part in her disappearance.

  She lowered her head and placed her face in her palms. What had her family done? Every conceivable selfish act played out between them all, shrouded in deception and lies. She wanted to cry, but no tears came. Only numbness flowed through her body.

  “Oh, Robert,” she whispered. “Tell me that all has gone well in your search for Philippe. Please, bring me no more heartache today.”

  Chapter 21

  A Forgotten Man

  Disappointed he didn’t find Philippe at work, Robert hailed another cab and gave the driver the second address. The clerk behind the counter had indicated that Mr. Moreau would return upon the morrow. Robert had no desire to wait any longer for Jolene’s sake.

  The driver traversed the busy streets. They crossed the Seine and entered into a lower income segment of the city. Finally, after a few more minutes, the carriage slowed and stopped along a row house situated on a narrow street. Robert noted the time on his pocket watch thinking of his sister visiting the cemetery. Hopefully, the hour with his mother would go well and bring them closer together.

  After he paid the driver, he walked to the door and stood there for a minute contemplating the impending visitation. He hadn’t taken the time to formulate his introduction or think about what he would say afterward.

  Feeling a bit out of sorts among the lower class neighborhood, Robert glanced about his surroundings. He wondered why Philippe had ended up here of all places. It was a far cry from the expansive and expensive house he had remembered as a young boy. If this had been the outcome of his life, Robert couldn’t help but grieve over his situation. His lifestyle had drastically changed from a thriving businessman to that of a mere cigar clerk. A part of him feared what he would discover beyond the door.

  Taking a deep breath, he knocked hard and stepped back waiting for an answer. After what seemed like a long minute of no response, he balled his fist and rapped his knuckles harder.

  “All right, all right,” he heard a faint voice coming from the other side. “I’m coming.”

  A moment later the door flew open. Immediately, Robert recognized Philippe. He had aged with deep furrows in his brow. The clear complexion he had remembered disappeared behind a scruffy day-old growth. His hair, still dark and thick, looked unkempt and slightly gray at the temples. The muscular and athletic young man in his mid-twenties had turned into a skinny, middle-aged man in his forties with a gaunt face. Philippe looked at him, but he made no indications that he recognized who stood at his door.

  “Yes, what is it?”

  His curtness and annoyed glower tongue-tied Robert. Memories of his early childhood flooded his mind. The distinct feeling of having once loved him as his father finally gave him the courage to speak.

  “It’s your stepson, Robert,” he replied with a tremor in his voice. “May I come in and visit with you for a while?” He swallowed the lump in his throat and wiped the sweat off the palm of his hand on his pant leg.

  At first, Philippe leaned forward and peered at him intensely as if he needed to move closer due to poor vision. The awkward moment passed in silence. He looked at his blond hair and peered into his blue eyes. A slow grin spread across his face when he recognized the boyish lad who had grown into a man.

  “Holy Mother of God,” he said. His face lit up. “Is that you, Robert?”

  Instead of the anger he had rather expected, Robert found his kind voice as a welcomed surprise. “Indeed it is, sir.” Robert sighed in relief.

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” Philippe said, opening wide the door. “Come in.”

  Robert stepped into dingy surroundings void of light and beauty. “I hope you don’t mind me showing up on your doorstep like this after all these years,” he quickly apologized glancing about the area. “I happened to be in Paris and thought of seeing you.”

  “Well, I’m glad you did. Have a seat,” he offered pointing to a worn-out divan in a small sitting room to the right. “Can I get you anything to drink? I think I have a spot of brandy left in the house.”

  A drink sounded exactly what he needed to get through the next few minutes. “Yes, if you don’t mind.”

  “No, not at all. Just give me a minute,” he replied, scurrying off.

  Philippe disappeared to retrieve the spirits, and Robert took a closer look at his residence. Goddamn shame he’s living like this, he thought to himself
. He couldn’t help but wonder if his father had been aware of Philippe’s financial situation. Though he had been privy to the fact that Philippe had run his shipping company into bankruptcy, he hadn’t thought that he would still be living the consequences after all these years.

  Robert noted there were no photographs of family anywhere. Nothing of warmth decorated the interior. There were no pictures on the walls, except peeling and faded wallpaper. The threadbare carpet underneath his feet revealed a wood floor. Only one lamp sat on a rickety side table near the divan.

  Having heard no other voices since his arrival, he felt sure that his former stepfather lived without companionship. A moment later Philippe returned with two glasses and half a bottle of brandy. He poured him a drink and handed it to him. By the same token, he poured himself one but with less in the glass.

  “I think the last time I gave you anything to drink it must have been milk,” he said jokingly.

  Philippe’s welcoming demeanor surprised Robert. However, when he sensed the loneliness within the walls of his meager home, he understood why.

  “My God, boy, look how you’ve grown into a man. How old are you now? Twenty?”

  “Twenty-three,” Robert answered. He took a sip of brandy to wet his parched lips.

  “Twenty-three.” Philippe shook his head. “I cannot believe so many years have passed.”

  “Quite a few,” Robert agreed. Philippe studied him for a moment.

  “What do they call you now, Lord Holland?” His voice teasingly asked him. “Big man, important father, plentiful bank account...” Philippe hesitated before speaking the remainder. “And beautiful mother, no doubt.”

  As if someone had blown out the flame of a candle, Philippe’s eyes turned as gray as the atmosphere in the room. The pain remained, albeit carefully hidden through years of suppression, Robert thought to himself.

  “I hate titles,” Robert answered. “And the responsibility that goes along with them.”

  His stepfather laughed aloud. “Ah, do I sense a slight rebellious streak in the young man?”