Decision and Destiny

by DeVa Gantt

  “No, stay with me,” he said, taking her hand in his and clasping it lightly.

  They remained that way for a long time, contemplating the consuming sorrow, drawing solace from the peaceful sanctuary and each other.

  Charmaine sighed deeply. ˜e greater the wealth, the deeper the pain…Sadly, her mother had been right. For all their fortune, the Duvoisin family had suffered greatly, would continue to suffer. Marie’s presence was strong now, and Charmaine took succor from the aura of commiserate love.

  When they eventually left the chapel, they found Fatima waiting for them outside the doors, dabbing at her eyes with her apron. She coaxed them to the kitchen, though they ate little of the soup she set before them.

  Charmaine faltered first, bowing her head as she succumbed to weariness. Visions of a dimpled-faced Pierre besieged her. She closed her eyes, and they grew stronger, distorted by her exhaustion. “Dear God,” she whispered.

  “Charmaine,” John called, his hand tightening over hers.

  Her head came up at the sound of his voice.

  “Come, we must get you to bed.”

  She felt his arms enfold her, leading her through the dining room to the staircase. She was at the top step without remembering how she got there, and suddenly, she was facing that room again—her room, John’s room—knowing what lay inside. Her mind snapped into focus.

  The chamber door opened, and Father Benito stepped out. He assessed them, his dark eyes condemning John. “I’ve blessed the body,” he said curtly. Charmaine was certain he wanted to say more, but he turned away.

  “I’d like to look at him one last time,” John whispered once the priest had left them. “Then I will take you to a guest chamber. Will you come with me?”

  She nodded, allowing him to lead her into the chamber that had been their prison for so many days. Rose was still there, preparing the small body for burial. She looked up from her labor, her worried eyes waxing thankful when John moved forward. Paul pushed away from the wall where he had been leaning, exhaling once he noted his brother’s lucidity. George was there, too. He’d spent the past few days with the twins, and suddenly Charmaine fretted over them, wondering if they knew, and if not, how she would tell them.

  John stepped up to the bed. Charmaine stayed close behind, fearful of leaving his side, knowing the last time she had allowed him to depart, the gravest disaster had befallen her.

  He looked down at Pierre for untold minutes. The boy was no longer drenched in perspiration, his face no longer twisted in pain. The desperate struggle had ceased, the battle relinquished, and now a desolate solitude settled upon the room. Pierre was at peace. John studied him still. Had he come to grips with his death? In that moment, it became Charmaine’s sincerest prayer.

  Then he was speaking, not to his son, or to those gathered in the stark room, nor to God, but to Colette. “I entrust him to you, my love. Take him and keep him safe until the day when we are all together.”

  The supplication sent shivers down Charmaine’s spine. A stillness greater than death came to life in the room, and she was infused with the power of its resurrection. Her eyes swept across the chamber, yet no one seemed affected by the tangible presence vibrating through every fiber of her being. Just as quickly as it coursed through her veins, the invader retreated, draining her of every sensation save the thud of her hammering heart. When she looked down at Pierre, a smile kissed his lips, one that had not been present before. Colette had claimed her son.

  Chapter 8

  Thursday, October 12, 1837

  Midnight

  PAUL raked his hand through his tousled hair, breathed deeply, and entered his father’s chambers. The man was as he had left him hours ago, despondent and disheveled. He hadn’t moved from the chair near the French doors. He wore the same clothes as the day of the accident, his eyes were red and distant, and three days’ growth of beard marked his drawn face. His visage mirrored John’s.

  Paul walked over to him, and slowly, his gaze lifted. “He’s gone,” Paul rasped, swallowing hard against the blistering pain in his throat.

  Frederic’s head bobbed forward.

  Realizing his sire was crying, Paul turned to leave.

  “And John?” came the deep voice, cracking.

  “He’s managing.”

  Again Paul attempted to leave. After the last three days, he couldn’t take on the burden of his father’s agony as well. But this time, a piece of paper lying on the floor halted his step. He picked it up, his eyes skimming over the document as he returned it to the desk. He found two replicas there. “What is this?” he asked incredulously.

  His father looked up, then averted his face. “My legacy to John—too little too late.”

  “You were signing custody of the girls and Pierre over to him?”

  “It doesn’t matter now, does it?” Frederic whispered.

  “But Yvette and Jeannette as well as Pierre?”

  “John asked me for custody of all three children on Saturday. But because I refused to take a good look at myself, I denied him again. By the time I thought better of it, it was too late.”

  Frederic breathed deeply, his face masked in sorrow. “My grandson is dead because of me. Colette, forgive me…he’s dead because of me.”

  Moonlight spilled into the chamber, cascading across the carpet, illuminating the foot of the bed and the man who could not sleep. In a daze of fragmented slumber, John contemplated the room, his wretched life, the dust motes suspended on moonbeams above him, moving neither this way nor that, silently mocking him.

  This time he had floated with the tide. The outcome was worse than when he attempted to twist circumstance in his favor. Stupid fool! When would he learn his actions always led to disaster? Never! He had continued to challenge God, his father. And because of that, Pierre was dead, Pierre and…

  The night air blew into the room carrying with it the scent of lily. She had come, a presence as alive as the past. It was not the first time she had haunted him in the hours before dawn, so he knew he was dreaming.

  Colette…on the threshold of his chamber, her limitless charms unbridled for the hour’s love, her flaxen hair unbound, suspended on the buffeting breeze, her eyes, pools of blue, her full lips slightly parted, inviting his impassioned kiss. The moonlight silhouetted her naked body beneath a sheer gown of cerulean silk.

  With a groan, he closed his eyes. Undaunted, she floated to the bed as if certain he could not resist. “John,” she whispered, “my dearest John.”

  Never before had she spoken, and thunderstruck, he jumped to his feet. With hand outstretched, he tentatively touched her arm, expecting the apparition to evaporate. It did not, and he was overcome by rage, his fingers closing over her shoulders and digging into her flesh. “Leave me alone! You’ve tormented me enough!”

  She placed her cheek against his chest and encircled his waist with her arms. “Don’t send me away,” she implored. “Not yet.”

  “Send you away? It’s you who’ve abandoned me time and again!” He shook her until her head jerked back and tears spilled from her eyes. Still, he persisted. “Go away! You’re dead, goddamn it, you’re dead!”

  “Not while you suffer. I longed for you to come back to Charmantes, John, but not for this. You know what you have to do, what I’ve begged you to do.”

  Death…So simple a solution.

  John pulled her to him, and his lips snuffed out her petition. He lifted her into his arms and laid her on the bed, tearing away the transparent veil. He pressed himself upon her, making love to her more fiercely than ever before, entwining her dark hair through his fingers, kissing the hollow of her neck, that delectable spot he’d tasted only once before. Her soft panting and timid endearments heightened his desire. She was so unlike the woman he remembered, and he reveled in this unfamiliar innocence, her virginal touch.

  The clean redolence of morning dew invaded his senses, an airy breeze liberated of the heavy essence of lily. His mouth traced her jaw, coming to rest o
n her parted lips. Her inexperience reignited his ardor, and he took her again, his breathing ragged when finally he lifted his head to behold her.

  “Charmaine…” he whispered hoarsely in confusion. Her arms were slipping from him, and though his embrace tightened, she melted into the bedclothes, and he awoke.

  “Damn!” He sat up and buried his throbbing head in his hands, his eyes burning like white-hot coals. “Damn,” John murmured again. Of whom had he been dreaming—Colette or Charmaine?

  Paul loitered indecisively in the empty hallway. More than once, his fist lifted to the guest chamber door before dropping again to his side. Ten steps forward and another ten back. She is likely asleep. I shouldn’t disturb her. Yet, perhaps she isn’t. Perhaps she needs a shoulder to cry on.

  He wanted to be there for her, had wanted to comfort her and hold her last night. But Rose had detained him.

  Now, hours later, with the body prepared, he remembered Charmaine, how she had returned to Pierre’s deathbed, dry-eyed and standing stalwart beside his brother. Her pretense at inner strength was as heart wrenching as her initial bout of hysteria. He knew her fortitude was a drama enacted for John’s benefit. She’d been there for John, enabling him to return to the death chamber and behold his son’s corpse. But who had been there for her? With new resolve, Paul quietly stepped into the room.

  Agatha sat before the looking glass and studied her reflection. For all her years, she was still quite fair. She smiled prettily at her flawless ivory neck framed by the stark black collar of her unadorned gown. A touch too drab, she decided. She flipped open the jewelry case and selected one of the few pieces that remained. She’d been using Elizabeth and Colette’s jewels to pay the blackmailer, occasionally dipping into her monthly allowance, but never touching the estate she’d inherited from her deceased husband. What a sage decision, that! Her crafty eyes narrowed. She’d have to accept the loss of some of her hard-earned wealth. It was an investment, and today that investment would pay off. All of this will soon be behind you, my dear. She pinned a diamond-encrusted brooch to her widow’s weeds, and patted back the wisps of hair at her temples. Peering into the mirror again, she subdued her enthusiasm and twisted her face into a mask of remorse. Satisfied, she stepped gracefully into her next, most promising, role.

  Charmaine stirred, rolling from her cramped side onto her stiff back. It hurt to breathe deeply, a pain that comes from crying for too long, and she had a throbbing headache. Still, she smiled as she awoke. She’d been dreaming! Thank God it had only been a terrible nightmare.

  She stared at the white ceiling, then turned her head. ˜is is not my room. She shifted uneasily and clutched the coverlet. Not a dream. Dear God—not a dream! She closed her eyes to the searing pain, but they flew open, taking in the man slumped in the armchair across the room. Paul.

  She turned her face aside and whimpered into her pillow. Horrific, indelible images assaulted her: the death room, Pierre, the chapel, John—each one impossible to suppress. And yet, to get through this day, she must.

  Slowly, she mastered her anguish and forced herself to sit up, then stand. She crossed the short distance to the sleeping man. Kneeling beside the chair, she laid a gentle hand on his brow, furrowed in exhausted slumber, and chased the lines away, placing that one stray lock back into place. He did not stir, his breathing even and deep. She studied his handsome face in the first rays of dawn, so youthful in sleep, dark lashes fanning his cheeks. Her hand dropped to his arm and patted it once. “Thank you,” she whispered, heartened by his protective presence. Then she withdrew to dress.

  “Did you hear me?”

  “Yes, Agatha, I heard,” Frederic grumbled from the French doors, gracing his wife with a slight turn of the head, his grim profile silhouetted in the early light of dawn. He’d just finished bathing, making himself presentable for the agonizing day ahead, and already his wife was pestering him. “Charmantes is lacking in social graces,” he reiterated as if by rote, “and I should consider sending the girls to a female academy in London.”

  His thoughts were far away, his senses reeling from lack of sleep. I must visit my daughters first. ˜is time they won’t suffer alone…

  “…and you, my dearest, will rest easier knowing they are in safe hands.”

  “Agatha, please, I don’t want to discuss this—”

  “I know,” she interrupted compassionately. “You are troubled by more pressing concerns. But this will be the last time John hurts you.”

  Frederic faced her with a scowl. “What are you talking about?”

  “John is unfit to be called your son,” she pronounced rigidly. “Surely you can see that now.”

  “I see no such thing,” he countered, his voice deadly.

  “Then you are blind!” she rejoined, steeling herself to meet his ire. “The boy was placed in his care, and John abandoned him for that beast of his. He knew the child was desperate, but did he care? No. In fact, he reveled in Pierre’s heartache.”

  Frederic stood stunned at his wife’s incredible assertion. “Are you mad, woman? John loved the boy—is grieving this terrible tragedy.”

  “A tragedy that could have been averted. Perhaps John didn’t foresee Pierre reaching the lake, but you can be sure he hung his hat on the hopes the child would wake up, become hysterical, and throw this family into turmoil again. He’s deviously exploited all three of your children, Pierre in particular.”

  “That’s preposterous. I’m to blame for what happened, no one else.”

  “Really?” she asked wryly. “Then you’ve been duped, duped into believing everything is your fault. Granted, you may have been roused to anger, Frederic, but that does not make you culpable—naïve, perhaps, but not culpable. I, on the other hand, have sat back and watched, and what I’ve witnessed over the years has been difficult to stomach. The first night you joined us for dinner is a perfect example. John spoiled our meal that evening. He was hostile from the start, cleverly bringing his mother into the conversation, ridiculing your love for her, ridiculing me.” She paused momentarily in disgust. “How dare he behave like that in front of family and servants?”

  “He has every right to hate me,” Frederic replied sadly.

  “No, he does not,” Agatha refuted. “You’ve been far too clement with him. How long will you allow your love for Elizabeth to be the reason for excusing him? She’s been dead for thirty years, and she doesn’t live on—not in her son!”

  His eyes turned black, but she was not shaken. “You yourself admitted he was not a reflection of Elizabeth. What is left then—the seed of a brigand?”

  “My seed,” came the deadly response, “mine. Anything he is comes directly from me. I am his father.”

  “But—”

  “Don’t,” he snarled contemptuously, “don’t resort to your ugly premise concerning John’s paternity. I ceased to believe it long ago. He is my flesh and blood.”

  “That is impossible!”

  “I thought so once, but not anymore.”

  “But you cannot be certain!” she objected vehemently.

  “I am certain. One has only to look at him to know he is mine. You said I was blind. Well, in fact, I was, and it has cost me dearly. I believed your brother when he delivered John, worrying over his small size, determined to convince me John was born a month early. I believed him when he blamed the babe for his mother’s death. And, God forgive me, I believed him when he calculated the date of conception and—even though he knew Elizabeth and I had been lovers before her abduction—concluded he was no son of mine, rather the spawn of some heinous crime against her. But I believe him no more, Agatha. I’m through listening to this nonsense.”

  “But, Frederic,” she implored, “Robert would never deceive you. You do him a great injustice.”

  “There is only one person in this house who has suffered an injustice, and that is my son. For the first ten years of his life, I scorned him. By the time I realized what I was doing, it was too late. I know that now, know it
will always be too late for John and me. I wasn’t fit to be called a father, and he has every reason to hate me. But I won’t ever do anything to hurt him again.”

  “But you’ll allow him to hurt you,” she bit out, marshaling her rage in order to make the most of this opportunity. “Is that how Colette conceived his child? You were so determined not to hurt him you overlooked the most reprehensible of behaviors—the seduction of your wife! What’s next?”

  Frederic’s eyes turned blacker. “How do you know that?” he growled.

  Agatha grimaced in disgust. “Then Robert was right.”

  “Robert—always Robert!”

  “What else would he think? Yes, he told me all about the twins’ birth, how Colette cried out for John during their delivery. Tell me, are they his, too?”

  “No, Agatha,” he ground out, “they are mine.”

  “Then how can you be certain of Pierre?”

  “Let us just say, I’m certain.” He smiled bleakly at her. “So you see, John wasn’t exploiting anybody. He loved Pierre and only wanted to be a father to him.”

  “I’ll never believe that. He puts on an admirable performance, but the truth is he despises you and you’ll never gain his love. He’s determined to destroy this family.”

  “And how is he going to do that?”

  “By alienating you from your other children,” she declared. “You’ve allowed him to feast on his jealousy—jealousy over his own siblings, jealousy over Colette. He won’t be satisfied until you’re in the grave. Just look at the way he treats Paul! He envies the bond you share. And now that Paul has the other island, his envy has soared. But has he ever tried to be the son Paul is? Never!” she exclaimed with an emphatic slash of her hand. “He has, however, fostered discord and acrimony whenever possible. You want to believe he came back here to be a father to Pierre. But I say he came back only to make you suffer. Why can’t you see this? You’re too good, Frederic! He’s had two months to ingratiate himself back into the twins’ lives—Pierre’s life. And for the whole of those two months he’s been able to endure your presence in the house. Then, quite suddenly, he can’t tolerate you anymore? How gullible can you be?