Shadows of Love

by Gail MacMillan

  “Are you… Were you Colin’s father?”

  “Sweet Jesus, woman, you’re asking if I laid with Abe’s wife?”

  “Barret, you were extremely protective of Colin. You also left this valley the same day his best friend Darcy Pod was killed. Perhaps Darcy learned the truth about Colin’s parentage and Abe ordered him silenced. I recall how you were once ordered to interrogate Simon. Perhaps he also ordered you to silence Darcy. You were always obedient to him.”

  “Dear God, have I behaved as such a depraved barbarian that you would believe me capable of such atrocities?”

  “Barret…” I stammered, not knowing how to proceed.

  “Captain! Starr!” Bridgit O’Brien burst into the cabin without pausing to knock. Her hair was disheveled, her eyes wild. “Abraham Douglas has failed! His creditors are about to force him into bankruptcy. The news came on the Maris Stella yesterday, and this morning it’s spread among the villagers. They’re rioting and declaring they’re going to hang Mr. Douglas for bringing ruin to the valley!”

  Barret jumped to his feet and reached for his pistol. He shoved it into his belt and started toward the door.

  “Barret, where are you going?”

  “I have to help him, Starr.” He strode out into the fog.

  “Bridgit, stay with the baby!” I cried, grabbing my shawl. “I must go with him.”

  The village was a hot sea of rage-distorted faces as Barret and I ran toward Peacock House. The gray mist could well have been steam rising from the heat of their anger.

  My heart pounded at my ribs, but I knew I must follow Barret. His fate must be mine.

  As we reached the edge of the yelling, fist-shaking mob gathered about the mansion, the door of the house opened and Abraham, lordly as ever in a fine coat and spotless linen, stepped out onto the verandah.

  “What’s all this?” he asked. He spoke in a pleasantly condescending tone as one might address an unreasonably angry child. “I swear, you’ll frighten my maid servants into ruining my dinner if you persist in behaving in this fashion.”

  “Never mind your dinner, you old miser!” a man in front yelled. “You’ve ruined all of us, you and your moneylenders in London. We’ll starve, thanks to you!”

  “Come, come, Jim.” Abraham drew on his deep reserve of charm. “We’re a long way from ruined. Who’s been spreading such evil rumors? I’ll have him drawn and quartered.”

  “It was your commodore, Captain Jared Fletcher,” someone shouted.

  “Jared…?” Abraham took a quick step forward. As he moved, the shot rang out.

  Out of the tail of my eye, I saw Jacob Carruthers, the man whose farm Abraham had repossessed on the morning of Colin’s beating, near the middle of the crowd, holding a smoking pistol.

  My father-in-law clutched his left breast, his face contorted in pain, and staggered backward to slump against the house front. The fog had hidden the gunman from his keen eyes.

  “Get him!” a voice yelled. “Hang the lying old bastard!”

  Before anyone could mount the steps to obey, Barret vaulted over the verandah railing and stood, legs astride, arms akimbo, between the advancing mob and Abraham.

  “Go home,” he ordered. “Don’t compound your troubles by adding the murder of a Queen’s Magistrate to them.”

  “He ruined us, Captain, as he ruined you,” a man yelled. “You were his commodore, his house guest. Now you live in a log shack and shovel guano to keep your wife and baby fed. Let us have him! We’ll make him pay.”

  “Pay for what?” Barret asked, unmoving as a rock. “For building this town and its industries? For providing jobs for all of you when you arrived from the old countries, half starved? For supporting your church and starting a school for your children? For trying to bring a semblance of law and order to a near wilderness? And all with the borrowed capital those bankers in London are now recalling. It appears to me you’ve benefited more than he has; you’ve all had the pleasure of the cash and credit, with none of the responsibility of owing thousands.”

  A noticeable change washed over the crowd as Barret was speaking. When he’d finished, it was silent.

  “Go home,” Barret repeated. “Open your eyes to the other opportunities of this valley. Timber and ships aren’t its only products. The soil is good. The river and bay are teeming with fish. The government is looking for men to build roads and railways. Soon there’s to be a steam navigation school in Halifax. You can learn this new method of transportation. The fate of Douglas and Sons need not be yours. This house and this family alone will suffer the full consequences of those decisions made across the Atlantic.”

  A low muttering of agreement broke out among the crowd. Gradually it began to disperse. As soon as the way was clear, I rushed to join Barret. He was bending over Abraham, who’d slumped farther.

  “You were most eloquent, Judas,” the older man muttered, bitter, his eyes glazed with pain. “Is that how you managed to seduce my son’s wife?”

  “Why, the ungrateful old…”

  “Enough, Starr.” Barret was gathering the older man into his arms and rising to his feet. “Open the door and help me get him into a bed.”

  ****

  “Traitor!” Abraham’s voice rose in a raw whisper as Barret seated himself on the edge of his bed in the huge master bedroom of Peacock House. “You should have let me die. I prefer death to an obligation to a villain.”

  “Abe, listen to me.” Barret leaned close to him, his face grim with concern. “It’s not over. We can get you away before that crowd has time to get liquored up and regroup. In a month or two, when tempers have cooled, you can return, and we’ll help you rebuild your empire.”

  Abraham’s labored breathing was harsh in the silent room. The servants and Caroline, like rats deserting a sinking ship, had fled.

  “You help me rebuild!” he rasped. “You, who fathered a child on Colin’s wife when you swore not to touch her? Bastard, lying son of a gun…”

  “Take that back!” Barret suddenly snarled. “My mother was no ship’s whore, and you know it. She was a decent little French governess who fell in love with a vessel’s twenty-four-year-old master, a captain who left her destitute, to bear his child in a brothel. I promised you that any child Starr bore would be your grandchild, and I’ve kept my word. Colin Barret Douglas-Madison is your grandson.”

  “What!” Abraham struggled up on an elbow and faced Barret. “What are you saying…?”

  “I’m the child you fathered on Lise LeClerq, the woman you refused to marry because she was a French Catholic,” Barret roared, and jerked the crucifix from beneath his faded shirt. “Remember this? You gave it to her! She wore it always.”

  “No!” Abraham fell back on his pillows, his eyes rolling. “No! As God is my witness, I never knew Lise bore me a child. I swear!”

  “Well, now you do. My mother was forced to become a whorehouse entertainer in order to survive and provide for her child. That life was a living hell for a decent, God-fearing woman.”

  “You’re Lise’s son?” Abraham stared at the crucifix. “Why did you never tell me?”

  Barret’s anger turned to reticent nervousness. Looking down at his callused hands, he hesitated.

  “Well, come, boy, tell me.”

  “Because I was afraid,” he said finally. “Afraid you’d deny me. Or hate me. Or shun me as the bastard I am.”

  “Dear God!” Abraham’s eyes filled with tears. “All these years I’ve longed for a son such as you. Tell me of Lise. And yourself.”

  Tears slid down his cheeks. For the first time I saw Abraham Douglas for what he truly was, an old man beaten by a world he had battled all his life, an old man who had seldom dealt fairly with others and now was being handed what must be for him the most crushing blow of all.

  “She died when I was ten,” Barret said. “After that, I made a living playing piano and singing in the same brothel where she’d worked.”

  ”Go on, my boy.” Abraham’s hand shook a
s he reached for Barret’s.

  “One night after the tavern closed, I went for a walk to clear my head of the smell of smoke and liquor. A bunch of drunken sailors decided to make sport of me. When I fought back, they beat me, then left me barely conscious in the street.

  “A young sea captain on his way back to his ship found me. I was too badly beaten to walk, so he carried me to his ship, lying at anchor in the lagoon. He took me with him when he sailed with the tide the following morning. He kept me in his cabin and tended me with his own hands.”

  He paused and looked down at me. “Starr, that young captain was Morgan Reynolds.”

  “Oh, Barret! You knew him? What was he like? You must tell me, later.”

  “When I recovered, Captain Reynolds gave me a position on his ship.” Barret went to splash brandy from a decanter on the bureau into a ready glass. “My mother had told me my father’s name and that he was a colonial from New Brunswick. It was relatively easy to find you, Abe, once I had a means of transport. You’d already become a man of wealth and position, well known throughout the province.” He took a long swig of the fortified wine before he continued. “I managed to place myself in the employ of one of your ship’s masters. I hid the crucifix when I was on land. I didn’t want you to recognize me by a trinket. I wanted you to recognize me with your heart and soul. And although she never once told me outright, Gram soon recognized me. She had a perceptive soul as well as a shrewd mind.”

  “Mother knew?” Abraham was astounded. “And she never told me?”

  “She knew how I felt, what I wanted from you,” Barret said. “She was willing to let me have my way. I was her grandson, too, and she loved me.”

  “Did Lise ever marry?” Abraham asked, after a profound silence. “Is that how you came by your surname?”

  “No,” Barret said. “I invented the name Madison to avoid your recognizing LeClerq. Do you know”—he choked—“Do you know I lived on ale and stale bread for weeks at a time? Do you know I was often drunk before I was thirteen because I had nothing but tavern leavings on which to survive? All the while, in Pine, my brother Randall was growing up pampered and warm and safe.”

  ”I never knew,” Abraham whispered. “As God is my witness, I never knew. Now I’m to be punished. Barret, I’m sorry, so very sorry, my son. I always had a weakness for beautiful French women. I should have followed my heart and married Lise. By trusting my head and listening to my prejudices and marrying Christiana, I only made three people miserable…six, if I’m to count my sons. Even when I was granted a second chance at true happiness with Marie, I was too great a fool to recognize it. I might yet have had another child, a child conceived in love. I am not yet incapable, you realize. Marie and I…a child…it would have made up for all I’ve missed in my life. But she went away…and died of some shantytown disease. Dear God, I’ve had so much—and yet so little.”

  He lapsed into unconsciousness. Shocked and shaken, Barret and I stared at each other. Marie had been carrying Abe’s child and my father-in-law had never known.

  “He must never know,” Barret muttered, guessing my thoughts. “It would serve no purpose now.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  As the day drew on, Abraham’s condition worsened. Barret and I took turns sitting with him while the other rested or ate. I thanked God for Bridgit, who cared for Colin during our vigil.

  Outside, the town was in riot and we dared not attempt a return to our cabin, even had we wanted to do so.

  In the early part of the afternoon, as I sat beside him, Abraham awoke.

  “Water,” he rasped over fever-parched lips.

  I put a cup to his mouth. As I replaced it on the bedside table, he spoke again.

  “Starr, you’ve been…a blessing to my sons, all three of them. You made their lives tolerable, while I made them living hells. I thought you simply a lovely, seductive child whose only possible use to me was as a producer of grandchildren. You’ve proven you’re a strong woman, not afraid to face the realities of life. On the night Randall died, I saw you for what you truly are—a mature, strong, and compassionate woman who’ll make a success of her life and family. You’re a remarkable woman, much like my mother. You’ll survive and make what’s left of this family thrive.”

  He paused for breath, then continued, weakening with each labored word.

  “When I’m gone, all that is mine—all that is left of what was mine—will be Barret’s. My will is specific: My entire estate goes to my son who produces my first grandchild. Write it down, child. Write that on my deathbed I do acknowledge Barret Madison as my eldest son, father of my first grandchild, and my rightful heir. Write, child, write! There’s not much time left.”

  Hastily I found pen and paper and did as I was bidden. When I’d finished, I read aloud what I had put down, then held his quaking body as he signed the statement.

  “Witness it, witness it now!” he implored.

  Seized by a fit of coughing, he was forced to stop speaking. I did as he asked, my own hand shaking as I signed. When the spasm subsided, he was much weaker, and I saw fear in his face. He knew the end was near.

  “I must tell you something else,” he rasped, barely above a whisper. “I must confess. It was I…who shot Darcy Pod.”

  “You…!” I gasped. “But why?”

  “He…I believed he deserved to be shot,” he wheezed. “But not now… Not now! As God is my witness, I’m sorry. The boy did not deserve…”

  His voice trailed off as he lapsed into a coma from which he did not awaken. I now knew who had killed Darcy, but not why. The mystery had simply been deepened by Abraham’s confession.

  Late in the afternoon, Barret and I left Peacock House. Abraham Douglas’s body lay shrouded in a sheet in his great master bedroom. Barret and I would go to the cemetery, dig a grave, and then return for his remains.

  As we started down the drive, Barret’s arm draped about my shoulders, a shrill whinny from the stables made us both whirl.

  “Lucifer!” Barret exclaimed. “What is he doing here?”

  In the same breath, he was running in the direction of the cry.

  When he burst into the barn, I was close behind him. Jared Fletcher struggled to lead the black stallion from the building. The horse, harnessed to a loaded wagon, was prancing and snorting. Seated at the reins, wearing a ruby-colored velvet traveling suit and peacock-feathered hat, was Caroline Douglas.

  “Sweet Jesus, man, get away from that animal!” Barret roared.

  “I’ve seen you make him behave as docile as a kitten,” Jared said, releasing the foaming, wild-eyed stallion to face Barret. “I can do anything as well as you, given a chance. Didn’t I take over your ship and your fleet?”

  “You looted the house, didn’t you?” Barret said indicating the loaded wagon as Lucifer, left in peace, stood pawing the planks beneath his hooves. “Now you’re planning to run off while the town is in too great an uproar over Abe’s failure to notice.”

  “Get out of my way, Barret,” Jared ordered. He jerked a pistol from his belt and leveled it at my husband. “Move aside while Caroline and I leave or, I swear, I’ll shoot you where you stand.”

  “Yes, I believe you would murder a man you once considered your friend, all for that piece of adulterous trash,” Barret said as he drew me clear of the entrance with him. “But don’t take the stallion. He’ll kill you both.”

  “Don’t try to scare me off, Barret.” Jared moved back toward the animal. “”He’s the fastest, strongest horse in this valley. He’ll take us farther and swifter than any of Abe’s nags.”

  He flung up his free hand to grab Lucifer’s bridle. The sudden movement snapped the horse’s thin restraint. Eyes showing white with outraged indignation, the animal roared and rose onto his hind legs between the wagon’s shafts. When his front hooves came down, they knocked the gun from Jared’s right hand.

  “Jared, help me!” Caroline, her face ashen, was on her feet, pulling on the reins.

  The
woman’s shrill cries incensed Lucifer beyond his endurance. Ears pinned, teeth bared, he bolted. As the wagon flew past Jared, a wheel struck him in the chest. With a cry of pain, he was smashed down to the plank floor.

  The stallion galloped from the barn at an angle, in such a way that the other wheel caught on the edge of the door. Caroline’s shattering scream was to be the last utterance of her life as she was flung headlong against one of the stable’s supporting timbers.

  “Take me to her,” Jared Fletcher, broken and bleeding, begged Barret as he knelt beside him.

  “She’s dead, Jared. You don’t want to see her as she is now.”

  “Please, I’m begging you!” Jared tore at Barret’s shirtfront with bloody fingers. “I sold my soul into hell for her, and I want to see her once more…just once more… Barret, she’s carrying my child!”

  “All right.” Barret gathered his friend up in his arms and carried him to where Caroline lay face down in a pile of fodder. Scattered about her was an array of jewelry, money, silverware, and coins from Peacock House.

  “Caroline, love,” Jared moaned as Barret placed him beside her. “Oh, sweet love!” He broke down, sobbing. With ragged fingers, he reached out and turned her face to him.

  She had hit the beam with terrific force. When Jared rolled her toward him, all that was left of her bewitching beauty was raw, red pulp.

  Jared managed to mouth her name before he lost consciousness.

  Barret carried Jared into Peacock House, and together we stripped him, placed him into Caroline’s bed, and washed and dressed his wounds as he regained his senses.

  “I couldn’t believe she tried to cause Starr to miscarry, or that once she was safely pregnant by me she’d kill her husband.” Jared’s words shook. “After I discovered she’d hired Simon to maim Colin Douglas, I got her to promise there’d be no more bloodletting. “When she discovered Marie was pregnant, curious as a cat, she worried the girl until she confessed it was Abe who’d fathered the child. Caroline feared Abe might marry the girl and have another avenue to an heir that would take his fortune even farther from her grasp than it already was, so she won the girl’s confidence and gave her a potion to produce a supposedly safe miscarriage.”