Darwin grinned, and Charles saw Cordelia in him. “I think you’re forgetting what’s at stake.”
Charles laughed. He laughed and laughed. “Maybe you should have showed up yesterday, then, brother. Because today, I’m officially going to be a father, and today, I have the upper hand. You wanna release those photos and turn your sister into a laughing stock?” He spread his arms wide. “Be my fucking guest, Darwin. Post them in triplicate, and on every telephone pole. Because it’s Cordelia you’ll be hurting, not me.”
Charles slipped an unopened bottle of cognac in his jacket and left.
* * *
Augustus awaited outside the St. Charles mansion for his brother to arrive. The world outside was still, except the passing cars. It was late, and many of the homes here had turned down for the night.
He’d never enjoyed, or sought out, the quiet spaces in life. These were times where thoughts threatened to take over and turn into assumptions or fears. Augustus had opened his business almost exactly a week after Madeline had died, because he was terrified of falling into the quiet place. He thought it possible for a man to go there and never emerge whole again.
But he’d been waiting going on an hour and there wasn’t anything else to do now except think. And all he could think about was his wife, and the call he’d received earlier that evening from Andrew St. Andrews in Summer Island.
I dinnae want to fuss ye, he’d started, and then the rest unfolded in a series of apologetic starts and re-starts. Augustus didn’t hang up the call with a full picture, but it was enough, and suddenly Ekatherina’s strange turn toward the melancholy on their calls started to make sense.
Her friends in town had grown cold on her, and the reason, according to St. Andrews, who did all but the tango around the point, was Ekatherina’s close association with George Cairne.
He’d told Augustus not to pay too much heed to the rumors, because small towns didn’t know any better and would stop gossiping the day they stopped breathing. But that rumors were enough to change the entire temperature of a person’s welcome, and Ekatherina had been holed up in the house for days, while the rest of the women in town rallied around the scorned Mrs. Cairne.
Ekatherina had breathed not a word of this on the phone calls home. But he’d heard it, somewhere, underscoring everything she didn’t say.
Augustus couldn’t ask the lingering question of his neighbor in Maine. It was too much, and even a hesitation on the other man’s part would send his imagination to a dark and dangerous place.
Light flooded the car as Charles’ face appeared in the door. “We ready to get this show on the road?”
“I was ready an hour ago,” Augustus muttered.
“Get the twist out of your panties, Aggie. I found out tonight I’m going to be a father!”
Augustus paused midway through extracting the keys from the ignition. “Seriously?”
“I did my fucking duty,” Charles went on. He tapped the roof of the car, hard. “And now I don’t have to touch the bitch for another… well, however the fuck long it takes for her to grow and expel the baby. And then heal, or whatever.”
Augustus slid out of the car. He regarded his brother over the top of it, in the dark. The family needed some good news. They needed it bad. “That’s really great news, Charles. I’m so happy for you.”
“Thanks, man. Thanks.” Charles slammed his door and grinned under the streetlight. “Now, let’s go secure the future of Maureen’s baby.”
Edouard Blanchard wasn’t expecting them. Augustus almost—almost—felt bad for the guy. Whatever his extracurricular activities, he was a self-selected hermit, who’d let fun with the wrong young woman become the unintended path to what remained of his future.
But Augustus couldn’t forget Maureen had been underage when the affair started. And he could never, ever forget the last time she’d gotten caught up with an older man. Charles taking care of that problem had been the tippy top of the pendulum swing now cutting a swash through the family. Happiness, quickly replaced by agony. Over and over.
“Catherine was at our party tonight,” Charles said as they crossed one side of St. Charles and paused in the neutral ground, between the east and west streetcar tracks. They waited for the light to change and oncoming traffic to stop.
“I didn’t know you were having a party tonight.”
“Oh, don’t be cross. I figured Cordelia was half-kidding when she said she was throwing one, and then I wasn’t consulted on the invite list. Not that you would’ve come anyway.”
“You mean your wife invited Catherine?” Augustus frowned.
“Let’s try not to call that hellbeast my wife, when it’s just us chickens,” Charles said. “And yes, she did, and no, I don’t think it was a fucking accident.”
Augustus started across the second half of the avenue. Blanchard’s mansion was just ahead, protected only semi-well by high shrubbery and thick trees. “How did it go?”
“How do you think it went? I fell in love with her again in front of everyone, and Cordelia ate it right up. Oh, and then broke the news about her being knocked up, in front of all our guests. Including me.”
Augustus stopped on the other side and gaped at him. “She didn’t tell you before she told everyone?”
“Hellbeast,” Charles muttered.
“As you said,” Augustus replied. “This means you’ve done your duty, both to the family and to her. Enjoy the break.”
* * *
Edouard was still awake and let them in, with a thousand questions and half as many reservations painted across his face. He knew who they were, of course. Everyone did. But he didn’t know why they were there, and at the late hour.
“Our sister is why,” Charles said.
“Your sister?” Edouard asked from across the room as he mixed the drinks. “Augustus, you’re sure I can’t make you something?”
“Quite sure.”
Edouard handed Charles his drink and settled into the armchair across from the brothers. His tired face creased with his lack of sleep and anticipation of what might come next.
“Maureen,” Charles said. “You might know her. Petite brunette, just turned eighteen. You might know her better from behind, though.”
“Charles,” Augustus hissed.
“Maureen…” Edouard’s eyes wandered and then snapped wide. “Maureen! I didn’t… I didn’t quite place, or piece, that together, that she was one of those Deschanels…”
“There’s only one Deschanel family in New Orleans,” Charles said. He emptied his drink and slammed it on the table to his left. Augustus tried to shoot him a look, but couldn’t catch his eye. They hadn’t discussed this “good cop, bad cop” routine Charles seemed to be heading down. “Only one that matters.”
“You fired her,” Augustus said. He watched the older man. Studied him. They’d been at events together. Had some casual conversation, the kind that brought the loquaciousness out of a man in the moment, but later unable to recall what was said. But Augustus had never taken the measure of the man. Was he weak, or merely odd? Would he have to employ a skill he’d hoped to keep away from this night?
Not if Edouard was a true man.
“Not exactly,” Edouard said. “Maureen was a wonderful worker. A harder one than the secretaries who have been there for years, and I can’t seem to be rid of them. Unions.” He swallowed a drink, and it was then Augustus realized his hand was shaking. “But work slows in my profession in the fall and winter. The role Maureen occupied was always meant to be seasonal. I could have hired her back in the spring.”
“Did you tell her that when you hired or, or just after you’d fucked her?”
Edouard’s mouth dropped open. “I don’t know what she’s told you…”
“We know what went on between you in the office, late at night,” Augustus said. His voice was firm, hoping to cut off the inevitable stream of bullshit coming from Blanchard, and at the same time, discourage the Clint Eastwood act from his brother.
“Maybe not all the details, but the salient ones. We also know she was underage when it happened, but we’re not here to debate the legalities of what passed between you. I’m sure you’re already well aware of them.”
Augustus, in his head, heard Charles remind him the age of consent was seventeen, as only Charles would know.
Edouard’s jaw flapped. He set his drink aside. “If you’re not, as you say, concerned with the legalities, gentlemen then… I’m almost afraid to ask, why are you here?”
“It’s late, and a lesser man reminded me tonight that I’m shit at small talk,” Charles said. He stretched his arms over his head. Cracked his knuckles. “Maureen is pregnant. She’s keeping it. And before you go on and insult my baby sister by asking whether you’re the father, you’re the fucking father.”
The air in the room tightened. None of them made a sound. Augustus was painfully aware of even his own heartbeat, which pounded in his ear like a deadly reminder from a Poe story.
“Wow,” Edouard said at last. “Forgive me, I was not expecting that.”
“Man, I just found out tonight that I’m going to be a father, too, so I’ll give you a minute to let that sink in,” Charles said.
“Congratulations,” Edouard muttered. He wiped his palm across his mouth and his eyes closed. “Jesus.”
“Let’s leave the Lord out of it,” Augustus said. “As Charles said, it’s late, and the gift of small talk missed me as well. If you’re thinking of reaching for your checkbook, don’t. Maureen has no need of money. She’ll never have need of money.”
Edouard nodded. “What, then, can I give?”
“The only thing she needs,” Augustus replied. “Your name.”
“My name?”
Charles slid his lower jaw back and forth. “Edouard, I know you’re not this fucking slow. Maureen Deschanel will be Maureen Blanchard, because you’re going to marry her. Soon. Maybe tomorrow.”
“No,” Edouard said. He inched physically back and away from both brothers, trying to disappear into the chair. “I have no desire to marry anyone.”
“Your desires are how we got into this situation,” Augustus said.
“You’re going to marry her because it’s the right fucking thing to do,” Charles said. “And because if you can do the crime, you can do the goddamn time. In case you need that translated, you fucked my little sister, got her pregnant, and you do not just get to walk away from this. Her whole life is on the line. Her future. Do you get that? Did you think of that at all, when you had her bent over your desk?”
“Charles,” Augustus said again.
“I assumed a girl like that would have taken the proper precautions.”
Augustus’ blood pressure rose so fast he didn’t have time to stop himself from jumping forward and reaching for the man. Charles was faster and shot his arm out, pinning him back.
“Don’t you ever talk about Maureen that way. Ever,” Augustus warned. “She’s our sister, and she’ll be your wife, and you will respect her.”
“Are you sure I can’t just kill him?” Charles asked.
“Thinking about it.”
Edouard worked his gaze between the brothers, as if deciding whether they were seriously contemplating this option.
“I don’t think you appreciate how fortunate you are right now,” Augustus continued. He tried to steady his anger. It wouldn’t serve him here, and he knew it started earlier in the evening, after that phone call. “This isn’t a punishment. Everyone in this city wishes they could marry a Deschanel. Her trust alone is measured in the multi-millions, but we’ll send her with a dowry of five, because it’s nothing to us, but it’s something to you. Having her name attached to you will skyrocket your business far beyond any successes you think you’ve had today. Instead of going to jail, we just gave you the meal ticket for your future.”
“And if I decline this offer?” Edouard asked.
The brothers exchanged a look. “That would not be in your best interest.”
* * *
The brothers walked back to the car in shared silence, each contemplating the victory that was really no victory at all, but instead a hollow triumph. Maureen would marry Edouard, and she would do it at the expense of her joy.
But her future was protected now.
“You driving back into Vacherie, or staying somewhere in New Orleans?”
Charles took a deep breath of the cool night air. “I should go home. Ophélie is my home. Not hers. I won’t have her chasing me away, when I can’t stand to be under the same roof.”
“She’ll leave you alone for a while, in any case.”
“Yeah.” Charles flipped his keys around in his hands. “What about Ekatherina? She home now?”
Augustus looked away. “No, and I think I was a fool to leave her there. I think something has… is happening. Something I could have stopped, if I’d been a better husband. A better ma—”
Charles appeared before him and took his face between his hands. “There is no better man, Augustus. The better man is you. Now, go to Maine, and go save your goddamn marriage, because at least one of us has to be happy.”
WINTER 1974
* * *
VACHERIE, LOUISIANA
NEW ORLEANS, LOUISIANA
EDINBURGH, SCOTLAND
SKYE, SCOTLAND
Sixteen
The Winter of our Discontent
The cold spell wasn’t forecasted. They didn’t have many of them in South Louisiana, even in the winter, which was now officially underway, as of that morning. Augustus had phoned the night before from Maine to tell Charles he was being dragged to a “Winter Solstice Festival, whatever the hell that means. There’s already a foot of snow on the ground, and I don’t understand how people are leaving their houses.”
Charles awoke to a winter wonderland himself. The slight chill in his room prompted a groggy-eyed glance out the window, and a strange feeling came over him as he observed the grounds of Ophélie, as far as the eye could see, blanketed in white.
He felt like a kid. He wanted to run outside and flail his arms around, face to the sky to catch even a drop of whatever had caused this. He searched around for his pants and shoes, and then dug around in his closet for his once-a-year jacket, reserved for days just like these.
“Cordelia! You’re not gonna believe this!” he called out into the hall, to her suite across. He frowned. She wasn’t here. Hadn’t been for almost two months. He’d only seen her at her regularly scheduled obstetrics appointments, and only because he’d forced himself into the process.
The appointments were tedious, but a visit from Evangeline after had brought news that nothing could overshadow. News only a Deschanel could know this early. He was having a son. A boy.
Charles zipped up his jacket and raced down the stairs, like he used to on Christmas, when he still believed in Santa. Legs a blur, excitement outpacing ability. On the way down, Richard saw him and chuckled.
“Charles, you’ll break both your legs, you keep carrying on like that!”
Charles smiled and clapped Richard on the back. Richard, who had been like an uncle to him, even though his role was relegated mainly to the backdrop of his life. Richard, who was probably his actual uncle, if the rumors about Charles’ grandfather were to be believed. “Have you looked outside, old man?”
“I’m not that old yet. Don’t rush me.”
“Have you?”
“Yeah, I’ve taken a gander, and I think I know what’s got y’all in a fuss.”
“When’s the last time it actually snowed here?” Charles stared at the awaiting door. He rubbed his hands together, in anticipation of the cold just beyond.
“Been years, I ‘spose,” Richard mused. “But, I hate to break it to you when you’re as giddy as I’ve ever seen ya, but that’s not snow outside.”
“Then what the fuck is it?”
“Frost,” Richard said. He made his way toward the back of the house, to one of the kitchens. “Dropped below freezing last
night, if you can believe it.”
Charles flung the door wide and marched out to confirm for himself. He trotted down the steps and knelt in the grass, running the frosted blades through his fingers. His smile died.
It was beautiful, but it was not snow. Just an illusion, like so many things.
The hard crunch of gravel sounded in the distance. A car ambled down the frozen path. The approach to Ophélie was somewhere between a quarter and a half mile, Charles estimated, so it was always a slog waiting for the identity of a visitor to appear.
The Mercedes logo beamed through the cold fog. Cordelia.
Charles forgot how excited he’d been only minutes ago to share the enthusiasm with his wife. Suspicion permeated, taking over the happiness that had been so wonderful, and so fleeting.
Cordelia slammed the door and marched over to him. Tears cut a hard line down her bony cheeks. Her eyes were red, too red.
“You unfathomable devil,” she whispered through a hoarse throat. “You… you.”
Charles pulled himself off the grass. He didn’t approach her, instead holding out a hand that was both welcome and caution. “What’s the matter? Is it our son?”
“Our son. You and your family, and their devilry. Son.” She spat the words, expelling then more than saying them. “Our son is a game to you, just like everything is a game to you. Everything, including that rotten sister of yours and her rotten, horrible words.”
“We’ll come back to what you said about our son,” Charles said. His breath unfurled in the air, teasing him of what might have been. Everything had shifted so quickly. “But don’t talk about my sisters like that, Cordelia. I’ll put up with a lot, but leave my family out of your bitterness.”
“Leave them out? How convenient, when they pulled mine in,” she returned. She made no move to come closer. One hand held the car door. “Your precious sister, Elizabeth. Why did you tell me about her, Charles? Why?”
Nineteen Seventy-Four Page 15
