by DeVa Gantt
“Thank you,” she breathed, clearing her throat.
“Can I get you anything else?”
“The children…Robert refuses…but I want to see my children…”
Paul nodded. “Then you shall.”
As he returned to the sitting room, Robert was right on his heels, closing the door between the two chambers. “You cannot mean to bring them here. She doesn’t have the strength—”
“What kind of physician are you, anyway?” Paul growled, facing him. “She’s been under your care for nearly a year now and look at her!” Receiving no answer, he snorted in disgust. “Stay out of my way!”
“This is not my fault!” Blackford rallied, calling to his back. “She has pneumonia. Your little governess took her on a picnic in the pouring rain. She caught a chill, and her lungs have filled with mucus. She’s been fighting this newest malady for a full month now.”
Paul rounded on him, but his ire flagged as swiftly as it had spiked. He shook his head and left the room.
“One moment, Yvette!” Charmaine reproved as she opened the door.
“Miss Ryan,” Paul greeted, her lovely face erasing the memory of Colette’s ghastly visage.
“Paul!” she exclaimed, glad beyond words.
At the mention of his name, everyone in the room perked up, and even Frederic brightened, releasing Pierre who had been sitting in his lap. “Come in, please come in,” she invited. “When did you arrive?”
“An hour ago,” he answered, ruffling Pierre’s hair and hugging Jeannette who had scampered over to greet him.
Yvette remained next to her father, who sat at her desk. “Mama is very ill,” she informed him, as if that were the only thing that mattered now.
“Yes, I know. She’s been asking for you. Would you like to see her?”
“Oh yes!” they answered in unison.
“But”—he admonished—“she has a high fever. You mustn’t force her to talk, and you may stay only a short time. Do you understand?”
They nodded.
He had just lifted Pierre into his arms when Agatha appeared in the doorway, her face ashen. “It is time. Robert fears it is time.”
Death…it hung in the room with a life of its own. The gathered assembly could feel it—smell it—taste it. There was no escaping the sound of it: Colette’s labored wheezing, the dogged coughing, and now the whimpers of her loved ones. Charmaine closed her eyes to the telltale finale. Why in heaven’s name did we bring the children here?
In the throes of her extremity, Colette’s unique beauty was only a memory, scarred by the unholy battle she had fought: hooded eyes sunken, lips chafed raw, sallow complexion drawn over skeletal cheeks, lovely hair matted and coarse.
Yvette faced the truth first, bravely inching closer, silent tears trickling down her cheeks. “Mama, I’m here,” she said, taking her hand.
Colette attempted to smile up at her.
Jeannette followed, falling to her knees beside the bed. When Colette closed her eyes, she buried her face in the bed linen and wept.
“Don’t cry,” Colette beseeched, mustering the strength to stroke her daughter’s hair. “I’m happy—” The remark hung unfinished as she suffered through another fitful cough.
Blackford sidestepped Paul, who stood sentry against interference. “The children have had their time,” he directed, reaching the bed. “This visit is upsetting everyone, specifically Colette. No good will come of it.”
It was true, but Paul couldn’t ignore Colette’s tormented entreaty of: “No! Please! A moment longer…” He passed Pierre to Charmaine, then pulled Robert aside. “I want you to stay,” Colette was saying, her voice low and raspy.
“We will, Mama,” Yvette whispered, fighting the fire in her throat. “We’ll stay as long as you like.”
Colette considered Jeannette again, the child’s sobs increasing. “Sweetheart, you mustn’t cry…”
“I—I can’t help it!” Jeannette gasped. “You can’t die! I—I—won’t let you die! I love you too much!” She rose from her knees, leaned across the bed, and wrapped her arms around her mother, as if she could squeeze the demon of death from her.
Charmaine’s embrace quickened around Pierre. His whimpers had intensified, yet, she took succor from him, grateful to have someone to hold. She pressed his head to her bosom and shielded him from the avalanche of grief.
Rose stepped out of the shadows and bent over Jeannette. “Come, darling,” she comforted, separating the girl from Colette, “say goodbye to your mother.”
“No!” Jeannette cried, struggling to be free. “I won’t leave her!”
Colette broke into another rattling cough, unable to catch her breath this time, the convulsion worse than the others.
Robert rushed forward again, pulling her upright and striking her back until the spasm subsided. “She cannot withstand this strain!” he remonstrated sharply, his accusatory gaze leveled on Jeannette, who’d retreated, terror-stricken, to the edge of the bed.
“I’m all right,” Colette panted, sucking in shallow pockets of air. “Come, Jeannette,” Rose cajoled, gathering her in tender arms, “your mother must rest. Give her a kiss.”
Jeannette obeyed, her lips lingering on her mother’s cheek. “Mama? I love you Mama.”
Colette’s hand found hers. “And I love you,” she murmured, her grip tightening momentarily.
Jeannette abruptly stood and tore from the room.
Paul followed.
Yvette stood fast, her eyes fixed on her mother, aware that Rose had come round to her side of the bed. “Mama? You’ll be all right without me?”
Colette shook her head slightly. “I won’t be without you. I’ll always be here…in this house…with you, Yvette.” She cleared her throat. “Yvette…you’ll take care of your brother and sister for me? You’re very strong. Promise me…promise me you’ll always stay together.”
“I promise, Mama. Don’t worry about them.”
Satisfied, Colette beckoned for a final embrace, her arms like deadweights as they closed over Yvette’s shoulders.
“Good-bye, Mama,” Yvette choked out. “I love you!” With a swift kiss, she broke free and fled.
Colette turned her head aside and, unmindful of the doctor’s reprimands, wept. Her anguish spiraled when she realized Rose and Charmaine were leaving as well. “Please!” she gasped, her voice barely audible. “Please…my son…I want to hold my son.”
No one seemed to hear. Robert was wiping her brow, and Agatha was whispering in his ear. The governess was leaving, and she had not kissed her son goodbye. “Please!” she called out desperately.
As Charmaine reached the doorway, Frederic detained her, allowing only Rose to pass. “My wife wants to see Pierre,” he said, nodding toward the bed.
Slowly, Charmaine turned back into the room.
“Pierre,” Colette sighed, reaching out feebly. “Pierre,” she called again, smiling weakly when Charmaine sat him on the bed.
Her joy was swiftly snuffed out. The three-year-old was terrified and wanted nothing to do with her, moaning loudly as she caressed his head. He clambered to the edge of the mattress, reaching for Charmaine.
The woman in this bed was not his mother. His mama was gentle and beautiful, not ravaged and worn. He pulled himself to his knees and buried his face in Charmaine’s skirts.
Colette closed her eyes to sorrow. When she opened them again, they held the light of resignation. “Charmaine,” she breathed, hand extended.
Charmaine grabbed hold quickly and squeezed Colette’s fingers.
“You’ll…you’ll take care of him?”
“You needn’t worry. Colette. I’ll take good care of Pierre and the girls.”
“And…you’ll give him…all the love he needs.”
“Yes, Colette. I shall love him as if he were my own. Now, please, don’t try to speak anymore. Please rest.”
“But him!” Colette struggled anew, as if Charmaine hadn’t understood. Frantically, she gras
ped at Pierre in an attempt to reach his governess. “He needs you the most…because he’s the most vulnerable…and I wasn’t able to give him…what he—”
“Pierre will be fine,” Charmaine promised, lifting him clear off the bed, chasing away her tears with the back of one hand.
Colette nodded and, drained, closed her eyes again.
“Goodbye, Colette,” she forced out, returning Pierre’s tenacious hug. “Thank you for all you’ve given me, my dear, dear friend.”
Colette heard the earnest declaration, took it to her heart. Love him, she prayed again.
The door closed softly behind Charmaine, leaving only three to their grim vigil. Frederic’s deep voice shattered the solemnity. “Leave us.”
Robert faced him. “Frederic, there is little time for that now.”
“Leave us, man, and leave us now. I will give my wife everything she needs. Now clear out!”
The physician’s mouth clamped shut. In less than a minute, he and his sister were gone, the bedroom suddenly empty. Empty—so cruel in its irony. Would his heart always brim with grief when he felt most empty? He had made it so.
It was a long time before Colette’s children slipped into the oblivion of sleep. Paul and Rose attempted to console them, and Rose finally succeeded in getting Pierre to close his eyes. But in the end, Charmaine’s gentleness dried the girls’ tears. When Paul and Rose departed, they spoke for a long time. Charmaine had, after all, lost her own mother. But she refused to listen to talk of death. “Your mother is sleeping just down the hallway,” she insisted. “We’re not giving up hope. Let us say our prayers. Let us pray to St. Jude. Miracles can happen.”
When they were asleep, Charmaine went down to the drawing room, something she hadn’t done for a long time. She was happy to find Paul there, even though he was discussing Colette’s condition with Agatha, Robert, and Rose. As she entered the parlor, Agatha threw her a nasty look, but Paul welcomed her into their company.
“As I was saying,” the doctor continued, “any strength Colette possessed deteriorated long before the pneumonia set in. She was, and still is, ill equipped to fight such a malady. The next twenty-four hours should tell the tale.”
“Meaning?” Paul bit out.
“If she can hold on until the fever breaks, she may have a chance.”
“Is there nothing you can give her in the interim?”
“Unfortunately, she has eaten little and has vomited the rest, including my strongest compounds.” Blackford shook his head. “No, she must fight this on her own. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must see—”
Paul grabbed hold of his arm. “Robert, my father is with her. Give them some time alone.”
The doctor looked down at the hand that waylaid him and abruptly pulled away. “An hour—I’ll give him one hour.” With that, he was gone.
“Paul,” Agatha began, “Robert has tried, really, he has. I can attest to the hours he’s passed over Colette’s bedside. He’s forfeited his other patients just to be here, round the clock.”
“I’m sure,” Paul grumbled, rubbing the back of his neck.
“Agatha is right,” Rose interjected. “Robert has done everything in his power to combat this illness.”
“It’s my fault,” Charmaine added, guilt-ridden over the part she had played. “Colette was feeling better a month ago, and I suggested a picnic. If we had arrived home before the rainstorm, she would never have caught a chill.”
“Exactly!” Agatha piped in disdainfully. “It is beyond my comprehension that an educated person would coerce a frail woman into traipsing far from her home in the first place.”
“Coerce?” Paul replied. “Come, Agatha, if Colette didn’t feel well enough to go on this picnic, she would have had the good sense to stay home. As for Charmaine, how could she have predicted inclement weather? No one is to blame here. I’m just trying to determine if something else can be done. Colette is a young woman with three children who will be devastated if she—” He feared finishing the thought.
Insulted, Agatha left the room.
Paul turned to Rose. “I’ve more faith in your remedies than all of Robert’s prescriptions combined. If you will consider passing the night at Colette’s bedside, I will tell him not to step foot in that room unless he is summoned.”
“I’m at a loss,” she confided woefully, “but I would be pleased to sit beside Colette for as long as I am permitted.”
Paul nodded, then watched her leave.
Charmaine regarded him. She’d so looked forward to his return, felt terrible he’d come home to heartache. “It has been miserable here without you.”
In spite of himself, he smiled. “I suppose that means you missed me.”
“I did miss you. It was as if disaster befell Colette the moment you left.”
“She hasn’t been ill all that time, has she?”
“She’s never been truly well,” Charmaine said. “After Christmas her health continued to decline. Dr. Blackford’s biweekly visits became every-other-day visits. Some days, she’d seem improved, but when we grew hopeful, she’d have another relapse. Then she contracted this ‘pneumonia.’ After that, Dr. Blackford was here nearly every day. It has been a terrible ordeal, as much for the children as for Colette.”
“At least they have you, Charmaine. Colette is a wise woman. She was right about you.”
Embarrassed, Charmaine lowered her eyes, but Paul pressed on. “I don’t want you blaming yourself. Colette has been weak for quite some time. She should never have had Pierre…”
His words trailed off and he stared far into the distance—across time.
“I must check on the children,” she said. “They’ve not been sleeping well.”
Her voice drew him away from a multitude of disturbing thoughts. “Yes, and I had better find Robert. Tonight he will not disturb Colette with his educated ministrations.”
Frederic mopped Colette’s brow with the cool cloth.
Her eyes fluttered open. “You don’t have to stay—”
“Yes, I do,” he interrupted, his voice stern, but not harsh. “Close your eyes and rest, Colette.”
But her gaze remained fixed on him as he turned back to the basin of water, her parched lips trembling when she spoke. “Promise—promise me you’ll not send Charmaine away if I—”
Frederic’s head jerked round, his severe regard stifling the ominous words.
“Please, Frederic…promise me,” she finished instead.
“If you will close your eyes, I will promise you anything, Colette. Charmaine will always be welcome in this house, you needn’t fear otherwise.”
Allayed, Colette closed her eyes.
With difficulty, Frederic dragged the heavy armchair close to the head of the bed. There he remained, continually changing the compresses as soon as they became warm, thankful when no one returned to steal away this private time.
After a while, the heat gave way to severe chills, and though Frederic thought she slept, Colette’s eyes flew open, and she began to shiver uncontrollably. At a loss for what to do, he stood and walked round the bed, settling on the mattress. He drew her into his embrace and tucked the coverlet around her. Soon the warm cocoon relieved the violent shudders. Her cheek rested upon his chest, and slowly he felt her arm encircle his waist. He shifted, pulling her more tightly against him. As he stroked her hair, her rapid breathing grew easy and regular. He knew exactly when she had fallen asleep.
The minutes ticked by, and Frederic thought back on all they’d been through together, everything that had propelled them to this moment. He savored the scorching heat that radiated from her cheek, breasts, belly, and legs, branding him through the clothing and healing his body with an infusion of pleasure.
The door creaked open, and Rose softly entered. Her eyes immediately fell on the couple. Frederic’s finger came to his lips, warning her to remain silent. She nodded and withdrew to the sitting room, where she reclined on the settee. A great calm swept over her, and she wondere
d if God had sent this egregious tribulation to rectify the pain the family had suffered these past few years. For the first time in years, Rose entertained the possibility of hope.
Frederic, too, experienced an enormous surge of contentment. Kissing his wife’s head, he pressed his own back into the pillows, closed his eyes, and slept.
Friday, April 7, 1837
Morning dawned glorious. The storm had washed Charmantes clean, and the mistress’s suite reveled in the same redolent splendor. Colette was improved.
She woke to find her cheek pressed to her husband’s chest and his arms encircling her. He was snoring, and she cherished the sound of it. Her nightgown clung to her, but she luxuriated in the warmth of his body and, with a soft cough, cuddled closer. The movement awoke him. Before he could speak, she hugged him. His embrace quickened in response. Then, he stroked her brow and caressed her cheek.
Cool to the touch. Frederic closed his eyes in silent prayer, thanking God for answering his supplication. He’d never waste another moment with this woman.
Someone knocked, and he attempted to move, but Colette held him fast. He smiled down at her, pleased when she shifted to look up at him.
“Tell whomever it is to go away,” she whispered.
His fingers spanned her jaw, his thumb resting under her chin, nudging her head farther back into his shoulder. Leaning forward, he tenderly kissed her parched lips. She was unhappy when he drew away.
“I’ll not leave you again, ma fuyarde précieuse,” he vowed, “not ever again.”
She choked back tears, devouring the words “my precious runaway,” that special endearment she had not heard for so many years.
Rose and Paul were at the door. “How is she?” they asked.
“Better,” Frederic answered, “the fever broke during the night.”
“Thank God.”
Frederic nodded. “Rose, could you have Fatima prepare broth, something light? She hasn’t eaten for days. And Paul, would you tell the children they might visit later in the morning? They went through a terrible ordeal last night.”