A Silent Ocean Away

by DeVa Gantt

  Charmaine didn’t require an explanation. Frederic had not emerged from his impenetrable quarters since Colette’s death, and the rumor he was starving himself had taken root. Thankfully, Jeannette had stopped asking to visit him. Charmaine didn’t want the children exposed to that horror.

  Agatha arrived and whisked Robert away. Feeling lonely, Charmaine rummaged through the music drawer and found the piece she was seeking. It was perfect for this night: why not a haunting melody to release the ghosts that trampled her soul? She propped the pages on the piano stand, arranged her skirts, and let her fingers sing.

  Frederic remained slumped in the high-backed armchair, contemplating death and the ease with which it evaded him. A knock at the door, and his listlessness gave way to ire. Damn them! When would they accept his decision to die? Was he not master of this house? Why, then, was everyone hell-bent on stopping him? He would follow Colette into the next world, and those of this world be damned if they didn’t like it!

  He ignored the second rap, the third, and the fourth. But the persistent intruders would not retreat. After the fifth knock, they entered without permission. Now, sister and brother hovered nearby, assessing him as if he were not present. Robert stepped closer still, abruptly gripping the arms of his chair. He leaned over and looked him square in the face, willing his hooded eyes to lift in acknowledgment. “Frederic?” he demanded.

  Frederic remained impassive, affording not the slightest indication he’d heard or was aware of the “visitors” who had come to converse with him.

  Blackford straightened up and faced his sister, hands on hips.

  “Didn’t I tell you?” Agatha whispered as if she knew he was listening, yet not hushed enough to be inaudible. “He has been like this for the better part of two weeks—since Paul left for Espoir.”

  “And this will come to an end,” Blackford snarled. “Frederic—look at me!”

  Frederic tilted his head back and shot him a piercing glare.

  The raw condemnation shook Robert. “That’s better,” he muttered, nervously adjusting his waistcoat. He dragged a chair even with Frederic, sat, and forced himself to meet the enraged gaze levelly. With Agatha standing behind him, he could do this. “It is time we talked,” he began. “Colette is dead, and nothing can change that. You, on the other hand, are very much alive. This lunacy stops tonight.”

  The declaration elicited no reply, and though the eyes remained stormy, Robert began doubting the man’s coherency. “Frederic—are you listening to me?” he pressed. “Do you understand what I’m telling you? You cannot go on like this! Surely you don’t intend to meet such an end?” Still no response, just the branding eyes. “I tell you, I won’t permit it,” he threatened. “Even if I have to order you held down and force fed! Do you hear me?”

  “The good doctor, come to save my life,” Frederic remarked, his deep voice raspy, as if he worked hard at speaking. But for all his difficulty, the chilling statement was not lost on brother and sister, who were taken aback.

  “Yes,” Blackford reaffirmed as he squirmed in his chair, “if need be.”

  Frederic grunted. “I desire death, and you, dear friend, come to interfere?”

  The query was a slap in the face. “You don’t know what you are about!” Robert railed, reflecting on the countless services he had performed for this man for the better part of thirty years. “You are mad if you think the afterlife is going to reward you with what you desire!”

  “What I desire?” Frederic thundered. “What I desire? I’ll tell you what I desire. I desire what you’ve taken from me! Not once, but twice!”

  Blackford bristled. The man did blame him! “I’ve taken nothing from you,” he answered softly.

  “Haven’t you?” Frederic sneered through parched lips. “Elizabeth wasn’t enough—”

  “There was nothing I could do!” Blackford expostulated, losing his composure. “John’s was a breech birth and he—he alone stole Elizabeth’s life. I thought you comprehended the severity of that delivery!”

  Frederic’s eyes grew baleful. “Leave me alone. I don’t want to hear your excuses. I accepted them once, but never again.” He bowed his throbbing head and grumbled, “You cannot explain away Colette’s death so easily.”

  “I will not be blamed again for a situation beyond my control!”

  Frederic’s head snapped up. “Beyond your control, man? She was under your constant care for nearly a year! How, in God’s name, did the situation get beyond your control? And don’t talk to me about this fancy condition you call ‘pneumonia’! If it was as deadly as you knew it to be, it should have been arrested in its infancy. You were by her bedside for weeks! So tell me, Doctor—how can you stand there and maintain the situation was ‘beyond your control’?”

  “Because it was,” Robert bit out malignantly. “Colette did not die of pneumonia, though it contributed to her weakness. I told you years ago: No more children. Delivering twins was too much for her. But did you listen? No, you pressed yourself upon her, and she found herself carrying Pierre.”

  Frederic’s jaw grew rigid, but Robert callously continued. “Again, another strain, yet you were lucky, and she survived. But she did not recover unscathed. Last spring, you almost lost her; the most minor illness can easily take hold. And that is exactly what happened with the pneumonia. But there’s more, Frederic. Not one week after she contracted that infirmity, she suffered a miscarriage.”

  Frederic inhaled sharply, and Robert fed on the man’s horrified expression, his courage suddenly limitless. “That’s right—a miscarriage. Her weakened constitution made it impossible to carry the baby to term, and for days, I was unable to stem the bleeding. That bath was the worst thing for her. I warned her. She knew the risks.”

  Then the shock was gone, supplanted by a demonic rage that brought Frederic up and out of his chair like a man possessed.

  Robert did not cower or gloat, his gaunt visage merely compassionate now.

  Frederic halted in his tracks, revolted by the man’s show of pity. “You realize what you are insinuating?”

  “I realize what I have withheld from you,” Blackford answered flatly.

  “By God, why?” he exploded, swiping a nearby table clean with his cane. The childish tantrum only incensed him further. “Why was this information withheld? Why?”

  Robert came to his own feet, feeling at a disadvantage while the fulminating man towered above him. “I knew the child could not be yours,” he admitted freely, “and in Colette’s best interest, I did as she requested. I held silent.”

  Frederic felt a wave of nausea rising in the back of his throat. He swallowed it, focusing instead on the questions he must ask. “And after her death? Why didn’t you tell me then?”

  “I feared for your well-being. What good would it do, except to put you through the turmoil you now suffer? I had hoped to spare you that.”

  “When—when did she conceive?”

  “Before Christmastide—perhaps November,” Blackford answered coolly, “judging by the baby’s size.”

  Frederic glared at him—Agatha next—but found nothing in their faces to refute the brand of infidelity. “Get out,” he snarled.

  Robert faltered, his sorrowful eyes questioning the edict.

  “You heard me, man! The two of you—out! I won’t be deterred by a lie!”

  Agatha stepped forward beseechingly. “Frederic, you are torturing yourself, but this will never do. You have three children to consider. They need you. Colette…” she paused, carefully choosing her words “…was not Elizabeth. Yes, I know what you saw in her, the many similarities. I saw them, too!” She breathed deeply, reading Frederic’s surprise, pleased to know she was getting somewhere. “Naturally you were attracted to her. You thought of Colette as your second chance. But she was not Elizabeth! Elizabeth was a good and decent wife, a faithful wife. Elizabeth loved you. But Colette, she never loved you as—”

  “I’ve heard enough! I’ve made my decision—will see it to
its end.”

  Robert shook his head. “Very well, Frederic. Think what you will. Believe we are mendacious villains. But while you sit in your chair and contemplate what I’ve told you, remember that in discrediting me, you’ve danced to the tune Colette has piped. Not many a man would mourn a woman who has cuckolded him in his own home, under his very nose.”

  “Get out!” Frederic hissed, spitting venom at the man who had completely overstepped his bounds. “Get out, or I’ll have you thrown out!”

  Robert relented and, with his sister close behind, left the tortured man. Frederic would have to make up his own mind.

  Frederic had been alone for all of five minutes, yet that short space of time was an eternity, an eternity to ponder one word: betrayal. He’d been betrayed, not once, but again and again! This last time, the worst of all! How had she lain in his arms those last two nights of her life, pretending at love, uttering precious words that were nothing more than another lie? How he would love to hold her again, for he’d take great pleasure in squeezing that life from her with his bare hands! Yes, he wanted to murder, longed for its satisfying, bittersweet taste.

  He had mourned her for weeks, cursed himself for the hell he had created for the two of them. Now he laughed with the ironic insanity of it! He was the only one who had suffered, while she surreptitiously crept from her rooms in the middle of the night and into the arms of another. He’d been a fool—even in that last month, when he had been beside himself with worry. He remembered the night he’d gone to check on her. She wasn’t resting as Blackford had ordered, and she wasn’t with the children! Again the cane slammed down on the table. Who was her lover?

  How she must be laughing! She had slyly made him feel guilty. Well, no more! She had been the root of his misery for nearly ten long years—a whore today, a whore since the day they’d met, and all those days in between! Agatha was right: he’d hoped to replace Elizabeth with a snip of a girl who stirred sweet memories. But she was not Elizabeth! She was a conniving, highborn slut, who had nearly destroyed his family.

  Bile rose in his throat again, and as he spewed the caustic acid into the chamber pot, he hated more fiercely than ever before.

  No one answered the bellpull. With clenched jaw, he forfeited a third yank and savagely pulled open the hallway door. He limped from his prison, surprised when the foyer clock tolled ten. But the late hour did not deter him, and he nearly toppled Millie Thornfield as he reached the staircase.

  The maid stifled a shriek, a hand flying to her mouth. “May I help you, sir?”

  “Where is your father?” he demanded, leaning heavily on his cane, bone weary and irked by the girl’s gawking.

  Millie hesitated, shaken by the master’s maniacal eyes. She didn’t know her father’s whereabouts, but didn’t dare say so. “I’ll—I’ll find him, sir.”

  “When you do, have him summon Benito Giovanni to the house. Immediately!”

  “Father Benito?”

  “You heard me, girl! Now be about it! You are dallying!”

  She bobbed before him, then raced down the stairs. But just when she thought she was safe, his voice halted her. Looking up, she awaited a possible countermand. But he stood deathly still, head cocked to one side, eyes staring into space as he registered the strains of the melody that carried from the drawing room. “Sir?” she incautiously interrupted. “Was there something else?”

  “Where is that music coming from?”

  “From the front parlor, sir. Miss Ryan has been practicing that piece all evening, sir.”

  “Well, tell her to stop practicing it! Tell her to destroy it!”

  “Sir?” Millie queried in renewed consternation.

  “Tell her I forbid her to play it. Tell her, if I hear so much as one note of that particular piece again, she will be dismissed. Go! Tell her!”

  He is mad! Millie chanced one last look at the man. In a flurry of skirts, she scrambled down the remaining stairs and fled the foyer. Moments later, the haunting melody ceased and silence blanketed the great house.

  Father Benito St. Giovanni was rudely awoken at the ungodly hour of eleven. The pummeling of a fist on his cabin door brought him up and out of bed. In less than an hour, the priest, who owed his life to both John and Paul Duvoisin, stood before their notorious father. Aware of Frederic’s suicidal fast, he had expected to find the man near death. Not so. Why, then, had he been summoned? Frederic’s stormy eyes cued him the reason was not pleasant. Thus, he bowed his head slightly and waited.

  “Now, Father,” the patriarch of Charmantes began, taking a long draw off a tall glass of brandy, relishing the fiery path it blazed down his throat. It hadn’t dulled his senses or eased his anguish. So much the better; it fueled his wrath and kept him focused. “I want a name, and I want it now.”

  Benito frowned slightly, but wisely held his tongue, forcing the tormented man to expound.

  Frederic leaned back in his chair, bemused by the padre’s charade of ignorance. The initial query had been spoken levelly. Obviously, Giovanni thought he had nothing to fear. Well, he’d soon find out how mistaken he was. If this man of the cloth needed further explanation, Frederic would oblige him. “Come, Father, there’s no need to pretend you don’t know why you’re here. Surely you knew I’d find out?” Frederic chuckled wryly.

  The priest’s gaze remained fixed on the floor, and Frederic began to enjoy his discomfiture. “Now,” and he paused for effect, taking another swig. “I know my wife received the Last Rites at your hands. Therefore, I’m certain you hold the information I seek.” His voice turned sharp and deadly. “I want the name of the man who fathered the bastard child she was carrying!”

  Benito closed his eyes and digested the unexpected, searing revelation. Where did Frederic obtain this information? What am I to say to him? He held silent, fighting his pounding heart and channeling his racing thoughts.

  “Well?” Frederic demanded, his patience spent. The game was up. Time to have it out! “Don’t deny having the name. I knew my wife too well. For all her adultery, I’m certain she’d confess every mortal sin if she knew she was dying. And she knew. Now, I was here when you were called to her bedside. I know you absolved her of her sins—all of them. Again, I want the name of my wife’s lover, and if you know what is good for you, you will tell me quickly. I promise he will wish he had never been born, and not you, nor anyone else on this goddamned island, will deny me the satisfaction of confronting him!”

  The priest paled, certain no matter how he answered, his position on Charmantes was in jeopardy. Somehow, he must appease the man. He raised his head and responded with compassion. “Sadly, you believe the worst about your deceased wife. However, what she did or did not reveal to me under the Sacrament of Extreme Unction will never leave my lips. You know I am sworn to silence. You cannot ask me to break my sacred vow.”

  “Damn it, man! I will have his name, and he will pay!”

  “No, Frederic,” the priest countered placidly. “Even if she confessed this sin, she needn’t have spoken a name to receive absolution.”

  Frederic sat stunned. Either Giovanni was smarter than he thought, or he spoke the truth. “You lie. She named her lover. I can see it in your eyes.”

  “Whoever he is, God forgive him,” Benito rejoined, noting the man’s waning vehemence. “Forget this libertine and bury the past, Frederic. Murder is a far greater offense than adultery. Your wife is dead and her sins forgiven. Why contaminate your own soul with thoughts of retribution?”

  “Get out, old man!” Frederic ordered. “You are no better than Robert and Agatha—laying all blame on Colette. Yes, I would love to confront her face-to-face and reward her for her unfaithfulness, but she is gone. However, there is another here on Charmantes, alive and well. I tell you now: he will suffer for his venery. Before I leave this world—he will suffer!”

  Sunday, May 21, 1837

  Frederic sat on Pierre’s bed awaiting the return of his children and their governess from Mass. He was more pre
sentable than last week this time. Even so, he was extremely thin, not having regained his appetite.

  Charmaine was humming as she swept into the room behind Pierre. She hoped to see Paul today, but her eyes widened when Pierre shouted, “Papa!” and Jeannette rushed past her. “Papa, you’re here!” She hugged him fiercely. “I’m so glad you’ve come to visit us! We missed you!”

  “Me, too!” Pierre giggled. “Where were you?”

  The man swallowed hard, suddenly realizing how foolish he had been. How could he have thought to abandon this world—that his son was better equipped to take his place? He regarded Yvette, who stood ramrod straight, so much like Colette. “I’ve been mourning the death of your mother,” he said softly, “but that is over now. It is time to move on.”

  “That’s what Mademoiselle Charmaine told us,” Yvette said, pleased with his explanation. She embraced him, too. “You loved Mama, didn’t you?”

  “Yes,” he whispered.

  Charmaine was not so forgiving. No matter how great his suffering, Frederic had selfishly added to his children’s terrible ordeal. Unable to set aside her condemnation, she started toward her bedchamber. “I shall leave you alone.”

  He must have read her thoughts. “Miss Ryan, stay,” he petitioned. “I want to apologize to you, as well as to my children. I’m sorry I wasn’t here for them over the past few weeks. I’m also sorry it fell to you to comfort them.”

  What could she say? It served no purpose to remain angry. “I am glad you’ve recovered, sir,” she offered. “The children were worried about you. Even I was worried about you.”

  “Worried?”

  Agatha stood at the nursery door, her haughty inquiry hanging in the air.

  Charmaine grimaced. The dowager had taken great pleasure in berating her over the past six weeks. With Colette gone and Paul away most of the time, no one was there to curb her.