Capture The Night

by Geralyn Dawson

  Madeline wanted to hit him. The sooner I get to La Réunion, the better, she told herself. Pasting a false smile upon her face, she took a leather ball from her reticule and handed it to a squirming Rose as she said, “He’ll be here shortly. I’m afraid he was unavoidably detained. While I understand that you cannot possibly accept a mere woman’s word for the need for this document, I’d like to provide the information for the drafting of the paper. It will speed things up when my husband arrives, don’t you see?”

  “This is quite irregular, but very well. I shall need some particulars.” King pulled a sheet of paper from a desk drawer, inked his pen, and began, “Your full name, madam?”

  “Madeline Christophe Sinclair”

  “Your husband’s?”

  “Brazos Sinclair.”

  The lawyer lifted his gaze from the paper. Madeline shifted Rose from one knee to the other as she noted puzzlement written upon his face. “May I inquire, Mrs. Sinclair, how it is you chose this particular office for your legal needs?”

  She leaned forward in her chair and asked, “Is something wrong, sir?”

  He thrummed his fingers on the polished top of his desk and said, “Did your husband request my services, or those of my partner?”

  Rose dropped the ball and began to cry. Madeline considered joining in. “What does it matter? Mr. King, we need a document drawn up. My husband mentioned your firm; therefore, I assumed you’d be the one to do the work.” King stood and retrieved the toy. He handed it to Rose as Madeline continued, “Personally, I don’t care if the governor himself drafts the paper I simply want my annulment!”

  King pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “If you don’t mind, ma’am,” he said, “I’d like to bring my partner in on your case. I suspect we’ll need his help.”

  “Is this necessary?”

  He nodded. “I suspect that in this case it is.”

  As King excused himself and left the office, Madeline allowed Rose down to crawl around. Casually, Madeline inspected the framed documents hanging on the wall. One was signed by Senator Sam Houston; another by Sam Houston, president of the Republic of Texas; and a third by General Sam Houston. “Mr. Houston has been a busy man,” she murmured.

  The sound of a male voice raised in disbelief snagged her attention. She clutched her reticule with straining fingers and stared intently at the dust particles floating in the sunlight that beamed through the window and listened. “Such rough language,” she observed, shaking her head.

  King returned to his office, followed by a tall, spare man who looked to be in his late twenties, wearing a well-tailored business suit and a frown. “Mrs. Sinclair” King said, “this is my partner, Tyler, I apologize for the delay.” He took his seat.

  Mr. Tyler nodded toward her and refused a chair, preferring to stand against the wall, his arms crossed, his countenance skeptical. His gaze kept wandering to Rose.

  Beneath her skirt, Madeline’s foot began an agitated tap. She grabbed up her daughter and held her close. Something about Mr. Tyler bothered her.

  “Now, where were we?” King asked, stroking his beard. “Ah, yes, your husband’s name.”

  “Brazos Sinclair.”

  Tyler’s gray-eyed gaze bore into her. She returned Rose’s ball to her reticule, yanking the strings to pull the bag closed.

  King continued, “I need to know where the wedding took place and the circumstances surrounding it.”

  Do it all at once, Madeline, she told herself. It’ll be easier that way. Be done with it. “Mr. Sinclair and I met in Antwerp, Belgium, this past January. Both of us desired to sail upon a ship leaving Antwerp for America the following day, and we each had difficulties securing passage. We concluded that marriage would solve both our problems, so we did the deed, with the intention of obtaining an annulment once we reached Texas.” She lifted her shoulders, silently saying, Here I am.

  Tyler spoke for the first time. “And you will claim what reason for the annulment of this marriage?”

  Madeline took a deep breath, then said in a rush, “It has not been consummated.”

  Tyler made a choking sound and turned away. He tapped his fingers against the windowpane and gazed out toward the street. King cleared his throat. “Mrs. Sinclair please pardon my indelicacy, but as I understand what you are saying, you and Brazos Sinclair lived as man and wife for a period of time as was required to sail the Atlantic—”

  “Seven weeks,” Madeline interrupted. “We were delayed by ill winds.”

  “You lived as wife to Brazos Sinclair for seven weeks in the intimate confines of a ship, and you are claiming nonconsummation?” King shook his head slowly. “I know Brazos Sinclair, madam. Do you truly expect us to believe this story?”

  Madeline took great pleasure in allowing Rose to lean forward and tip the inkwell she’d been reaching for. “Oh, dear,” Madeline exclaimed sweetly as King scrambled to contain the slowly spreading indigo stain with his pristine handkerchief. “I am so sorry.”

  Tyler stepped forward, his shoulders quaking with suppressed mirth. “I’ll draw up the document, Melbourne. Please, Mrs. Sinclair, let’s adjourn to my office. I’ve a puzzle board in there that your daughter might enjoy.”

  Only too glad to flee Mr. King’s personal questions, Madeline followed Mr. Tyler, determined to ignore the uneasy feeling he created within her. “I should have waited and let Brazos do this, after all,” she grumbled beneath her breath. Leave it to him to make something sound easy when in truth, it wasn’t easy at all.

  In his office, Tyler gestured for Madeline to take a chair, then walked to a cabinet. He pulled both a puzzle and a rag doll from its interior, saying, “My nieces and nephews regularly come to visit. I keep a few things around for them.” He shrugged and handed the toys to Rose.

  Madeline felt it again. Something about how he holds himself, she thought, studying him. He was quite handsome, with a patrician nose and square jaw. A single curl of coarse black hair tumbled across his brow, but it was the gleam in his bluish gray eyes that she suddenly recognized. “Mr. Tyler?”

  He grinned, and then she knew for sure.

  “Sinclair. Tyler Sinclair at your service. Brazos is my older brother.”

  LOUIS CASTILLON himself answered Brazos’s knock. “Sin!” the physician exclaimed. “Heaven be praised, Sin has finally returned to Galveston.”

  “That’s an old joke, Louis, and it still isn’t funny.” Brazos grinned as he grasped the elderly gentleman’s outstretched hand and clapped him on the shoulder. “However, it tells me I’m home, and that’s a right fine feeling. How’ve you been, sir?”

  “Fine, fine. Busy of course, but then, that’s what keeps me young.” He stepped back for Brazos to enter his home. “I was in the kitchen shelling shrimp for tonight’s dinner. Come on back,” he paused and gave Brazos a serious look. “Unless this is a professional call?”

  Brazos shook his head. “No, although if that’s gumbo I’m smelling, I could be persuaded to stay for supper.”

  A pleased smile wreathed Louis’s face. “You always did like my cooking, didn’t you. Over the years, I’ve found but a few people who have the stomach for my special spices.”

  Thinking of the peppery blend favored by this longtime friend, Brazos grinned. “I always liked the ale you’d let me drink to cool off my tongue.”

  “Medicinal purposes,” Louis said cheerfully, grabbing his apron as he walked through the kitchen door. Watching the doctor tie the cloth around his waist, Brazos recalled the argument with Madeline. “You know how to bake chocolate cake, Doc?” he asked.

  “What?”

  “Never mind.” Liquid in a cast-iron pot bubbled on the stove, and Brazos walked over to check the contents. He sniffed. Tomato, onion, garlic. He drew a deep breath, and immediately, his eyes began to water. “What’s in this stuff?”

  “Just experimenting with some peppers out of South America,” the doctor explained. “I believe this gumbo may be my best yet.”

 
Brazos decided to find somewhere else to eat his supper. He washed his hands, then sat at the table to peel shrimp with the doctor. After a few moments of conversation catching up on family and friends, Brazos got down to business. “I need your advice, Louis.”

  The physician paused and looked up. “You continue to suffer the blackouts?”

  Brazos nodded. He tossed a peeled shrimp into the wooden bowl between them and said, “For a long time, I had none; then a letter arrived from Juanita. I was in Paris in a coffee shop—I’d been there many times, the owner was a friend of mine. I opened the letter and began to read.” Abruptly, he stood and pushed away from the table. Walking to the stove, he picked up a long-handled spoon and began stirring the gumbo. “I woke up three days later in Spain. My shirt was splattered with blood.”

  Castillon wiped his hands on his apron. “What did you learn?”

  “Nothing. No missing persons, no unaccounted for bodies, no wounds of my own.” Brazos shrugged. “I couldn’t eat for three days afterward. It scares the hell out of me, Louis.”

  Louis leaned back in his chair. “Traveling as you were, it is quite possible you hunted food, Brazos. That would account for the blood.” The Creole’s brow furrowed thoughtfully as he asked, “And the Swiss doctor, the one I sent you to see. You left so much out of your letter my friend. What did he say?”

  Brazos’s laugh sounded like death itself. “I traveled thousands of miles to see your ‘expert,’ Louis, on board ship—which, by the way, is the greatest torture known to man—and the one solution the good doctor had to offer is the one thing Christ Himself couldn’t convince me to do.”

  “Which was?”

  “He told me to return to Perote and face my demon.”

  “Salezan.”

  “No, he meant the demon inside of me. The one who protects whatever truth is hidden within my memory.”

  Louis nodded and drummed his fingers on the table as he looked at Brazos and said, “It makes sense, son. I’ve always believed that physically, nothing is wrong with you.”

  “I know. You’ve always thought I was crazy.” Brazos slapped the spoon down onto the work counter next to the stove. He turned his head toward the kitchen’s open window and gazed across the bay, where a line of the Texas mainland was barely visible.

  A salty breeze brushed his face as he heard Louis Castillon say, “No, Brazos, that is not what I have thought. But I do believe that the Swiss is right. Something has a hold on you, and until you face it, you will always be troubled. Quit running, son; one cannot flee from oneself. How old are you, thirty-two, thirty-three? It’s time you settled and had a family.”

  “I’m thirty-four.” Brazos crossed his arms and leaned against the wall facing Louis. “And I’ve got another problem that’s giving me some grief.” He took a deep breath, then said, “The sting’s missing from my stinger.”

  Castillon looked at him blankly.

  “There’s no lead in my pencil,” Brazos said through set teeth.

  Still the doctor failed to react.

  “Hell, Doc. Do I gotta say it out loud?” Scowling, he said succinctly, “I’m impotent.”

  “Oh.” Castillon’s eyes widened, and he leaned back in his chair. “This is a little detail you neglected to mention before in our discussions?”

  “No, it’s a recent, singular development,” Brazos replied, and briefly went on to explain the particulars. He finished with a question. “So, Louis, please, as a physician, tell me. Could this trouble reoccur?”

  Castillon frowned and began to shell another shrimp. He asked a few pointed and personal questions of his own before answering Brazos by saying, “I believe this to be a physical manifestation of a mental problem. Until that is dealt with, you will always risk a return of your difficulty.”

  Brazos slumped into his chair as Castillon held up his hand and shook his head. “No, no, don’t jump ahead of me. I don’t anticipate it happening again unless you re-create the circumstances.”

  Glumly, Brazos replied, “Well, that damn sure isn’t going to happen. Not the exact same circumstances anyway. I’m never sailing on a ship again for as long as I live.” And he’d never be with Madeline Christophe Sinclair again, either.

  “Then don’t borrow trouble, son. From what you’ve told me, you’ve little to worry about. Now, we’ve still fifty shrimp here to deal with. Get to work, boy. Earn your supper.”

  A short time later Dr. Castillon stood on his front porch and watched his young friend saunter down the street toward the city. “I fear my Swiss colleague is right,” he murmured.

  Brazos Sinclair would know no peace until he faced and defeated his fears. He would continue to run from himself and from those he loved, those who loved him. Louis pitied the boy, but he agreed that Brazos must return to Perote. But what would it take to get him there? What force could be greater than the terror he held inside himself?

  A carriage pulled up in front of the house, and he heard the sound of his wife’s gentle laughter and his grandchild’s giggles. Then Louis knew the answer to his question. His gaze followed the direction in which Brazos had disappeared. “Yes, it might just be your salvation. Look for it, son. Find it.”

  Brazos Sinclair needed the greatest force on earth to defeat his beast. He needed love.

  Chapter 8

  CHTEAU ST. GERMAINE

  PUFFS OF GRAVEL DUST trailed the horse and rider as they thundered up the drive toward the château. Reaching the courtyard, Pierre Corot lifted his voice above the clatter of hooves against stone and shouted, “Julian!”

  A young servant boy came running as the sound echoed off the stone walls surrounding the U-shape courtyard. Sliding from his horse, Corot tossed the boy the reins and ran toward the east wing. Without pausing to knock, he pushed open the doors and rushed inside. “Julian,” he called again, going directly to the first-floor office. Empty.

  His boots clacked against the floor as he crossed to the staircase and took the steps two at a time. “Julian, it’s Pierre,” he called from the first landing. “Where are you?”

  Julian Desseau’s rumbling voice answered from the second-floor hallway. “Here, Pierre. What is it?”

  At the top of the stairs, Corot paused just a moment to catch his breath, then said, “I’ve found them, Julian. I’ve found Elise and the woman.”

  Julian froze. Sunshine beaming through one of the tall windows that lined the hallway illuminated the sudden, exultant expression on his face. Slowly, he leaned a hand against the wall for support and asked, “She’s safe?”

  Corot knew that Julian spoke of his daughter and because his information was weeks old, he hesitated before answering, “Yes.”

  Julian’s jaw hardened, and a winter’s chill dripped from the single word he uttered, “But?”

  “They have left Europe, Julian. In January. My investigators found them listed on a ship’s manifest. They joined a group of immigrants and sailed for America.”

  “America!” Julian exclaimed.

  Pierre nodded. “Texas. The Sinclairs sailed with members of an organization called the Colonization Society of Texas. A roster of their membership includes one Madeline Sinclair and daughter, Rose.”

  “So you’ve no knowledge of my daughter’s safety since they sailed?”

  “I’m afraid not. But barring any problems, the ship should have reached American shores by now.”

  “Should have reached,” Julian repeated bleakly. “The ship, what kind of ship? Was it sound?”

  “Yes, Julian. These colonists were for the most part wealthy people. They chartered a Liverpool-built packet whose captain makes the run routinely. I’m sure they reached America just fine.” In response to the hard gaze Desseau fixed upon him, Pierre added softly, “Don’t doubt it, my friend.”

  Julian shut his eyes, threw back his head, and sighed. “You are right. I cannot believe any differently, or my sanity would be lost.”

  After a moment, he shrugged and said, “Come to my rooms, Pierre. I’ll
fix you a drink. You look as though you made the trip from Paris in an hour.”

  “Not much more than that,” Corot replied, dragging a weary hand through his hair as he followed Desseau down the long hallway.

  As they walked, Desseau mused, “The Colonization Society of Texas. I’ve heard of them. They solicited money and sold shares in their company. Fellow named Condé or something—“

  “Considérant. They follow the philosophical teachings of Charles Fourier.”

  Julian stopped and snapped his fingers. “That’s it. Fourierists. They’re the fools who plan to allow women to vote. I remember hearing the Smithwick woman pattering on about it with Celeste.”

  Corot halted in front of a window. He stared out at the green, rolling farmland that surrounded Château St. Germaine as he thought aloud. “Madeline Christophe purchased membership in the colony. Not Mary Smithwick. I doubt she planned the trip until after Celeste died. Julian”—he looked over at his friend—“have you ever deduced why Mary Smithwick chose to steal your daughter?”

  Julian’s expression grew as cold and as hard as the stone walls of St. Germaine. “I may have. I have spoken with Bernadette.” Saying no more, he marched down the hall toward his rooms, the sound of his footsteps echoing from the walls.

  “And?” Corot called, following him.

  “Suffice to say that she found a way to interfere in my marriage,” Julian answered.

  “You proved she planned the kidnapping?”

  “No.” Julian stopped abruptly and looked over his shoulder. He wore a mocking smile as he added, “If I had, she would be dead, and Bernadette is still alive, Pierre.”

  Pierre waited for Julian to elaborate, and when he didn’t, the investigator sighed in frustration. Leave it to Desseau to hire a man and provide only half the facts needed to do the job properly. “Julian,” he said, “it’s bad enough that you didn’t share with me your suspicions about Bernadette in the beginning of this investigation. But for my men to successfully return Elise to your arms, they need every bit of information I can give them. Please, tell me what you know!”