I was saddened. I had known Sarah was angry. I had been angry; but to think she was as enraged as all that… It made me wonder what demons or wolves she was wrestling with. Her comparing me to our father was very clear in my memory. It still stung.
“So how are Striker and Pete?” I asked. “And where is the Queen if the rest are about? We did not see her in the harbor.”
“The plantation has a little cove and wharf. They moved the Queen there; she is soon to depart for the Carolinas with cargo.”
“So they are finally engaging in shipping, then? Or is it smuggling?”
He shook his head. “Nay, there is no need. There is French cargo here for the English colonies and vice versa. Many of the merchants were delighted to have a new ship with an English crew at their disposal. The R and R Merchant Company is in business once again—in a port delighted to have us.”
“That is good to hear. So they are all to go off on this voyage?”
“Striker and Pete are not,” he said, “much to Pete’s chagrin, but your sister’s relief. Julio and Davey will also remain.”
“Good, I suppose,” I said. “I am sure Sarah is greatly relieved. When we saw the harbor devoid of ships we were not sure if you all departed for France, or if our ship had joined the French in roving this year.”
“We considered France, but there were too many who did not wish it, and we thought we should await here for you to return—if it was safe.”
“Which it has proven to be, thank… God.”
There was movement in the doorway of the surgery room, and Gaston’s patient walked slowly by with an odd bulge at his crotch and a pained expression. My matelot followed and made sure the man was situated on a cot well down the room before coming to join us.
I glanced at his patient and raised an eyebrow.
“Pox,” Gaston spat. “This is what happens when men frequent whores and not other men.”
He embraced Theodore warmly and sat next to me to regard us expectantly. “So I have a son?”
Theodore took a deep breath and smiled wanly. “And purportedly a daughter.”
“What?” Gaston and I blurted in unison.
“We received word from France a fortnight ago,” Theodore said. “Miss Vines gave birth to a girl.”
“Good,” Gaston said triumphantly. “That settles that, then. I married the correct one for my father.”
Theodore grimaced. “There is a letter for you from him. Your father also wrote the Comtesse Montren and myself. The matter is more complicated now. As your father said in the letter you saw in May, Sir Christopher got the Duke of Verlain involved. And, to be brief—as indeed your father was brief about the matter; leaving me to ponder the implication—the Duke of Verlain is loved at court, whereas your father is not well known. It is not that he is not respected, it is just that the Sun King’s court is filled with intrigue and politics of the highest order, and your father is a country nobleman who sees to his own and isn’t one to curry favor or live at Versailles.”
“Oh Bloody Hell,” I breathed. Nay, the Marquis was not a man who curried favor. I could not see it. He was too… noble.
Gaston was frowning; and not necessarily with rage, “The Duke of Verlain is ill. My father and Christine spoke of it.”
Theodore shrugged. “Then perhaps this is the next Duke of Verlain: who would be Miss Vines’ cousin. Either way, he has brought the matter into the Sun King’s court.”
“So what the Devil is Verlain demanding?” I asked.
“Verlain is not demanding anything except…” Theodore waved that sentence aside with a bemused expression. “It is somewhat worse than a demand. Verlain is acting as if Miss Vines is Gaston’s wife: as if the matter is fait accompli. The marriage and purported connection between the two families has been announced in King Louis’ court; and the Marquis has received congratulations for making the match and inquiries as to where Gaston came from: all thought his heirs were dead.”
“And the Marquis looks the fool if he denies it,” I said.
“Just so,” Theodore said with a sigh. “Yet he is apparently doing just that.”
I looked Heavenward and listened for the laughter of the Gods. I wondered what They hoped to gain.
My matelot had slumped to bury his face in his hands. I expected some angry word from his Horse, but none seemed forthcoming.
“Who knows of this here?” I asked.
“Everyone in this house,” Theodore said, “and… Father Pierre. He received a letter on the same ship we did, and came to speak with me at once. I told him that… Gaston could not be sure that Miss Vines’s child was his, but that all involved had no doubt the Comtesse Montren’s was—and that I myself had witnessed Gaston’s marriage to Mistress Sable. Father Pierre is quite torn over the matter. He has been ordered to assess Gaston’s sanity and send a report to his superiors. The Church—and apparently notables of the Court—wish to ascertain whether Gaston can even be considered the Marquis’ heir.”
I swore vehemently. “And what does Father Pierre know of events before your arrival here?”
“What little I felt prudent to tell him,” Theodore said. “But the fight between Pierrot and Savant was quite public, and I am sure he has heard a great deal we would rather he had not.”
And, of course, the man had been present and his priests involved during our last tragic visit here.
“Pierrot and Savant fought?” Gaston roused himself enough to ask.
“Aye, Pierrot beat another who abused you,” I said lightly.
“Senseless?” Gaston asked hopefully.
“Nay, apparently not,” I said. “That will be left to us.”
“Good,” my matelot muttered. He looked to Theodore and spoke with great seriousness. “I wish to cause as little trouble for my father as possible. More so, I wish to do right by my children: all of them. What do you suggest?”
“I do not know all of what I would advise as of yet,” Theodore said with a sad shrug. “It will depend upon your desires after reading your father’s letter. His letter to me merely informed me of his current predicament, and asked that I do all in my power to protect the Comtesse Montren and locate you.” He frowned. “You must understand that he did not know he had a grandson here when he wrote. We could only tell him she was pregnant and due to deliver in August when we wrote to him in June. We, of course, wrote as soon as your son was delivered and pronounced healthy; but your father would have only just received that news; as we only just received his news of the girl Miss Vines bore. So he has not had time to respond. If he writes at once—which I assume he will—we will likely receive a letter at the beginning of February.”
We sighed in unison.
“I must write him, then,” Gaston said. “But first I must read his letter and see my son and little Jamaica.” He paused. “Has Agnes named the boy?” he asked.
Theodore grimaced. “With Father Pierre’s assistance, she concocted a proper French and Catholic name for the child. I truly cannot remember all the given names, but essentially he’s named after Will and your father. The short version is Jean Sable.” He smiled. “But we call him Apollo.”
I barked with surprised laughter. “As in the Greek and Roman God?”
“Aye,” Theodore said. “the Comtesse feels you both have some fascination with Greek or Roman mythology. She has been reading books about it from Doucette’s library; and Mister Rucker has been instructing her on the matter.”
Gaston smiled happily. “Good.”
Somberness had descended on Theodore again, and he was studying my matelot thoughtfully. “Your father would be happiest, of course, if you were married to… Agnes. Yet, I am not sure if you will be. There is no proof. After things began to go poorly in Port Royal, and we realized we would leave, the Comtesse… Miss Agnes and I went to speak with the priest to obtain documentation of the marriage. He said it did not exist: he said he did not perform the ceremony and we were mistaken. Then he admitted it and said the records were l
ost.” He sighed heavily. “Then several men from the militia arrived—summoned by the deacon to rescue the good father from our wrath. We left and did not pursue the matter again.”
I fought to suppress a smile at the idea of Theodore chasing a priest around a chapel. “Did he need rescue?” I asked.
Theodore read my face quite accurately and gave a sheepish smile. “I was going to strike him. I truly was. Do not tell my wife. She is very concerned about such things.” He chuckled. “As I should be,” he sighed.
Gaston was smiling. “Nay, you should not. I wish you had.” He sobered. “So, without proof from the Church of England, I must marry Agnes in a Catholic ceremony as soon as possible. We knew we would need to do that anyway.”
Theodore shook his head sadly. “I am sorry, Gaston; but Verlain’s proclamation coupled with a lack of documentation—and your absence—cast a great shadow of doubt upon the matter with Father Pierre. As it now stands, I can tell you without doubt that no French priest on this island or elsewhere on Hispaniola will perform the ceremony until the matter is resolved in some other fashion. And, short of the Spanish clergy, I do not think you will find another Catholic priest in the New World. And by the time we could reach France, I am sure the whole Church will have been informed.”
Gaston slumped anew, his face once again in his hands.
I sighed as the implications tugged at my soul as well. They did not invoke anger, rather a floundering sense of disappointment.
“So Thorp probably did not lie about there being no record of Sarah’s marriage,” I said. “And Sir Christopher Vines was very likely at the Governor’s ear through the whole of it, and asked to have the records of Gaston’s marriage expunged along with the other. I cannot see that fat bastard attempting to tamper with Church documents by himself. In fact, someone else might have suggested this ruse to him. I cannot see most good Christians attempting to tamper with records of marriages.”
I shook my head with bemusement. “I find it ironic that I feel so very scandalized by it all. I trust the Churches very little, and yet I too apparently view their documents as sacrosanct.”
Theodore chuckled. “I feel much the same. The Church is empowered with keeping such public records for the civil good. I am appalled they can be tampered with with such ease. I so wish for men of the cloth to be… holy.”
I shrugged. “Sadly, I have not met one who was not a man first and foremost, with a man’s faults.”
“Neither have I,” Theodore said with equal somberness. “Though some I have met have been good men, they have not seemed willing to be more. Father Pierre seems to be a man of that sort. He cares a great deal about the propriety of this matter, yet he also cares about the political consequences of defying his superiors.”
He awarded me a guilty glance and turned to my matelot. “Gaston, you have asked for my advice. Even without knowing your father’s instructions to you, I will impart this. It is my understanding from Father Pierre that the only way for you to be married to Agnes in the eyes of the Catholic Church and French law—or remain married, as the case may be—is to convince the priests here that you are sane and that your marriage to Agnes is legitimate, and important to you.” He grimaced sympathetically. “I believe the words Father Pierre used to me were that he must feel you place her before all others—save God and Crown, of course. He has assured me the Church is very sympathetic to a lord’s wish to have an heir, your father’s plight in losing two sons, and his wish to accept you and pass the family holdings—and the family titles—through the son you have now. And, Father Pierre personally feels that marriage vows—if sincerely taken—should be sacred and stand above politics. Yet there is only our word against those of people with far more political power; and he knows of your relationship with Will. I feel Father Pierre will be swayed by nothing less than evidence that you truly view her as your wife in all ways. With that in mind, I would advise you make much of sharing her bed, and get her with child again as soon as possible. You and Will must be very discreet.”
I swore quietly. It was much like finding oneself stabbed in a brawl: one knows one is wading about in violence; still, it is a surprise when the blade strikes.
“I know this will be a hardship to the three of you,” Theodore said sincerely.
“How will it be a hardship to Agnes?” I asked wryly.
“She is a demure and decorous girl for the most part,” Theodore said with a heavy sigh, “but the priests have expressed concern that a lady should produce art such as hers, or go on about manners of the natural world and the like. Mistress Theodore and I have had to advise her against, and even steer her from, activities she is used to engaging in without censor. Yet she wishes very much to be the Comtesse Montren, and though she bridles at the strictures placed upon her because of that, she is still willing to do all she can to insure she is not found unacceptable.”
Anger, not for myself, but for Agnes, welled in my heart; and Theodore grimaced guiltily at what he found in my gaze.
“I would read my father’s letter now,” Gaston said abruptly.
His tone had been devoid of emotion, and I looked to him with curiosity. He sat still and composed, staring straight ahead, his face as expressionless as his words.
Theodore stood. “Then I will fetch the letters.”
“Letters?” I asked.
“Aye,” he said as he walked to the door, “I assume you will wish to read the one to me as well. I feel you should.”
“Thank you,” I said, and he left us.
“How are we?” I asked my matelot. “I am not terribly…” I sighed. “We knew that some of this would be required.”
“Did we?” he asked with bemusement.
“I did,” I said flatly.
Gaston smiled. “I am having the strangest thoughts. I do not know if I am sane or mad,” he whispered. “We must discuss what will serve me best.”
“I would suggest we hold your Horse in reserve until we see how best He could be used in battle.”
He laughed briefly. “He is actually quite content to do that. I wish to invite Him out, though; and allow Him to make a mess of things. It seems simpler that way. It is horrible. As we have discussed, I have ever felt I was not to blame if I succumbed to my madness and behaved poorly—like with Christine—or you in Porto Bello. And so I wonder once again if my wishing to run amuck in order to escape my troubles is a form of madness in itself, or a way in which I lie to myself in order to justify my actions.”
“Or sanity,” I said kindly as I puzzled on it. I had often ascribed the rationale of unbidden madness to Gaston allowing his Horse to run, but was that the manner in which it should be perceived?
“I have overcome the triggers, but not the urge to pull them,” Gaston added with a sigh.
“Oui, yet, be that as it may, your aim has surely improved.” I was still thinking of Horses. “He protects you.”
He looked to me.
“Your Horse: He protects you: or me. You feel you need protection. You felt you needed protection from the threat of Alonso. You felt you needed protection—or I did—from the threat of Christine.”
He nodded thoughtfully. “And now I want protection from…” He sighed and pressed his forehead into my shoulder like a tired dog. “Will, I do not wish to live the way Theodore says I must.”
“Neither do I,” I sighed. “Man nor Horse, nor anything in between.”
“What shall we do?” he asked.
Theodore returned. He looked momentarily concerned and glanced toward the door and about the room. I wondered why until I realized Gaston was still leaning upon me. I sighed loudly but stifled my anger. Theodore was merely doing what he thought was in our best interests. I was growing very tired of people doing that—and I had avoided it for six months.
Theodore handed Gaston the letters, I picked up our weapons, and the three of us retreated to the surgery where we could close the door. Once safely behind that thin wooden barrier, Gaston handed the letters to me
.
I opened the sealed missive addressed to the Comte de Montren. It was dated September fifteenth. As the Marquis’ letters always were, it was written cleanly, with deliberation and a very fine hand. I was amused and suffused with love when I saw the greeting was made to My Beloved Boys, Gaston and Will. He opened by saying he hoped his missive found us well, and how appalled he had been concerning the contents of our last letter. He was decorous and circumspect in his mention of what had been done to us—especially me—but he praised us for surviving Thorp’s attack and our respective imprisonments. He expressed great faith that we were strong young men who would emerge from these tragic events stronger and wiser still.
He next wrote of his grandchild: going on at length about the fine sprinkle of copper-colored hair on her head and how she resembled Gaston and his sister at birth and not the only other infants he had seen in their first days—his children by his second wife. I saw that the Marquis had doubted she was Gaston’s until he laid eyes on her, and now he was very sure, and keen to claim her as his kin.
This led to his great concern and dismay over the news that Agnes was also bearing him a grandchild. He obviously wished to claim both as much as my matelot did, and was at a loss as to how. I could well imagine his further dismay when he learned the gender of Agnes’ babe: as in this letter he went on to discuss his concerns that Christine’s family’s damnable claim of marriage, if allowed, would likely prevent Gaston from having an heir. He well understood his son’s reluctance to bed the girl again, and thought she would not be agreeable to it, either. It was obvious from his words concerning Christine that he disliked her intensely, and not merely because of her family’s claim or her acceptance of it. They had apparently not gotten on well during the voyage, or after she was ensconced at the Tervent manor.
With a pang of sympathy, I imagined how very poor and miserable the situation must have been for Christine. Being thoroughly disagreeable had probably been her only weapon while trapped in a strange house with an unwanted babe growing in her belly. I prayed no one had allowed her to turn to drink to ease her anger and solitude. Then I prayed she would not be allowed to exercise her anger at the child.
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