Decision and Destiny

by DeVa Gantt

  Charmaine’s trepidation spiraled, and George regarded her bemusedly. “Why should my absence from the house upset you, anyway?”

  “I’ll be here all alone tonight.”

  “Alone? You won’t be alone. John is still here.”

  “Exactly. John and only John.”

  With the dawn of comprehension, George burst out laughing.

  “It isn’t funny!”

  “Oh, but it is!” he wheezed.

  “How can you say that? Don’t you see, I won’t feel safe knowing John is prowling about, worrying that at any moment he could—”

  “Could what?” he prompted, noting Charmaine’s flushed cheeks, a condition that fed his jocularity.

  “I thought you were my friend!” she threw back.

  “I am,” he avowed, his laughter sobering to a chuckle. “Don’t be angry, and don’t fret over John. He’s the last person you need fear.”

  “That is easy for you to say.”

  “Easy because it’s true.” He was laughing again, a hearty laugh that followed him out of the house, across the lawns, and into the stable.

  Agatha studied her husband as intently as he studied the foliage that sped past them. He had scarcely glanced her way since falling into the cushioned seat opposite her. But that mattered very little, as little as his truculent remarks in front of the servants. He didn’t mean what he said, hadn’t realized how cruel he sounded. His comportment was always sharp, spawned by his handicap and, therefore, easily forgiven. If he were harsh, she would remember they were finally married—that she was his wife, a title that soothed any injury. If the present with its many obstacles was at times difficult to swallow, the promise of tomorrow lighted such days with a shimmering ray of hope. The future was hers, secured by the title of Mrs. Frederic Duvoisin, a title that guaranteed her time to win back his love. Hadn’t she waited her entire life, spent every waking hour planning to attain what was hers at long last? She was his wife. Though Robert had scoffed at her purpose, attempted to expunge it, she refused to admit defeat, never permitted the word to whisper through her mind. How could she, when her sole desire was Frederic and only Frederic?

  From his first kiss, she knew she could never be satisfied with another, never be whole without him. Dear God, how she loved him. After all these years, she was still in awe of her intense yearning, drawn to him like a moth to a flame. He might be her undoing, but she’d gladly lay down her life if just once he whispered the three words she longed to hear. Then she’d know that no matter what she had done in the name of love, it could not be considered wrong.

  Frederic…he was handsome still. For all his three score and two years, he could still set her heart to hammering, her limbs quivering, her mind reveling in the memory of wanton passion. Since their marriage, they had shared a few moments of intimacy. For the past two months, however, he had brushed her aside. She pined for his touch of years gone by, before the seizure had sapped his virility. Could it ever be the same again? Dare she hope? With a half-smile, she promised herself she’d do more than that. Thirty years ago, she had been but a novice at the game of love. If only she could have had the experience then that she had now. Frederic would never have dismissed her so easily, would never have been distracted by the wiles of a sister five years her junior.

  Elizabeth…the fountainhead of her pain, the ruination of her life. Elizabeth…eager to snatch away what didn’t belong to her. Elizabeth…married to Frederic with the change of a season. Elizabeth…snickering at her conniving conquest, leaving Britain without a backward glance, without a care for her desperate sister. But, the Almighty had dealt a severe punishment. For all the newlyweds’ so-called love, Elizabeth had not survived, a sign their love was not love at all.

  Frederic…Once again she studied him across the carriage, longed to squeeze alongside him. She’d brush back the lock of hair that had fallen onto his stern brow and caress away his dark scowl. He’d seen so much sorrow, endured so much pain. First Elizabeth, and now John. Like mother, like son. How she longed to set it right for him. But in his bitterness, he overlooked the one person who loved him more fiercely than the sum of all those he claimed to cherish: not his adoring Elizabeth, nor his youthful Colette, not his simpering Pierre, nor his pampered daughters, not even Paul loved him as surely as she did. Someday very soon, he’d see that. He’d realize how blind he’d been, how very wrong to allow John to ridicule her, how convoluted to place obligation and the mores of society first when distributing his wealth. Someday, he’d turn to her as a husband turns to a wife and she would be there for him.

  Frederic leaned back into the soft cushions and feigned sleep, contemplating his wife beneath hooded eyes. In a rush, the past spilled into the brougham. It was the year 1807. He was thirty-two, a wealthy bachelor in the prime of his life. She was twenty-two, young and beautiful, very beautiful. But his eyes weren’t on her as the carriage sped to Charmantes’ harbor. His eyes had found Elizabeth, head slightly bowed, hands folded demurely in her lap, cheeks slightly flushed from their brief exchange in the stable.

  Audaciously she had asked, “Are you in love with my sister, Mr. Duvoisin?”

  He responded to her intrepid, yet curious, query with one of his own. “What has love to do with a sound business decision?”

  She should have been offended; yet, he read something quite different in her brown eyes. It intrigued him.

  “But my sister loves you, doesn’t she?”

  Irritated now, he frowned. “How old are you, Elizabeth?”

  “I’ve just turned seventeen.”

  “All but grown up,” he remarked derisively.

  Moments later, she dared not meet his gaze, her manner suddenly diffident. But that did not deter him from feasting his eyes upon her as he had done for the better part of two weeks: not half so beautiful as her older sister, but lovely, animated, and captivating. He had misread her inquiries, thinking it a puerile interrogation born of concern for her sister. He’d grossly underestimated the power she would wield over him and, even today, thanked the Good Lord he had. That had been the spring of his love. God, how she had haunted him since. The attraction to Colette had been the same, but then, they were alike in so many ways. He recalled the stable; even their private encounters had been similar, uncanny.

  Sadly, only Agatha occupied the bench across from him today. At times such as these, he was guilt-ridden. He had probably ruined her life as surely as he had his own. Paul was right: He should never have married her. He prayed his present purpose ended more favorably than their courtship had. He would offer the two in atonement for his many sins.

  “But you’ll be there!” John appealed earnestly. “I want you to come. I’m begging you to come!”

  “I’m sorry, John, I can’t. That’s not what Colette wanted. Beyond that, you haven’t even considered Yvette and Jeannette. They’d be crushed.”

  “Nan—”

  “John—I can’t. I just can’t.”

  Rose turned away slowly, her heart fraught with despair.

  Charmaine froze in the archway. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

  John wheeled round, his face contorted, anguished, like the morning he’d learned of Colette’s death. He swiftly masked the emotion and forced a sheepish smile. “Come in, Miss Ryan. Rose and I are finished.”

  The remainder of the day passed on the same eerie note, escalating Charmaine’s initial anxieties. Not even Yvette’s exclamations of: “We have the run of the house!” and “No Auntie Agatha to scold us!” or “Just Johnny and us for a whole week!” could quell her misgivings.

  Just Johnny and us…Therein lay the rub. Charmaine didn’t need a week of “just Johnny and us”—didn’t want one night of it. Johnny’s behavior was peculiar, as were the others’. At dinner, Fatima Henderson insisted he take extra helpings, as if his meals to come would be sparse. And Rose had taken supper in her room, leaving Charmaine and the children alone with him at the table. He had studied her keenly, a scrutiny that
bordered on an assessment, as if he were weighing her worth. Extremely uncomfortable, she had eaten quickly and retreated with the children to the nursery.

  Now it was ten o’clock, and they were long asleep. Determined to remain wide-awake until John retired as well, Charmaine needed a book. When she reached the foyer, she hesitated. Did she really want to intrude on the man?

  John had closeted himself in the study after dinner, relentlessly pacing. Evidently, it hadn’t lessened his turmoil; he was marching still. She’d be a fool to walk into the lion’s den. She returned to her room.

  The night was a precipice of indecision, punctuated by malicious moments of desperation. Seconds turned into weary minutes, minutes accumulated into plodding hours, and the hours begged for dawn. The great clock struck twice in the foyer. As the tolls diminished, the walls grappled for the reverberating sound and, in the end, surrendered to the void.

  John lay abed, listening to his amplified breathing. For the first time in many minutes, his mind was blank. Too long had he deliberated his present crucible, weighing each option, rejecting those that suited him best, realizing—even from the onset of this miserable day—he could not wrest what he had never claimed, for in so doing, he would forfeit the precious, meager contentment he had been rewarded these past weeks.

  His happiness depended on that of another. And since no one would conspire with him, he would be wise to surrender to the hopelessness of it all, his inability to proceed in any direction save the one thus far charted. Float with the tide…the course destined to govern his life.

  God, how he hated this prison that had shackled him for so many years! He could not advance, he could not retreat, he could only remember and curse heaven for the hard hand dealt him, the hand he had chosen to pick up and play. And yet, something had to be done. If nothing else, he’d be damned if he’d pass another three hours in his rumpled bed, tossing and turning in exhausted turmoil.

  He threw aside the linens and jumped up. But as he started pacing again, piercing memories took hold. He had devoutly embraced those recollections, hoping the future would set them free. The future had never come; the past had never died. It was time the two met and were buried, peacefully. Perhaps there was a chance for that, if only he could evoke his passion and release his despair. Suddenly, he knew where to turn. He pulled on his robe and, unmindful of those he might disturb, slammed the door as he left his room.

  Charmaine bolted from a fitful slumber, feverishly tracking the tread of heavy footsteps diminishing in the corridor beyond. She knew who was stalking the house at this late hour. She strained to detect the returning steps of her predator, certain they would be menacingly soft, perhaps imperceptible. Even though she’d locked her door, she feared access from the veranda or the unused dressing room, or even the nursery. Seconds gave way to minutes and, as her racing heart lulled, so too did her breathing. Nothing—no sinister sound of danger. Had the man left the house or merely his chambers? Was he once again pacing in the study, perhaps plotting his assault of the vulnerable governess? John wasn’t like that, she reasoned. He’d never given her reason to believe him capable of rape. After all, she’d been just as defenseless the night of his arrival. Still, that first night had not offered the same unencumbered opportunity. Tonight, there was no Paul, no servants, no one to come to her aid should she scream. Rape…She shuddered. But wouldn’t he have accosted her sooner? The night was half spent and, save the fact he could not sleep, would be no different than any other.

  Then it came: an abandoned melody. Am I dreaming? She canted her head, but could only capture wisps of the blossoming sonata. Instantly, she was out of bed. She wasn’t dreaming! Someone was mastering the incredible score, calling her to come and listen. She rushed out of the barricaded room, pulling on her robe as she went, following the music that floated up to her on silken wings. If only Colette were here…

  She found herself standing barefoot in the drawing room doorway without memory of her descent. John was seated at the piano, his back to her, head slightly bowed. At first, his hands caressed the keys, coaxing from the instrument a heart-wrenching loneliness, a fervent yearning. Abruptly, his irate fingers struck out, evoking a tidal wave of passion. Her eyes were drawn to the candelabrum, mesmerized by the flickering flames that danced wildly to the amplifying rhapsody, the man’s movements displacing the air nearest them. She felt akin to the wick, scorched and devoured, spent in the wake of such power and majesty, yet transformed and at peace, like the hot wax that wept onto the piano’s ebony surface.

  As the climax broke, John faltered. A jarring dissonance echoed off the walls, and he pulled away as if cauterized. Then, his hands came crashing down again, as if he could pound his mistake from existence. The keys locked, and a deliberate, brutal cacophony seized the air.

  Charmaine grimaced, aching for the loveliness that had been annihilated.

  Slowly, the punishment ebbed. Laying both arms across the keyboard, John buried his face there, weathering the constricting thud of his battered heart. He’d hoped to exorcise his demonic desolation, not conjure it. He inhaled deeply, then shuddered as he released the pent-up breath, unaware of the young woman who stood in the shadows, observing him in this new light.

  Much later, Charmaine would wonder why she hadn’t escaped back to her room. “Don’t stop,” she implored, stepping into the parlor.

  John turned and scowled. Tonight he needed to be alone.

  “What I mean is—you play very well.”

  John grunted. “The one thing I’m able to do right.”

  “Except for the last few measures.”

  “Except that,” he agreed, his voice hard.

  She took no offense. He seemed to be chastising himself. “Even so, one mistake shouldn’t cause you to dismiss the piece entirely. After all, look how well you’ve played most of it. Mrs. Harrington used to always say—”

  “Isn’t it a bit late for you to be up, Mademoiselle?” he cut in brusquely.

  Charmaine faltered. “I was awakened by the music.”

  “My apologies.”

  “No need to apologize. I happen to love that particular piece.”

  “Do you?” he mocked. “I’ve never heard you play it.”

  “I don’t do it justice. Colette used to encourage me, but after she died, I was forbidden to—”

  “Forbidden?” he demanded, his vexation giving way to full-fired wrath. “Who forbade it?”

  The truth had stood just behind a doorway, awaiting the portal to be thrown open, and comprehension, with all its answers, came crashing down upon Charmaine. Forbidden…the word that unlocked so many doors and shed light on so many questions. Playing the music—forbidden. Mentioning John’s name—forbidden. Writing to him—forbidden. John seeking out the children—forbidden. Bearing more children—forbidden. John and Colette—forbidden! Everything Charmaine had surmised was true! Had to be true! Pray God it wasn’t true!

  “I—shouldn’t have come down here,” she stumbled aloud.

  But before she could reach the archway, John caught her arm from behind. “Not so quickly!” he ordered, pulling her around to face him. “You haven’t answered my question.”

  She didn’t flinch, neither did she pull away. Her melancholy eyes lifted to his, dousing his fiery reaction. “Please…don’t go,” he whispered, releasing her arm. “It was my father, wasn’t it? He was the one who wouldn’t allow you to play the piece, wasn’t he?”

  “Yes,” she conceded. “I’m sorry.”

  “Why? Why should you be sorry?”

  “I don’t want to make matters worse between you and your father.”

  He snorted in disgust. “Colette used to say the very same thing, but you have less control over this miserable situation than she did, and she had precious little then. As I’ve said before, it took twenty-nine years to live. Nothing can worsen what is already the most deplorable of relationships between a father and son.”

  “Even so, it must pain you, though you deny it.�
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  “I deny nothing, save the fact neither you nor Colette are to blame.”

  “But I am responsible for mentioning it. It doesn’t please me to know I’ve hurt you.”

  The statement seemed to confound him. “Why would you harbor any compassion for me?”

  “I don’t know,” she answered truthfully. “Perhaps it’s because I’m beginning to comprehend your past. I’m not certain what happened here years ago, but I think it transcends your childhood and…” She hesitated, reticent.

  “And?” he probed.

  “I think I’ve grown to like you, in some ways, even respect you. In either case, I don’t think you deserve to be hurt.”

  “No one deserves to be hurt, Charmaine, least of all an innocent child.”

  At first she thought he spoke of himself and his father, but his eyes betrayed no sign of self-pity or resentment. He appeared instead to be at peace, as if he finally understood something that had eluded him for hours. When he spoke again, she was completely baffled. “Would you like to hear the entire piece?”

  With her affirmation, he returned to the piano, and she followed. He sat, rested his fingers on the keys, and contemplated the first flourishing stroke.

  The initial measures were soft, poignant. Then the room exploded with sound. Not once did his fingers falter, rather they bent to his will, summoning from the instrument a fine-tuned cadence, an unfathomable longing that swelled and ebbed like the tides of a tempestuous sea. Without warning, the last strains cried out, heralding the final chord.

  Doleful, yet satiated, Charmaine could not speak, sighing deeply instead.

  “You seem displeased, my Charm.”

  It was a moment before she realized John had spoken.

  “Displeased?” she queried. “No, I’m not displeased, just sad it is over.”

  “I shall play it again whenever you wish,” he promised with a lopsided smile, “that is, if you can abide this particular rendition.”