by DeVa Gantt
“He plotted the events that have branded you the villain, starting with his little excursion to Dulcie’s. Why, in heaven’s name, would he take the children there? I’ll tell you why, he set Yvette up. He set you up! And you took the bait! All he needed was the remark you made in the foyer that night to hang his head and flee. My, what an actor he is! And it all worked out just as he planned. By the next day, everyone was pining over his banishment from Charmantes, believing his tyrannical father had made his life so miserable, so unbearable, he was forced to desert his sisters, forced to desert his own son! I can just imagine what he said to them: ‘I wish I could stay, but I’m no longer welcome here. Father hates me. No, you can’t come with me, Pierre. He won’t let you.’
“But you were willing to relinquish the boy, weren’t you? That was the reason for our visit to Espoir, wasn’t it? You gave John five days—five days to claim Pierre as his son. There was a ship available. If he wanted to be a father to the boy, why didn’t he just take him? Answer me that! And don’t tell me it was because he couldn’t bring himself to break Pierre’s little heart. He certainly didn’t have trouble breaking it four nights ago at the dinner table, did he?”
She shook her head in revulsion when Frederic didn’t answer. “Pierre might have been too young to understand what was happening, but John saw to it your daughters understood only too well. It’s sad they’ve been manipulated into blaming you. What did you say months ago? You were tired of being viewed as the sinister patriarch? Well, my dear husband, you’d better grow accustomed to it. You’ll end up being blamed for Pierre’s death, too. And why not? You’ve welcomed everything else John has dished out.” She feigned a vile taste in her mouth. “Not me, I’ve had enough of it! You think I hate him? Well, I do. I hate him for all the misery he’s put you through. But that’s fine; he despises me as well. Why? Because I see him for what he is.
“Believe what you will, Frederic. Believe he’s your son. But the next time he stabs you in the back, don’t get angry with me. Just remember Colette and how he wormed his way into her bed. He will stop at nothing, nothing I tell you. Continue to protect him if you must, coddle him, use his inheritance to keep him close, but don’t lament when he succeeds in destroying your family. You’ll be left with naught. And John? He will have it all—that smug smile painted across his face, your fortune—everything. Just remember, Frederic, I warned you.”
Frederic cleared his throat, attempting to dislodge the lump that had tightened there, and faced the French windows once again. “Send Miss Ryan in to see me when she awakens,” he said as Agatha turned to leave.
He knew she was astonished, intrigued. Maybe he could do something right today, something that would please everyone in his family, even his wife. First he’d find out if the young governess would consider visiting Richmond with his daughters.
Agatha leaned against the door and breathed a sigh of relief. It hadn’t gone quite the way she had planned, but a window of opportunity definitely remained open. Her husband wanted to speak to the governess. Yes, opportunity knocked.
˜Think, don’t rush into this! ˜Think!
She crossed the narrow corridor and entered her own apartments. It was still early and she had plenty of time, time to plot and plan. And while I work out all the details, Frederic will be dwelling on what I said.
She smiled wickedly. Though Frederic longed to make peace with his estranged son, the bad blood remained, and if John provoked him, Frederic’s volatile temper would rule.
Robert’s suspicions had turned out to be true: Colette was a tramp. Agatha’s delight increased. She had attempted to verify her brother’s hunch the morning John arrived home, surreptitiously slipping into her nephew’s room, snooping through his desk drawers, and locating the letter everyone had been whispering about. Unfortunately, the meddlesome governess had charged into the room, forcing her out onto the balcony, a narrow escape. When she returned to the bedchamber a few days later, the letter was gone. Nevertheless, she had pieced the story together over the weeks that followed. Today, everything made sense, all her speculation confirmed.
Yes, John had good reason to loathe Frederic. She would stir that cauldron of hostility until it boiled over into the final showdown. Oh yes, dear nephew, this morning, I will provide the rope and you will hang yourself! Moments ago, she’d set the stage. Now, she had to arrange the players. She would even help them with their lines. Then, she’d sit back and enjoy the theatrical.
Frederic slumped into his chair. Oh God, Elizabeth, what have I done?
The years fell away and she was trembling before him, fearful he’d send her packing. That had been his intent. He’d spent days convincing himself England was the proper place for her. But here she stood, offering herself to him as long as he’d let her stay. His pitiful assumption that she was too young for him was laid to waste that night. She gave him everything, even her heart, asking nothing in return, save the safety of his arms and a home on Charmantes. Even the next day, she remained innocent to how she had affected him, her eyes welling with tears when he insisted she forget the sensual experience they had shared. He should have been grateful she believed the worst, that she meant nothing to him. After all, he was taking her back to her family. He had other plans that did not include her, a promise to keep.
But fate intervened. His infatuation only intensified during their crossing, and instead of avoiding her, he found himself seeking her out. By the time they reached Britain, she held his heart in the palm of her hands. He loved her.
Had he known what awaited them in Europe, he would have turned back to Charmantes, coveting their sanctuary there. But hiding from Elizabeth’s family was not a solution. Beyond that, he wanted to wed her and needed a priest. And so, they forged ahead for the sake of respectability. But before the final banns were posted, their future was irrevocably tainted.
In late January, she was abducted and savagely raped by a band of highwaymen. For the better part of a week, he had nearly gone insane combing the countryside, ultimately praying when there was nothing else to do, thanking the very angels when, by the mercy of God, she was miraculously returned to him. Her fate at the hands of the ruffians did not matter to him, as long as she was alive.
For weeks she was despondent, and the wedding postponed, but he refused to leave her side. Slowly, he coaxed her recovery. It was then her disapproving parents had a change of heart. If Frederic married their daughter and whisked her away, the shame of her abduction would be forgotten. So, they wed in late March and returned to Charmantes, putting aside thoughts of her brutal violation.
In early April, Elizabeth announced the wondrous news. She was with child. Frederic should have been elated, but the worry in her eyes confirmed his fears: the child might not be his. Thus, an innocent babe was on his way into the world, a world that would not receive him well.
Just after midnight on September 29, 1808, eight months after her abduction, John was born. His parents had been married for all of six months, and yet, he was, according to the mores of society, their legitimate son.
The delivery had been long and hard, the bleeding effusive, and though the infant was small, his position had been breech, stealing his mother’s life-blood. Frederic cried into her dampened bedclothes, felt her feeble hand caress his tousled hair, heard her rasp some final endearment with a plea he name their son after her deceased brother, John. Then she departed him forever, leaving him desolate in the wake of so miraculous an event as the birth of a son.
He turned his blind rage on Robert, blaming him for Elizabeth’s death. The man quaked in fear, but Rose interceded, stepping between them, the newborn in her arms, petitioning Robert to assess the baby’s health. In a matter of minutes, Robert was clicking his tongue and muttering, “Certainly not a full nine months in the womb. To think they killed her in the end.”
“Who? Who killed her?”
“The brigands. I’m sorry, Frederic, he’s far too small to be yours…”
More than a
week passed before Frederic even looked at the baby, quickly turning away in disgust. If you were not half Elizabeth, I’d cast you to the dogs and be damned. Revolted by his insane hatred, yet unable to shake it off, he held fast to his disdain and spurned John.
Paul’s presence only made matters worse. Frederic knew he was this baby’s father. In fact, he often thought of Paul as Elizabeth’s son, cherishing the fond memory of her mothering him in those weeks before her death. Here was a happy child, who grew into a genial lad. John, on the other hand, was an obstinate fellow, who took pleasure in vexing everyone. True, there had been moments when Frederic felt a certain closeness to him, an ember of contrition, but bitter memories always intruded, snuffing out the fragile flame. If not for John, Elizabeth would still be alive.
The years fell in upon themselves, and suddenly, John was a young man. “He’s such a handsome boy,” Frederic’s eldest sister, Eleanor, had admired. She resided in the States, but, on one rare occasion, had ventured home. “The picture of you at that age, Frederic…the very picture…”
Yes, he had been blind, but the damage had already been done: John bitterly resented him.
Joseph faced John and prayed Yvette’s remarks concerning her elder brother were true: “It’s just a charade to make everyone tremble. He’s really a coward. He told me so.”
Charade or no, the man was giving one fine performance, for John scowled down at him, seemingly oblivious of the water he had drawn for his bath.
“That will be all, Joseph,” he muttered as he settled into the brimming tub. “Oh and Joseph, Miss Ryan is sleeping in the guest chamber next door. She shouldn’t be disturbed until she rings for someone.”
“But she’s already up and about, sir.”
John turned a bleary eye upon the lad. “Yes, I suppose she would be.”
“Sir?” Joseph queried.
“Nothing, it was nothing.”
“Sir?” the lad began, courageous in the face of John’s debilitated state. “I just wanted to say I’m sorry about your younger brother, sir. I know—”
John closed his eyes.
“—you loved him, sir. We all knew that. And, well, I just wanted to tell you how sorry we are about what happened.”
John could not answer. He wondered how he would survive the day’s condolences, the unbidden reminders that would trespass upon his guarded heart and prey on his vulnerability.
“Joseph?” he rasped as the boy reached the door.
“Yes, sir?”
“Thank you.”
“Yes, sir,” the boy nodded. He exited the somber room, allowing John to take up soap and brush and scrub his body clean.
“That’s right, Jeannette, cry,” came the soothing voice, “cry until you can’t cry anymore, and then, you’ll feel better.”
“I’ll never, never feel better,” the child sputtered.
“You don’t think so now,” Charmaine comforted, “but you will. Someday, when you remember Pierre, it will be of the happy times we spent together…”
John leaned his forehead against the closed door and shut his eyes to the piercing pain. He should go in, attempt to console the girls as Charmaine was doing, but he couldn’t. He had neither the strength, nor the desire to embrace his sisters’ loss. His own was too great, too fresh.
“But why did he die?” Jeannette sobbed.
“God was probably punishing him for pretending to be ill on Sunday.”
“Yvette!” Charmaine remonstrated sharply. “You know that’s not true!”
The girl burst into tears. There was a moment’s pause, and then Charmaine’s voice again, her words indiscernible, though John strained to hear them.
“Why did God do this to us?” Jeannette implored. “Wasn’t Mama enough?”
“Oh, Jeannette, I don’t have those answers. But you still have each other, and you have me. You know I love you very much, don’t you?”
“Yes,” came the two trembling voices.
“And you have John. He needs your love more than ever.”
“Why?”
“Because he loved Pierre, and he is sad, too. If we comfort each other, one day the wound will heal and this terrible time will fade. Then you’ll smile when you think of Pierre, and you’ll laugh when you say: ‘Remember when we went picnicking at the beach and Pierre dumped sand on Johnny’s head?’ or…” Charmaine’s voice broke off.
“It’s all right, Mademoiselle,” John heard Jeannette say. “You loved Pierre as much as we did, so you don’t have to be strong for us.”
“She’s right,” Yvette added, “you should cry, too.”
“No, Yvette, I’ve cried too much already.”
With head bowed, John walked away.
“You are dismissed, Miss Ryan. Your services are no longer required.”
Jaw slackened, speech stymied, Charmaine stared aghast at Agatha Duvoisin.
“My dear,” the mistress reprimanded with head canted, “don’t look so surprised. And please, close your mouth. It is quite unbecoming.”
“But—why?”
“Surely you’re not serious. The reason is quite obvious. Pierre is dead.”
Charmaine flinched. It was one thing to speak of the boy’s accident herself, quite another to hear his death uttered heartlessly. “And I’m just to leave?”
“You have until week’s end.”
“But that’s—”
“Tomorrow,” Agatha supplied, her lips curled in a ruthless smile.
“And if I refuse to go?” Charmaine demanded, no longer impeded by confusion and pain, but quite fired up by the mistress’s edict.
“Refuse? My dear, you have no say in the matter.”
“And who does have a say, Mrs. Duvoisin? You? Does anyone else know of this decision? Your husband? Paul? Should I take this matter up with them?”
“Miss Ryan, do you really think Paul would question his father’s authority for a little trollop who has caught his fancy? Surely he’s tired of you by now.”
“You are a vile woman!” Charmaine accused.
“And you are an impudent little fool,” Agatha hissed. “But this shall be the last time you address me in such a manner! You are responsible for the death of an innocent three-year-old. My husband, blind to your neglect up until now, has finally seen the light. The twins are to be sent to a boarding school, a fine English academy, and a governess is no longer required.”
“You cannot be serious!” Charmaine objected.
“Oh, but I am, Miss Ryan. The past three days have forced my husband to take stock of his posterity. He’s contemplated all his options concerning the welfare of his remaining offspring, and when I spoke with him earlier this morning, he asked to see you.”
Charmaine’s eyes widened.
“Yes, Miss Ryan,” she acknowledged, eyebrow arched, “this is his decision, not mine, and I warn you now, he is not happy with you, not happy at all!”
Charmaine paled, fear clashing with her anger.
The chamber door slammed shut, and Agatha was once again alone. She smiled in self-satisfaction. She’d played it just right, had struck the most promising chords, and now, Charmaine Ryan, incensed by the injustice of it all, would stand before Frederic, her temper ablaze. With any luck, she’d overstep her bounds and seal her own fate. More important, she’d initiate the final confrontation between father and son.
Agatha hesitated as a wave of apprehension swept over her. What if Frederic suffers another seizure? Worse still—what if this battle proves fatal? She brushed aside such a possibility. It was a risk she was forced to take.
Her eyes hardened. She mustn’t waste time. The governess’s audience with her husband would be brief; therefore, every second counted. It was time to speak to the twins, Yvette in particular. She’d be quite upset to learn her father had summoned her precious “Mademoiselle” to his apartments and was, at this moment, dismissing her. She’d run to John, inform and infuriate him, spur him into mindless action. Agatha had made certain he was in th
e house before setting her stratagem in motion. When John stormed into Frederic’s chambers, there would be no rational truth seeking, only that vicious hatred they doggedly shared. And her husband would, for all his righteous resolve, deliver the final blow.
Charmaine’s palms were sweating, and her stomach churned violently. Where was her valor now? Even her zealous rage had simmered down. As she stepped into the master’s quarters it evaporated completely, like a drop of dew before the gates of hell. Damn her impulsive temper! Agatha had baited her.
The man she faced was no demon; he sported no fangs, sprouted no horns. His staff was a crutch that supported his crooked frame, a body that appeared to have further withered. This could not be the man who had bred contempt in his own home, abandoned one son and embraced another. Reason insisted both sides were guilty, that John had wronged as well. But John had also loved. Where was Frederic’s love?
Instantly, Charmaine repented her rush to judgment. Frederic had loved Pierre! She had only to look at him to know that. He couldn’t run and play with the boy, but he had loved him and had feared John might whisk him away. Suddenly, it all made sense. Frederic hadn’t flaunted that love to enrage his estranged son; he was merely gathering his own memories. Charmaine wondered if John could ever understand this. Sadly, Frederic seemed prone to injuring those who should have been closest to him. But she realized now, the older man had been backed into a corner with no escape.
Frederic assessed her much as she did him, his eyes sweeping upward, searching her face and measuring her pain. It was a moment before Charmaine realized he had addressed her. “How are you faring?”
The concerned query took her by surprise. He blamed himself; it was etched across his face.
“As well as can be expected, sir,” she murmured, fighting back tears, grateful he didn’t know she had been privy to the truth about Pierre’s conception and birth. “I’m sorry about Pierre.”