Decision and Destiny

by DeVa Gantt

  When Frederic overheard Colette telling her friend the game she played with John was far more elaborate than kissing stable-hands in the hayloft, he had had enough. He wasn’t about to allow her to perform favors for some commoner and then play the virgin for his naïve son. No, Frederic concluded, the time had come for Colette to be confronted by a man who had the experience to see through her façade and handle her appropriately. If money was what she was after, he would spare his son the mistake of marrying a mercenary, young and beautiful though she was. Oh yes, John would be furious with him, but he was used to that. There would be plenty of other young ladies to conquer. In time, the dispute would be smoothed over, and Frederic’s intervention applauded.

  Unbidden, came vivid images of the sultry night that sealed Colette’s fate…

  He had arrived home late, tired and aching from a grueling day in the sugarcane fields. The house was dark, save for the lamps flickering in the corridor. He’d assumed everyone was abed and headed toward the kitchen to get a drink. He had reached the dining room when he heard the giggling and whispers of young women carrying from the garden beyond. He moved into the archway, which afforded him a view of the courtyard. Colette and her friend emerged, bubbling over in animated conversation, and although they conversed in French, he remembered enough of the language to understand their banter.

  “I still say Paul is far more handsome,” her friend said, “but alas, he won’t be the rich one.”

  Frederic strained to hear Colette’s response, but her voice was hushed.

  “Their father is just as handsome,” her friend continued. “Such a waste to leave him to your mother! Maybe I can have him!”

  “Ssh!” Colette admonished, moving closer. “Someone might hear you!”

  “You know, you could have him!” the friend pressed on. “I think he’s attracted to you!”

  “Stop it, Pascale!” Colette warned, but with a wicked chuckle added, “Then again, I could practice kissing with him!”

  “Yes,” the shameless girl giggled, “I’m certain he knows just how it’s done, and if he tutored you, then you would have nothing to worry about on your wedding night.” Their laughter increased.

  “Pascale, you are terrible!” Colette reprimanded with a click of her tongue.

  They laughed again. “We should be seeking our beds,” Pascale said. “Are you coming?”

  “I need something to drink first. It is so hot here, I’ll never get used to it. You go ahead, Pascale, I’ll see you in the morning. Goodnight.”

  Colette passed through the swinging kitchen door, but drew herself up when she found him standing at the table, pouring himself a glass of water.

  “So, Mademoiselle Delacroix, I understand you are thirsty?”

  She nodded, but blushed under his piercing gaze, her poise shaken. He poured a glass, his hand brushing hers as he handed it to her. She finished it quickly. “More?” he asked.

  “No, thank you,” she murmured with a tremulous smile.

  “Then if you are retiring, let me escort you to your room.”

  They walked down the hallway, Colette leading the way. Frederic considered her feminine figure, the delicate arch of her neck, the graceful undulating of her hips as she climbed the stairs.

  When they arrived at her chamber door, she swung around, and he stepped in close. He turned the doorknob behind her, pushing the door open. She stepped into the room, and he followed. She seemed surprised by his impropriety, but not alarmed.

  “I also understand you wish to practice the art of kissing to prepare for your wedding night,” he stated, closing the door behind him.

  She inhaled. “You overheard my conversation with Pascale.”

  “Yes.”

  He stepped close to her again and cupped her chin, gently nudging her face upward toward his.

  “We were only being silly,” she replied nervously, pulling slightly away. “We are both giddy from this adventure and the excitement of being here.”

  “Are you?”

  “Yes,” she giggled tensely, though her blue eyes sparkled, as if titillated by the unfolding encounter.

  She can’t wait to tell Pascale about this.

  He abruptly grabbed the hair at her nape, and pressed his lips to hers. Whether dumbfounded or excited, she did not step back, and he took hold of her shoulders, pulling her against him. As the kiss deepened, his tongue parted her lips, probing and caressing.

  “Monsieur!” she exclaimed breathlessly when he drew away.

  “What else would you like to practice, Mademoiselle?” he asked, similarly shaken, his voice husky in his ears. He boldly caressed the length of her back, his hand coming to rest on her buttocks. “That is, if you need any practice.”

  “Monsieur, really, I think you misunderstood.”

  “Oh, I understand very well,” he replied, as he began to work at the buttons of her bodice. The fresh smell of her was as intoxicating as her lips, fanning the passion he thought he was capable of controlling. “Come now, we both know French girls can be coy—skilled at the art of acting virginal when, in fact, they are not. Especially society girls such as yourself.”

  “Really, you do misunderstand!” she insisted shakily.

  She backed away, but came up against the bed, stumbling onto it. There she lay, the bodice of her gown open, revealing the lovely swell of her breasts above her corset.

  He followed her, stooping to pull off his boots, ripping open his shirt, and undoing the buttons of his trousers. When she attempted to scramble away, he chuckled and lunged across the bed, pulling her back into the center of it. She struggled for only the moment it took to pin her beneath him, her protests snuffed out as his mouth captured hers. He worked at her corset until the stays were released and the beauty of her firm, round breasts revealed. He squeezed them, taking delight in how they molded to the shape of his hands, his senses inflamed by the guttural groan that rumbled in her throat.

  “Mon Dieu,” she whimpered when his mouth left her lips to sample a nipple, trembling fiercely, though the room was quite warm.

  Even when he knelt above her to pull off the last of her clothing, and stood to quickly remove his own, she did not move, did not scream, apparently realizing the futility of resisting, and the embarrassment it would cause her. Her only protest was a modest, “Non, s’il vous plaît!”

  But his ardor was piqued. “Too late, demoiselle,” he said, lust heavy in his voice. “Of all the instructions your mother gave you about cornering a rich husband, did she not teach you if you play with fire, you will get burned?”

  She frowned up at him, and he read defeat in her eyes, submitting as he parted her legs. He kissed her passionately and penetrated her with one hungry thrust, surprised when she vaulted against the rending intrusion, a muffled cry of pain erupting from her throat. It was then he realized her innocence, but his own need was great and could not be quelled.

  She struggled anew, attempting to push him away, but he grabbed her buttocks and pressed deep inside, all the more eager to have her. When she had accepted the full length of him, he lay still, enjoying the feel of her breasts against his chest. He devoured her lips, drinking in her agony, cupped her face between his hands and rained kisses along her jaw to her cheek, wet with tears. She refused to look at him, so he tenderly tasted each moist eyelid, waiting for her to relax beneath him. When she sighed, he began to move against her, gently at first, and then, when he could no longer contain himself, harder. She grasped him tightly, her nails digging into his shoulders, her eyes still closed to what was happening. Her arms fell away once his passion was spent and, as he released her, a sob escaped her bruised lips.

  When he rose from the bed, he took in the bloodstained linen and the second onslaught of tears. They confirmed what he already knew: she had been a virgin, exactly what everyone else had believed her to be, and he experienced a sharp stab of shame. He had made a grave error, his assumptions concerning her virtue unfounded, and he was overcome with regret, compre
hending the implications of his vile behavior. He had soiled this young woman, spoiling her prospects as a future bride to his son, or anyone else for that matter.

  He stared down at her for a moment longer, but when he tried to speak to her, to sit on the edge of the bed and wipe the tears from her eyes, to apologize, she only moaned, pulled the covers up, and turned away, refusing to even look at him. At a loss, he quickly dressed and abandoned the room.

  The next day she remained closeted in her chambers, claiming illness, refusing to see John, her mother, even her friend. Late that evening, when all were abed, Frederic breached her chamber again, this time to propose marriage. She had no choice but to accept.

  Over the next few days, Colette’s heartache became his pain. She insisted on speaking to John alone, and although Frederic was of a mind to tell his son the truth, she vehemently objected. He never knew precisely what she said to John, but surmised she accepted the unjust title of “mercenary” and “harlot” in order to prevent greater repercussions. John was devastated, nonetheless.

  Today, Frederic grieved with the weight of it. Because he’d been uncomfortable with his son’s bitterness, he chose to brush it off. John would recover from his broken heart. He was young, he’d find another, he’d forget Colette. As for himself, Frederic worked at making Colette forget as well. She was in his blood and he couldn’t concentrate for thinking about her. For all her feeble protests, she hadn’t truly fought him, hadn’t attempted to push him away until it was too late. Why? Was she frightened of him, or did she fear her own intense attraction? He grew to believe their encounter hadn’t been rape, but seduction.

  The first few weeks of their marriage had been tumultuous, and his pulse quickened with the memory. He recalled her fiery mettle, the times she fought his conjugal forays, the many nights she succumbed to passion and moaned in his arms. She never cowered before him, though he felt she worked hard at the poise she displayed.

  Thrown into the mix was her unconscionable opposition to human bondage. Here was a mere slip of a girl who avoided speaking to him, yet had the effrontery to question his morality over holding slaves. He remembered their many altercations and thought specifically of the slave, Nicholas. She had been unconventionally vocal arguing the Negro’s plight. Determined to rule his domain with an iron hand, Frederic turned tyrannical. It became a contest of wills. And only when he took her to his bed did she momentarily retreat. A familiar warmth spread through his loins as he thought about it. No other woman had satisfied him like Colette, save Elizabeth. But then, he often thought of them as one and the same.

  Weeks turned into months, and their stormy relationship turned tender. The consuming fire remained, but Colette no longer sidestepped his passion behind a pretense of injured pride. She welcomed his lovemaking and slept contentedly in his arms night after night. Then she was with child, and his heart nearly burst with joy. During that year, he felt blessed; he’d been given a second chance.

  He often thought about John, wrestled with the letters he could write, what he might say to make amends. But somehow, he knew he’d only make matters worse. In the end, he could only hope that time would heal all.

  And then that time came: John returned. Colette was heavy with child, and though she greeted him congenially, John could scarcely look her way, his eyes simmering with unmasked repugnance when she and Frederic occupied the same room. As the days wore on, Frederic bristled with the intended slights and silent insults. Why had his son come back? He obviously still loathed them both. John’s motives became painfully apparent toward the close of the week—that wretched night when his voice rang out from the drawing room, his wrath so intense Frederic could hear him from the second floor. Frederic flew down the stairs, horrified when he came upon the scene. The only thing that prevented them from coming to blows was Colette, prone on the sofa in the early throes of labor.

  The twins’ delivery was difficult, lasting over twenty-four hours, but Frederic remained by her bedside, refusing to leave even when Blackford demanded he do so. He was paralyzed by fear, reliving Elizabeth’s labor some twenty years earlier. It was then he prayed, bargaining with the Almighty to spare Colette. “Give her something for the pain, damn you!” he blazed as she writhed in agony.

  Blackford complied, and he calmed down when the laudanum took effect. Even so, her breathing remained ragged, and from time to time, her head twitched on the pillow. He soothed her, smoothing the hair from her sweaty brow and murmuring words of encouragement close to her ear. She became delirious and called for John over and over again. When she couldn’t be comforted, he turned away in misery.

  Hours later, it was over, and two healthy girls were presented to him. But the love he was wont to bestow upon them only the day before was gone.

  He never touched Colette again. Sadly, he accepted the fact her heart would always belong to his son. He had robbed them both. That she eventually took John as a lover shouldn’t have come as a surprise, or hurt as it did. He’d acknowledged the inevitable years earlier when she had openly flirted with his business associates at dinner one night. Her desires were quite clear, and they did not include him. When she admitted to her affair with John, begging him to understand, denouncing their marriage as a mistake, he assumed she had told John the truth. But she hadn’t.

  Looking back on those years, he realized Colette had continued to protect him. Even in her suffering, she had placed the precious tie between father and son above her own yearnings, in the beginning as an unwilling bride, and later as his wife. She’d only stopped trying when he had succeeded in breaking her spirit, not by taking her to his bed, but by setting her from it, by denying her that fragile bond of love that had just begun to blossom between them. He gulped back a wave of blistering emotion. To prevent an irreversible rupture, Colette had concealed the truth from John to the end. She had cared about them both so very much she had protected them from each other.

  Frederic bowed his head to the saddest fact of all: after everything he had done to her, the havoc he’d wrought, his continual condemnation, Colette had never once condemned him. Instead, she had believed the best about him, cherished him more than he ever knew. She must have known his innermost insecurities, understood the ferocious front that was his shield, and comprehended what would be most important to him in the end. Now she was dead, and he had allowed that to happen as well. Even in the grave, he had not relieved her of her terrible crucible, though he owed her a great debt. If you want to believe the worst about me, you continue to do so, Frederic…You don’t trust me…even now, you don’t trust me…

  No, ma fuyarde, he vowed, I do trust you. I will never believe the worst again. Blackford had lied. Why?

  Frederic rose from his well-worn seat. This would be the last time he languished here all day.

  Robert received Frederic’s one-line message before he opened his small clinic for the day. As he closed the office door behind Joseph Thornfield, he wondered about the urgency of the dispatch. Was the man ill? He dismissed the thought quickly, certain his sister would have informed him first. Perhaps she was ill. This, too, he ruled out. Surely the note would have contained words to that effect. Why, then, was he needed immediately at the manor? Maybe the truth was out.

  He counseled himself calm as he donned a waistcoat and jacket. Now was not the time to lose his composure. This probably had very little to do with him and quite a lot to do with his errant nephew, who refused to seek a physician’s care for Pierre. Now that the initial shock had passed and the funeral was over, these unresolved issues could be properly addressed. Certainly Agatha would be pleased with the outcome. Hadn’t this been what she was pressing for all along? John had definitely dug a hole for himself this time.

  Robert grabbed his hat and physician’s bag and stepped out of his small abode. Best to be punctual.

  Charmaine hugged herself against the chill in the house and shivered. The foul weather of yesterday had not broken. The rainy season of late August and September had come at
last, a constant drizzle, tenacious in the wake of the brilliant sunshine that had mocked Pierre’s funeral barely two days ago.

  Lies. That one word continued to plague her, scream at her.

  “You should have accompanied Paul and the girls into town.”

  Rose shook off the brooding silence, and slowly, Charmaine turned away from the tear-splattered panes. “Not in this weather,” she said.

  “It will be clear by afternoon,” Rose predicted as she looked up from her knitting, her dexterous fingers blindly feeding the wool to the clicking needles.

  Charmaine agreed absentmindedly. “No doubt Paul is annoyed with me. He didn’t have just his sisters in mind when he offered the outing at breakfast.”

  “I’m surprised Yvette decided to go,” Rose conferred.

  “I’m not,” Charmaine replied, leaving the drawing room casement and sitting beside the woman. “John left the house early, and since she hasn’t been able to engage his attention here, she’s hoping to catch him in town.”

  Rose shook her head. “She’s a wonder. So much like her mother.”

  Charmaine heard the woman’s tears and fought to control her own misery. “Dear Lord, Nana,” she breathed. “What a mess!”

  Rose set her knitting aside. “Would you like to talk about it?”

  Charmaine hesitated, uncertain of what Rose knew. But the elder’s melancholy eyes told Charmaine she knew everything. “Oh, Nana, that day in the master’s chambers…it was terrible. And John, he said things I should never have heard.”