by DeVa Gantt
“There, now,” Rose soothed with a pat of the hand, “I thought as much. But you must use this revelation to cultivate understanding for all those involved.”
“Understanding?” Charmaine queried incredulously. “How can I possibly understand a hatred that has existed for twenty-nine years—a hatred that has bred so much evil here?”
“Evil? Charmaine, you’re speaking about people, people whom you’ve grown to love, who are fallible and have made mistakes, grave mistakes, but mistakes, nonetheless.” Rose paused a moment, and then with a half-smile said, “All is not so lost. You’re reaction is only natural. But time will be the greatest healer, time and companionship. The girls need you more than ever now.”
Charmaine contemplated the wise statements. “But what if I’m dismissed? Mr. Duvoisin did not want me to hear the ugly things of which John accused him. Now I’ll stand as a constant reminder of his humiliation.”
“Frederic will not send you away,” Rose declared resolutely.
Charmaine was not so certain. She thought of Agatha and the confrontation she had generated. “Why did Mrs. Duvoisin lie to me? To what end?”
“To set John and his father at each other’s throats again, to have John expelled from Charmantes once and for all.”
“But why? Why does she hate him so? He’s her nephew.”
“Come, Charmaine,” Rose reasoned, “you remember what it felt like to be the target of John’s sharp tongue. Agatha has never bowed meekly to his ridicule, though she’s endured it for years. Now that she is Frederic’s wife, she’s set her teeth in. John has dug his own grave where his aunt is concerned.”
Charmaine snorted. “I should have seen through her little game.”
“Not a little game,” Rose whispered ominously. “Suffice it to say, Agatha bears her own scars, and though they should have healed long ago, she nurses them often, lamenting the cross she was given to carry. In the future, take heed.”
“I intend to,” Charmaine bit out, “with both the master and the mistress.”
Rose’s brow gathered. “Charmaine, don’t be so quick to judge Frederic. Remember, he has been wronged as well.”
“That is a result of his own doing.”
“Perhaps, but perhaps not. He is, for all his faults, a good man. I came to Charmantes when I was your age, Charmaine. Frederic was my little Pierre. I helped to raise him, and it does not please me to witness his pain. I know he feels a grave responsibility for all that has happened between John and himself. I believe he would like to make amends. This is, however, a difficult thing for a man who lost the woman he loved and allowed his grief to turn into a knot of resentment. John’s mother had a dauntless, spirited character. It’s a trait she passed on to her son, a trait that served John well in withstanding Frederic’s bitterness in those early years, but ironically, one that constantly reminded Frederic of his dead wife.” She sighed, her eyes deepening in sadness. “The rumors are true. Frederic did blame John for Elizabeth’s death. But Frederic’s animosity was not without foundation; it was erected on the belief that John was not his son.”
Charmaine’s eyes widened in shock, and she listened intently as Rose retold the story of Elizabeth’s abduction and rape. “Frederic and Elizabeth had been married only six months when John was born,” she finished.
“But surely John is Frederic’s son! One has only to look at them.”
“Yes, Charmaine,” Rose said, “they are most definitely father and son. But when John was only a boy, there was no way to tell. That doubt added to Frederic’s torment and nurtured a subtle hostility. By the time Frederic accepted John as his own flesh and blood, it was too late. John had grown to despise his father as much as he believed his father despised him. It seemed no matter what Frederic said or did, he could not rectify the situation. In fact, when he attempted to, he made matters worse. John delighted in testing Frederic’s patience, his antics and caustic barbs limitless, always determined to have the last laugh. In time, the need to inflict injury became an ugly habit we grew accustomed to living with.”
“Does John know what happened to his mother?” Charmaine asked.
“No,” Rose whispered. “It’s something Frederic never talked about, and it wasn’t my place to speak to John on his behalf. Either way, it wouldn’t have made one whit of difference.”
Charmaine pondered this newest revelation. It did not exonerate Frederic, far from it. How could he have blamed an innocent babe for something over which he had no control? How could he have been so malicious? Charmaine bit her tongue against the accusations and said instead, “That explains John’s childhood, but what of Colette?”
“Frederic thought of her as his salvation, his second chance. You met Colette when her health and spirit were already failing her, but she was quite mettlesome when she first arrived on Charmantes, much more like Yvette than Jeannette. For all her fairness of feature, her personality mirrored Elizabeth’s. She held her own with John much the same way Elizabeth did with Frederic. I noticed it, and so did Frederic. She turned that spunkiness on him, and though he tried to ignore the disturbing similarities, they also charmed him. He resorted to avoiding her, dismissing her with barely any decorum. Colette, in turn, wondered how she had offended him. In an attempt to win him over, she unwisely initiated conversations that bordered on flirting.” Rose breathed deeply and let out a soft sigh. “Then there were those times when…”
“When what?” Charmaine probed.
Rose rubbed her brow, seemingly disturbed with the memory. “Colette knew things—it was strange really, as if…”
“As if what?”
“As if she’d been here before.” Rose chuckled, a false, uncomfortable chuckle. “But listen to me, an old woman rambling on, losing her sanity. It was just fate, sad, twisted fate that pushed Frederic and Colette together until…”
Her words trailed off, and Charmaine wondered if Rose had any idea of what had really happened. Rape… She grimaced with the word. Then, swift and sure came Colette’s declaration of long ago: I love him still, leaving Charmaine extremely confused.
“Just give me the truth. All I want is the truth.”
Robert Blackford was dumbstruck in the face of Frederic’s wrath, having all but written the man off. But here he stood—imposing—the clothing freshly laundered and pressed, the cane more a scepter than a crutch. His cheeks and chin were clean-shaven, the hair well groomed, and the eyes denoted the workings of a keen mind.
“The truth?” Blackford hesitated. “What are you talking about?”
“My wife—my deceased wife, Colette. I have, on good authority, reason to believe the condition that led to her death was not the one you purported it to be. Now, as I’ve said, man, I want the truth.”
“Frederic,” Agatha gasped in dismay, “are you suggesting Robert has lied to you?” She, too, had been summoned to her husband’s quarters and was visibly surprised to find her brother there.
“Isn’t that obvious, woman?” Frederic sneered, his steely gaze settling on her for the moment.
Blackford applauded the interruption, her stupid comment clearly designed to give him time to think his way out of this unexpected attack.
“And you,” the man was saying to her, “will do well to hold your tongue. You had very much to gain from the unhappy outcome of Colette’s infirmity.”
Agatha’s eyes welled with tears, severely wounded.
“Who maligned my diagnosis, Frederic?” Blackford interjected. “I was the only physician who treated your wife. Who told you—”
“Never mind who told me! I found out!”
Robert faltered. Who is the informant?
“I’m waiting, man. Your muteness is branding you guilty.”
His mind spinning unprepared, Blackford acknowledged only two avenues open to him: the lie or the truth. There was no choice but to gamble and stay the original course. “If you have reason to doubt me, then I have every right to know what information has contradicted my diagnosis.”
“You have no rights!” Frederic seethed. “Your practice on this island is a product of my goodwill. I am your benefactor, but that can change in the blink of an eye. Now, I know my wife was not unfaithful to me; therefore, she could not have miscarried a child. Why did you lie to me?”
The tableau held until Agatha stepped forward. “Robert is not to blame, Frederic,” she said softly. “This is all my doing. I’m at fault.”
She bowed her head to Frederic’s piercing gaze, his eyes narrowed in disbelief over her sudden confession. She breathed deeply before braving his regard once again, tears trickling down her cheeks. “Robert never wanted to mislead you, but I implored him to intercede. He did it for me.”
She seemed at a loss for words and groped fruitlessly for a handkerchief. Coming up empty, she used the palms of her hands to wipe away the deluge.
“What are you saying?” Frederic pressed.
“I love you, Frederic!” she choked out. “You know I’ve always loved you! After Colette’s death, your mourning turned to madness, and my heart ached for you. When I realized you were hell-bent upon destroying yourself, I couldn’t stand by and watch you slip away from me. I convinced Robert to cast Colette in a bad light so she wouldn’t be worth the grief you were expending on her. I thought it would bring you to your senses, back into the world of the living. Then there were your children to consider. They were struggling to overcome the loss of their mother, and you weren’t there for them. Instead, they heard the rumors about you and began starving themselves, too.”
When Frederic’s brow arched in dismay, Agatha paused, allowing that bit of information to seep in, certain he would question Rose or the governess about it. She pressed on, the contrition in her voice heavy and convincing. “I was wrong to do what I did, I know, but I was beside myself with worry, frightened if drastic measures weren’t taken, your children would lose you. You had so much to live for: your sons and daughters, and, yes—me. I prayed to God you’d live for me!”
Frederic took the story in, his gaze shifting from the silently sobbing Agatha to the solemnly resigned Blackford. So…John had been right. Disgust welled up in the pit of his stomach, disgust for himself and his pathetic conduct after Colette’s death, which had led to this vicious lie about her. He couldn’t blame these two, not when he’d set the stage for their tactics. Nevertheless, he couldn’t bear to look at them. “Get out of my sight!”
They departed quickly, leaving Frederic to his disgust and a surge of pity that congealed in his breast, pity for Agatha and her continued degradation.
By early afternoon, the relentless drizzle had ceased, and the sky cleared. The only evidence of the two-day downpour were teardrops that sparkled on the tip of each blade of grass. Charmaine marveled at the wonder, her pain ebbing in light of the beauty around her. Paul had not yet returned with the girls, and now that the day had turned fair, she didn’t expect them for another hour. She cherished her time alone, meandering down the long, cobblestone drive, remembering Pierre.
With no destination in mind, she walked into the stable, located the stall of the dapple-gray mare she’d ridden just two weeks ago, and stroked the horse’s soft muzzle. “She’s a beauty,” came a voice from the shadows.
“Yes, she is,” Charmaine agreed, allowing the speckled head to nuzzle her as she faced the groom who approached. She had seen the man often enough, though surprisingly, she didn’t know his name.
“One of the few in this paddock that can be called gentle,” he continued, massaging the arm that was cradled in a sling. “Hand-picked her myself when Master John was determined to find you a suitable mount. He sent me all the way to Virginia, he did.”
“Really?” Charmaine asked in astonishment.
The middle-aged man nodded. “Mr. Richards made all of the arrangements and covered the cost of the livery fees once the horses arrived on Charmantes, but I do take credit for the choice of mare and ponies.”
She sighed, her heart momentarily light. “And I thank you, Mr….?”
“Bud,” he supplied, “just call me Bud.”
“Bud,” she smiled. “Have you seen Master John?”
“No, ma’am, not since early this morning when he rode off.”
“Into town?”
“No, ma’am, into the west fields. I think he needed to be alone. He’s nursin’ a bit of guilt, what with Phantom distracting him the way he did. Here he comes to my aid and leaves the child alone. But he didn’t know what was gonna happen.”
Astounded, Charmaine listened to the scenario. Up until now, she’d only heard bits and pieces of the events that had drawn John away from Pierre’s bedside. “Phantom? He’d gotten loose?”
“Yes, ma’am, as was a regular occurrence. Sometimes he can act downright demonic. On Sunday morning, the look in those black eyes was near lunacy, and when he cornered me, well, I confess, I thought I’d seen my last day on God’s green earth! Thank the Lord above that Gerald diverted his attention and saved me from those hooves, else I’m sure I’d have been trampled to death.”
“And John?” she asked.
“He must have heard the commotion from the house, ’cause the next thing I know, he was circlin’ the horse and tamin’ him a bit. But Phantom didn’t calm as quickly as he normally does when he catches sight of his master, and it took some time to get him corralled. Then Master John tended to me. Now I wish he hadn’t. I hold myself responsible and wish it were me instead of that little boy…”
“Don’t,” Charmaine countered, “there’s no point in blaming yourself. We all feel responsible for what happened. But then, nothing we did or didn’t do would change what God intended all along, would it?”
“Thank you, ma’am,” Bud muttered emotionally, “thank you.”
Charmaine smiled up at him, experiencing for the first time in many days a sense of reward. She eyed the mare. “Would you saddle her for me?” she asked.
“What—to ride?”
“Yes,” she answered quickly, lest she lose her daring.
He obliged, and not ten minutes later, she rode off, slowly at first, taking the trail that led to the back of the house and the west fields. Her initial nervousness yielded to determination, and she repeatedly told herself: If I encounter any trouble, John will soon be along to help me.
It would be good if she met up with him. She needed to see him, talk to him, reassure herself all would be well with him. At the house, he had all but ignored her these past days, and she worried over his continued isolation. True, he eschewed everyone’s company, but she was different. She knew his pain better than anyone else. He had confided in her, a baring of his soul that must have meant something. And yet, perhaps he regretted his confession and avoided her now because of his shame.
Robert Blackford stared at his sister in disbelief as they made their way down the hall. She held silent, her expression warning he should do the same. It wasn’t until they had climbed into his buggy and it rolled through the front gates that she let out a cheer of unmitigated delight.
“Oh, what a stroke of wonderful, extraordinary, marvelous luck!”
“Woman, are you mad?” he enjoined angrily, searching her face for a sign her senses had returned. “I nearly lost my head to the executioner in there!”
“Robert, Robert, Robert,” she cajoled, taking his hand into her lap and patting it reassuringly. “Do you think I would have allowed that to happen? Quite the contrary. Things could not be better. You fail to see the benefits we stand to reap. You must learn how to find good fortune in a setback! Fortune, Robert,” she chortled again, “fortune! The truth is out. I’m certain our extortionist will be extremely disappointed. Poor man, he thought he had everything arranged so comfortably.” She pouted prettily for emphasis. When his laugh blended with relief, she went on. “What did you think of my acting? Was I convincing?”
“You practically had me crying, dear sister!” he laughed again, suddenly in awe of her ability to think under pressure, her stately beauty. �
��You should consider the theatre. It’s not too late, you know. Think of it—New York!”
“No, no, Robert. This production is far more profitable.”
“How do you suppose Frederic knew about Colette?”
“It doesn’t matter. If he had any more information, he would have challenged my story. Personally, I think he was bluffing.”
“Nevertheless, he’s suspicious of us.”
“And we admitted he had reason to be suspicious,” Agatha replied. “But now he views any unscrupulous tactics on our part as concern for his welfare. How can he fault us for that? No, Robert, we needn’t worry about Colette anymore. We have other matters to address.”
“John?”
“Yes, John.”
“Agatha, he is leaving Charmantes. Paul said as much when I spoke with him after the funeral.”
Agatha eyed Robert speculatively. She did not doubt his assertion, but leaving was quite different from expulsion, her good humor suddenly tainted.
“You are Frederic’s wife now,” he continued, “mistress of the manor—of Charmantes. What more do you want?”
“I want it all, Robert. I want the rightful heir named sole beneficiary to the Duvoisin holdings. Don’t tell me you won’t sleep more soundly knowing Frederic’s fortune will pass to Paul and Paul alone. As it stands now, John will cast us to the dogs the moment Frederic dies.”
Robert cringed, silently agreeing with his sister’s prediction, and whipped the mare into a brisk trot.
Charmaine didn’t cross paths with John, and found upon her return she hadn’t left the paddock but five minutes when he arrived home by way of the main road. She handed the reins to Gerald and headed toward the house.
John was not in the study, nor in the drawing room. As she returned to the foyer, she noticed the correspondence sitting on the table there. The letter crowning the odd assortment was addressed to her. It was from Loretta Harrington, and she quickly broke the seal and devoured its contents.
Dear Charmaine,