by DeVa Gantt
Taking another long draw off the glass, John gazed out the window.
“You’re not the only one who has done things of which he’s not proud, John,” Michael offered when the accumulating minutes became uncomfortable.
“Oh really?” John sneered dubiously. “And what could you have possibly done, Michael? A little nip and tuck in the sacristy with the consecrated wine?”
Michael welcomed the sarcasm with a smile. “I’ll confess if you confess.”
John’s brow raised in interest. “You’ve got a deal, Father.”
Michael froze. He hadn’t thought John would take the bait.
“Well?” John nudged, eyes intent, relishing his distress. “I’m waiting … ”
Michael cleared his throat. “When I was much younger … ”
“Yes?” John prodded again, leaning back against the liquor cabinet, crossing his legs and folding his arms over his chest.
“I broke my sacred vows of celibacy—with a woman, whom I loved … ”Silence. “That’s it?” John asked disappointedly. “That’s all?”
“That’s all?”
John chuckled and shook his head. “At least it was with a woman. That will be nine Hail Marys, three Our Fathers, and one Act of Contrition.”
With downcast eyes, Michael smiled, but he wasn’t going to release John from his end of the bargain. “Your turn, John.”
John leveled a piercing gaze on him, his reticence gone. “I took my father’s wife to my bed and fathered a baby with her. When I bragged to him about our affair, we nearly came to blows, causing a seizure that’s left him an invalid. I fled Charmantes, leaving her to contend with his wrath alone. I hated him so much, I prayed, in your holy sanctuary, for him to die so I could be with her and my child … ” Swallowing his pain, John laughed wickedly. “Tell me, Father, does it get any worse than that?”
Michael saw through the evil. “You love this woman, don’t you?”
“More than my own life,” John freely admitted, turning away as if to barricade his grief. “My son was born three weeks ago … Pierre,” he whispered hoarsely, “his name is Pierre.” After an interminable silence, he looked over his shoulder. “Tell me, Michael, if I suffer a lifetime never knowing the boy, will I be forgiven?”
“You’ve been forgiven already, John.”
“No, Michael,” John denied fervently, irately. “To be forgiven, one must feel remorse. I’m not sorry; Colette belonged to me!”
Michael learned the whole story that night, leaving John close to dawn. John had vowed never to return to Charmantes, allowing Colette to live the life she had chosen. He would punish himself by never beholding his little boy. And the world would know Pierre Duvoisin as his younger brother. It was Colette’s choice, and now it would be his.
But, John had returned to Charmantes. Why?
It was nearly dinnertime when Michael heard the yapping of dogs. He looked out the window. John, dirty and sweaty, was walking up to the house with another man, presumably his overseer. Two large hounds bounded around them.
“What the hell are you doing here?” John asked, once they’d walked through the door, his crooked smile broadening, hand extended. “No, let me guess … Pope Gregory found out the truth about you, and you need a job.”
“The truth about me?” the priest asked warily, taking his hand.
“Admit it, Father, you’ve been using your priestly powers to turn bread and wine into steak and ale. So where’s dinner?”
Michael laughed along with John’s overseer, sending his eyes heavenward. They went into the kitchen for drinks, and John introduced Michael to Brian. John grew serious and asked, “What brings you all the way out here?”
Michael looked at Brian, who took the cue he wanted to speak to John privately, stepping out the back door and heading toward a row of cabins in the distance. The cook, who’d been running furiously between cookhouse and kitchen, disappeared as well. Michael and John sat down at the table, cold glasses of water in hand.
“Parishioners have been mentioning your brother, Paul, lately,” the priest began. “There’s talk of a big celebration for the launch of his shipping concern.”
John shrugged. “He’s been developing another of the family’s islands for over a year now. My father gave it to him. He’ll run his own shipping line from it. So?”
“I don’t mean to meddle, but a few of my congregants say they’ll be leaving shortly for the affair. Aren’t you going?”
John leaned back in the chair. “I wasn’t planning on it.”
“Why not? Wouldn’t your brother appreciate your support?”
John scratched his head. “Have you forgotten my vow, Michael?”
“John,” the priest breathed, “I know you traveled there this past fall.”
John was surprised, but Michael continued. “Your butler told me.”
John bowed his head to the unwelcome memories and his heart began to race.
“Are you going to tell me what happened? Why did you go back? You said you’d never go back.”
John massaged his brow, and the room fell disturbingly quiet as he searched for words. “Colette wrote to me. My friend, George … he delivered the letter. He had trouble finding me. I was in New York, and it took him weeks to track me down. By the time I got home, Colette was dead.” John’s throat tightened, and he could say no more.
He still loves her, Michael realized sadly. After all these years, he still loves her. “And the boy?” Michael braved to ask.
“I killed him, too,” John pronounced somberly, his voice cracking. “I killed him, too.” When he regained his composure, he told Michael the whole story.
“It’s over now,” Michael comforted. “It’s time to move on.”
“I know that,” John agreed, “and I am.”
“Then why not go back?” Michael prodded. “You are invited, yes?”
“In effect.”
“In effect? What does that mean?”
“My father invited me, which is as good as Paul inviting me.”
“Your father?” Michael asked in surprise. “So why aren’t you going?” John’s grim silence was his reply. “Are you angry with your brother?”
“No. I hope his business succeeds beyond his wildest dreams.”
“It’s your father. That’s the issue,” Michael pressed. “You still hate him.” John clenched his jaw. “I’m not going back because every time I do, there’s a disaster. It’s best for everyone concerned if I stay away.”
“But your father has invited you. That means he’s forgiven you.” “That means,” John sneered, “he wants all his guests to believe we are one big, happy, wealthy family—for my brother’s sake.”
“No, John. It means he’s forgiven you. I know it. I think you know it, too. He’s never invited you home before, has he?”
“No, he hasn’t.”
“John,” Michael implored, “if you ever want to get on with your life, you have to face this. Do it now, while your father wants it, while he’s willing to forgive you. You may never have this chance again.”
“I don’t want his forgiveness,” John confessed acidly. “And he certainly won’t get mine.”
Astounded by the ferocious declaration, the depth of John’s prolonged bitterness, Michael shook his head sadly. “Perhaps there is more to it than you understand, John. Is it possible your father loved this woman, too?”
John snorted, repulsed by the idea. “He married my aunt not three months after Colette died, Michael. So you tell me—is that love?”
Michael inhaled sharply. The sordid story only grew worse. Even so, he rejected the obvious answer. “Perhaps you can’t forgive your father now, but you should accept his forgiveness,” he reasoned. “Go back for your brother’s sake—and your sisters’. I’ll warrant they will be thrilled to see you.”
John pondered Michael’s words. He thought about his last visit to the island and how dramatically his life had improved. Though Colette’s death had cut deeply w
hen he’d first arrived, it changed nothing really. He had long resigned himself to life without her. And lately, even the pain of Pierre’s death was subsiding. Because he didn’t discount the existence of God, entertaining the belief Pierre was with his mother in the afterlife consoled him. He was beginning to step away from the past. Charmaine had been right; now he could think of Pierre dumping sand on his head and chuckle about it, rather than fight back tears. He knew Yvette and Jeannette would be overjoyed to see him, and then there was Charmaine. In fact, seeing her motivated him to go back more than anything else. He might even be lucky and find she wasn’t married to Paul yet.
“Where has this anger gotten you and your family anyway, John?” Michael asked. “Isn’t it time to let it go? It appears your father wants to bury it, so why not you? The future might be brighter than you believe possible.”
Suddenly, John was disgusted with the entire matter. Michael made it sound so simple. Why go through that again? “I’ll think about it,” he lied.
The priest decided it was best not to pressure him and walked to the vestibule.
John followed, dismayed and disgruntled, certain he had prodded Michael into a hasty departure. “You’re not leaving now,” he objected. “The sun will soon be setting.”
“I have a lamp in the carriage,” Michael replied, pulling on his coat, “I also passed an inn along the way. If need be, I can stop there. In either case, I must get back.”
“Would a bit more money help?” John asked, certain his friend was working himself into the grave.
“You’ve been far too generous already, and it’s better if I keep busy.”
“Busy with work or with killing yourself?”
Michael’s brow lifted. “Is it that obvious?”
“I’m surprised Marie hasn’t insisted on a bit of leisure,” John said with a twinkle in his eye, perplexed when the priest’s face went white. “Michael?”
“Marie is dead,” Michael pronounced. “I thought you knew, John. I thought everyone knew. It’s been over two years now.”
“Dead?” John murmured, nonplussed. During his brief visits to the refuge, he hadn’t thought to ask for her, taking it for granted she was alive and well. Two years and he hadn’t seen her! He was immediately angry with himself. Was he so absorbed in his own misery he overlooked his friends? Marie had been a savior, a sympathetic confidante who had helped him through the worst times of his life—the months following Pierre’s conception and birth. “Dead,” he reiterated as the truth set in. “But how?”
“It was terrible—” Michael struggled to explain.
John shook his head, for he knew the priest, this good man, this equally good friend, had loved Marie. “Michael, I’m sorry, so sorry.”
“She was a very special woman, John.”
“Yes, Michael, she was.”
Words exhausted, they pondered the finality of death. The bleak mood was broken when John strode into the small library and rummaged through his desk drawers. He found what he was looking for and walked back to the hallway, studying the envelope in his hands.
“Funny,” he said, “Marie gave this to me years ago, and—” he looked up at Michael “—she asked me to give it to you should anything happen to her.” He gingerly extended the missive to the priest.
Michael accepted the letter, cradling it as if it were a precious gift.
“Aren’t you going to open it?”
Michael broke the seal, removed the single paper, and began to read. His hands were trembling by the time he’d finished. He looked up at John, tears in his eyes. “I have a daughter,” he whispered. “Dear God … a daughter.”
Burying his face in his hands, he slumped into the nearby armchair. Now he knew why Marie had deserted him twenty years ago. He believed it was because of that one intimate encounter. For nearly six years, he’d worried over what had become of her and chastised himself for having shamed her. When she did return one bitterly cold day, she had a young girl with her—her daughter. She was married, she was happy, she told him. She and her husband had started a family. Marie kept him at arm’s length, so Michael believed her story. They never talked about what had happened between them, but he wondered if she thought about it as often as he did.
Suddenly, he was furious: furious with himself—the priesthood—God. He should have turned his back on the ministry when he knew he loved Marie. She would still be alive if he had walked away!
“Are you all right?” John asked, shaken by the man’s expression.
“I’m not certain where she is,” Michael said, his anger gone, enervation seeping in.
“Perhaps Marie placed her with a good family. She’s likely surrounded by brothers and sisters.”
Michael looked up at him quizzically. “No, John. She’s a young woman now—nineteen or twenty.”
John was surprised once again.
“I knew Marie for many years,” Michael explained. “She was orphaned and raised at St. Jude’s. I was young when I was assigned there, and she was beautiful, inside and out. It’s no excuse for what I did, but I did love her. I still love her.”
“I know that. So why berate yourself? You loved her, and she you.”
“That ‘love’ forced her into a loveless marriage.”
“Marriage?” John puzzled. “She never mentioned a husband to me.”
“She rarely spoke of her life outside the refuge,” Michael whispered. “Apparently, she chose it to spare me the shame of fornication. According to this, she didn’t want me to leave the priesthood, something she feared I’d contemplate if I had known about the baby. So she sacrificed herself instead.”
Laying the letter in his lap, Michael pressed his hands together in prayer and brought his fingers to his lips, tapping them in deep thought. “Now, what am I to do, John? Do I track down my daughter? Do I tell her I’m her father? I know she despised the man she thought was her father.”
“How would you know that?”
“She grew up at the refuge, attended Sister Elizabeth’s school. I heard many of her confessions.”
“Find her first,” John suggested, “and make certain she’s all right. You can decide about telling her the truth later.”
“You’re right,” the priest nodded, reconciled. “Marie would want that.”
Barking dogs and a rap on the door drew them away from Michael’s problem. Annoyed by the interruption, John opened it to five men staring up at him from the lawn below, their horses tethered to the hitching post at the edge of the drive.
“Good evening, Mr. Duvoisin,” said a sixth man who’d parted from the pack and stood on the porch, seemingly oblivious to the snarling hounds. “We’d like a moment of your time.”
“Concerning?” John queried.
“Two runaway slaves. We have reason to believe they are in the area and traveling at night.”
John listened, expressionless. When he didn’t respond, another man stepped forward with a newspaper clipping, which he shoved into John’s hand. John glanced down at it. “A strong buck and his woman—spotted about thirty miles south of here the night before last. Take a good look at that paper, Mr. Duvoisin, and tell me if you’ve seen any nigger fittin’ that description.”
A reward of one hundred fifty dollars was offered for the fugitive. The article gave the date of his escape, the state from which he’d fled, his owner’s name, and a description. The bounty increased the farther from home the slave was captured.
John shrugged, passing the paper to Michael. “They all look alike to me.”
The men grunted in agreement, the remark putting them at ease. The ringleader remained staunch. “We understand you’ve freed all your slaves, Mr. Duvoisin, that they work for you here. There’d be a high price to pay if your niggers were harboring someone else’s property. Best we speak with them.”
“The men and women on this plantation know better, Mr. … ?” and John waited patiently for the name.
“Reynolds,” the man supplied.
&nbs
p; “Mr. Reynolds,” John acknowledged. “They’d lose their position here. Unlike the Yankees, I don’t fault the South for using slave labor. After all, my family’s wealth has been built on it. Freeing my slaves was a business decision, nothing more. I find they work harder because they’re paid; I don’t need a whip, and I don’t have to hire expensive bounty hunters like you to track them down. They don’t run.”
The men eyed him suspiciously, but could not refute what he said.
“All the same, we’d like to see their quarters,” the first man replied.
“As you wish,” John relented.
He descended the porch and led them to the humble Negro quarters behind the plantation house, passing Stuart’s abode first. Stuart stepped out and nodded to them. “My production manager,” John explained.
As they approached, the children swiftly abandoned their games. John singled out one cabin and rapped on the door. Brian opened almost immediately, evidence he’d been watching from the window.
“Brian,” John began, “these gentlemen are looking for two runaway slaves from North Carolina. They were spotted south of here two nights ago. Is that right, gentlemen?” They nodded. “Have you or anyone else seen them?”
“No, sir.”
“Unfortunately, I cannot take your word for it,” John said. “I’m sure these gentlemen will not rest until they have searched your home.”
The men mumbled in agreement.
“Yes, sir,” Brian answered. Stepping aside, he allowed two of them in.
The others paired off and searched each cabin. They came up empty-handed, and Reynolds turned to John. “We’re sorry to have troubled you, Mr. Duvoisin.”
John smiled. “No trouble at all. I’ll keep an eye out for your runaways.”
They trudged back to the main house and mounted up. John climbed the front steps, rubbing the back of his neck. When they were out of sight, Michael came out onto the porch. “They’re gone?” he queried anxiously.
“They’re gone,” John affirmed.
Michael still clutched the news clipping in his fist.
“May I have that?” John asked. “I keep them,” he explained, “every one of them, as a reminder of what I’m doing and why.”