His Dark Desires (16 page)

"This last tray is ready, Papa John," Mignon said. She didn't look up from where she was arranging fillets of baked fish on a platter of seasoned rice. Her back to me, Mama Louisa stirred a pot, shaking her head. "I don't know about this, Miss Nonnie. She's going to be awful mad we didn't wake her up."

"Mad or not, she will at least have had some rest. Once Monsieur Trevelyan patches up Andre, everything will be fine," Mignon replied.

Alarm wiped the last remnants of sleep from my mind. "What happened to Andre?"

Mignon jumped as if she'd been caught with her hand in the cookie jar. Mama Louisa whirled around, sending drops of sauce flying off her spoon.

"Where's Andre?"

"Up in his room. He got into a fight and Monsieur Trevelyan—"

I didn't wait to hear more. I rushed to Andre's door. He sat on the edge of his bed, face muddied, shirt torn, and lip bleeding.

"I have been in a scuffle or two myself over the years. You look well, considering," Stephen said as he dabbed a cloth to Andre's split lip. They both looked up at me as I entered.

"What... what happened?" I asked.

"Nothing." Andre lowered his gaze to the floor and stared hard. I'd never heard his voice sound so harsh. When I looked to Stephen, he shrugged, telling me he didn't know any more.

"Andre," I said softly. "I need to know"

He looked up then, his eyes already brimming with tears. "You lied to me. You told me never to lie, but you lied to me."

His words filled me with dread.

"I have a thief for a father and a liar for a mother. I wish I had never been born." He jumped to his feet and ran to the French doors.

I thought my heart would break. "Andre DePerri Boucheron! Don't you dare leave!"

He stopped at the doors. He didn't turn around, but clenched his fists at his sides and pressed his forehead to the glass. His shoulders shuddered with suppressed sobs. I went to him, setting my hands gently on his shoulders, and bowed my head until my cheek rested against him.

"Forgive me," I whispered. "I never meant to hurt you. Who told you?"

"Why? Why did he do it?" he cried harshly.

"I don't know. I have asked myself a thousand times. In his letters he spoke of you often, so proud that he had a son. He wrote of his plans for you, and had dreams of a great future. As soon as I find the letters, you can read them for yourself." In the reflection of the paneled glass, I saw Stephen leave the room and close the door.

My son pulled from my grasp, turning to face me. "Why did you let me believe that my father died fighting in the war? What about my grandfather? Did you lie about him, too?" He gulped for air.

"
Non
, Andre. It wasn't like that. Your father and the gold disappeared and nobody could find him. Until somebody could prove him guilty, I chose to believe he'd died in the war. You were too little to understand, when it happened. Then when you were older, I could never find the words to tell you. I am sorry. I wanted you to believe that your father was a good man, and I was wrong."

"What do you mean?"

"A post arrived this morning from your Aunt Josephine. It said your father has returned."

He walked away from me, grabbing clothes from the chest at the bottom of his bed.

"I cannot let you leave, Andre. This is your home. Your heritage."

"My heritage?" he asked harshly. Crumpling his clothes to his chest, he met my teary gaze. I could hardly recognize my son in the angry, bruised young man before me. "I am not leaving. I am going to take a bath. I feel dirty."

He left me standing alone in his room. I had stood by myself though the war, had fought every step of the way for my family since, but at that moment, I had never felt more alone. I left Andre's room by the French doors, silently moving along the gallery's shadows and down the stairs to the courtyard.

The muggy night closed in on me, oppressive and stifling. A gibbous moon hung low over the blackened silhouette of twisted tree limbs, clinging moss, and strangling vines. Night creatures thrummed a hungry beat into the darkness. Before dawn, it would storm. I could taste it in the air and feel it brewing inside of me.

I sank to the stones beneath St. Catherine's feet and leaned my head against the cool marble base of the fountain. The water trickled soothingly, and I wanted to do nothing but listen to its tinkling sound rather than hear the voice pounding in my head, telling me I'd failed my son. Threading my fingers through my hair, I loosened the strands, letting wavy curls fall about my face and shoulders to shut out the world.

"My darling, I knew you would come to me eventually. You are beautiful in the moonlight."

I snapped my head up. "Monsieur Fitz. Whatever are you doing?"

With one hand on the fountain, he stood to my right, leaning down toward me. He jumped and lost his balance, sending his hand into the fountain, splashing water everywhere.

I had to scramble out of the way to escape being drenched.

"Mrs. Boucheron, what in the devil are you doing here?" he sputtered.

"It happens to be my fountain, sir. Who did you think I was?" I knew he'd mistaken me for Miss Vengle.

"No one," he lied, swiping water off his drooping mustache. "My mistake. So sorry." He backed away and then went back inside the house.

"Whom have you been waiting for, Juliet?"

Whirling around, I didn't see Stephen at first. Then, in the darkest shadows cast by a lush camellia growing next to the enclosing stone wall, I saw him. He sat on the stone ground with his back to the wall, his long legs stretched leisurely out.

"How long have you been there?"

"Since before you came out. Come and join me." He motioned to the ground beside him. "There is more than enough room in my life for a friend, and the stars are quite humbling from my lowly spot."

Everything within me reached out to this man's offer. I went to him and settled my back against the wall beside him, adjusting my skirts to stretch out my legs as well.

"You remind me of myself, lonely, heartbroken, and lost. I once drowned myself in whiskey and sat by a fountain to mourn. A friend dragged me to my feet, and changed my fate. From your pain, I assume things did not go well with Andre. How is he?"

I didn't know what to say in the face of his revelation, so I tucked his story inside me in favor of what lay so heavily upon my heart. "He is angry. Hurt. Disappointed with me. He is taking a bath without being forced to for the first time in his life. This time, I have no doubt that he is actually in the water scrubbing rather than pretending to be. He said he felt dirty. He wouldn't let me touch him." Tears flooded my eyes again.

He took my hand in his and brushed his lips to my knuckles. "He needs time. One mistake won't cost you your family."

"Did it you?" I asked.

I couldn't see his expression in the dark, but I heard his sharp inhale. Rather than answer, he asked gently, "Why did you lie to him?"

I sighed. "How do you tell a three-year-old that his father is a thief and a coward? I asked myself the same question when he was five, then eight, then ten, and I still could not tell him. There was no proof Jean Claude was guilty, just gossipy rumors. I believed with my whole heart that he'd died in the war, and began calling myself a widow."

We sat quiet for a moment, his arm pressed warmly against mine, and I leaned his way.

"Why have you been hiding out here in the shadows?" I asked.

"It is cooler here than in my room. And I can watch the back of the house from here, see anyone leaving or going in, without anyone seeing me."

"Are you expecting Jean Claude?"

"Maybe. But he may not be our only threat. In chess, you never assume you know exactly what your opponent is going to do. You base your moves on a number of possible scenarios. Do you have another room to rent?"

"Only a small one next to the bath. I would hardly call it a room. Why do you ask?"

"As of tomorrow, you will have another boarder. His name is Phelps. I have hired him to help protect you and your family. He will be pretending to be a lawyer for Trevelyan Trading Company."

"Oh," I said, drawing a quick breath. "I hadn't realized that such lengths were necessary."

"With that much gold at stake, I am not willing to bet otherwise. Men have killed for less. Much, much less."

C
HAPTER
E
LEVEN

The crash of thunder awakened me and I sat up straight, a sharp pain cramping my neck. I'd fallen asleep in the large chair in Andre's room, clutching the soft, blue baby coverlet he'd always slept with. My gaze went immediately to his bed as yesterday's events washed over me, and only when I saw Andre still there sleeping could I breathe.

Last night, after leaving Stephen in the courtyard and speaking to Mignon, I returned to Andre's room and found him asleep. But when I saw the coverlet my mother had made him thrown into the empty hearth, I couldn't leave his room. The uncertainty that he would still be here when I woke had been too great.

Heavy rain and a lashing wind now whipped against the house, making the rafters groan in protest. I huddled deeper into the chair, resting my cheek on Andre's blanket, catching his scent mingled with soap. It would be all right. It had to be.

Lightning flashed a jagged swath across the room, and I looked up, startled. My throat convulsed at the ghostly figure swaying in the doorway.

"Juliet, Nonnie told me that Andre heard... I am so sorry."

"
Bon Dieu,
Ginette. You gave me such a fright. What on earth are you wearing?"

"My robe and a scarf. I am chilled and cannot seem to get warm. I am scared. For me. For Andre. For you. What is happening to our lives?"

I went to her, wrapping Andre's blanket and my arm around her shoulders. Shivers wracked her slight body, and my pulse leapt with alarm. Seeing her like a ghost in the night made me feel as if an omen of doom had slapped me in the face, telling me that this was fate and I could do naught to change it. I thought of those moments when a chilling cold had stolen into my body. Could it be possible that some sinister spirit stalked
La Belle
and had settled itself in Ginette? The thought was not just far-fetched, it was too horrible to contemplate during the hours of the night.

"Come sit with me for a little while and we can keep each other warm. This storm has brought a chill to the air," I said. We scrunched into the oversized chair together, much as we used to do when we were very little. The old chair had been the favored place for reading bedtime stories for generations. I'd spent many an evening in it myself with Andre.

"How long have you been awake?" I asked her.

"Only since the storm began. I left Nonnie sleeping on the divan. She was exhausted. I feel so bad for not doing my share of the work."

"Don't worry about such a thing. All of your thoughts need to be consumed with getting better."

Ginette didn't say anything and I hugged her tighter to me. "Did you hear me, Ginny?"

"Yes." Her whisper was a sob. "I can hardly work my embroidery anymore, and I wanted so much to finish the tapestry. It tells of my life, of so many things I can never say. It has been so long in the making that I swear it has collected dust"

Tears bit my eyes, blinding me as well. I had been so busy that I had yet to even look at the tapestry Ginette had been so diligently working on for almost a year. How could I have neglected someone I so dearly loved? I pressed my forehead to hers, pulling her even closer. "Ginny, my sweet Ginny. Don't cry, please."

"What if I do not get better, Juliet? There is so much of life I have yet to live. My heart cries for it all, yet every day my headaches are worse and I am weaker, as if life is slipping from my hands. As if death awaits me."

I opened my mouth to refute her doubt, but a cry from the doorway stopped me.

"
Non
. I won't let that happen," Mignon said almost angrily. "Do you hear me? I won't let it. It cannot hap-pen.

I opened my arm to her and she clambered on top of our laps. I gave them both a firm hug. "Nonnie is absolutely right. We are not going to let that happen. In fact, Monsieur Trevelyan has a doctor friend who is coming see you. We will find an answer to this problem and solve it. And we will love Andre right through this hurt that I have caused him. We are going to be all right. I am sure of it."

But I had never been less sure of anything in my life. And I think my sisters felt the same, because for a long time afterward we stayed huddled together, listening to the storm and watching Andre, with his blackened eye and bruised cheek, sleep restlessly, as if nightmares edged in on his dreams.

Ginette's shivering eased and a sense of calm settled over us with the abating of the storm and the coming of dawn. Our arms and legs were cramped and our bottoms slightly numb, but our hearts had drawn comfort from one another. Mignon helped Ginette to her room while I stayed with Andre, waiting for the sun to rise before I woke him.

A tap on the French doors and a familiar dark silhouette brought me out into the early morning light on the gallery. I shut the door so I wouldn't wake Andre. A rumpled, unshaven, and bleary-eyed Stephen wearing a loose shirt, snug breeches, and scuffed boots stood there. My father, who'd been known to play a card game or two on the shady side of the Vieux Carré, would have said that Stephen looked as dangerous as a loaded six-shooter in a card game gone wrong. He'd been watching over
La Belle
as I slept. At every turn, he seemed to be standing between the enemy and me.

I prayed my desire for him wasn't masking truths I needed to see.

"My friend, Dr. . . . Marks, will be here sometime late this morning. I am going to sleep for a little. Would you send Andre to wake me when he arrives, or when Mr. Phelps arrives?"

"
Oui
. Thank you for watching all night. I feel guilty that you are expending so much of yourself and your time on our problems."

"Don't. My time was not wasted."

"Still—"