Awakening His Duchess (22 page)

Beau ran his hand over the fetlock of a horse to give Mr.
Gates time to find his composure. After he tested the lines of the horse, felt
the firm muscles and gave the animal a pat, he asked, “Who found him?”

“I did, my lord. Just didn’t seem right like.”

Beau looked inquiringly toward the stable master.

“Just didn’t seem like a place where his lordship would have
been running his horse, and I cannot ken why the horse would trample him. Horse
was spooked too. Wouldn’t go close to that stretch of fen again.”

The back of Beau’s neck tingled. “If you are trying to tell
me something, just say it.”

Mr. Gates took a hard look at him. Then shook his head.
“Just didn’t seem natural, my lord. Your brother wouldn’t have been running the
horse through the trees and spongy ground. Can’t imagine how he would have
managed to fall under the horse like that. His lady wife questioned everyone,
but nothing ever come of it.”

Was the stable master implying that someone provoked the
horse deliberately? Or worse? Who would have wanted his brother dead? “Was
there an inquest?”

“Ruled an accident, my lord.”

Beau rubbed his face. His thoughts spun around and around
and left him dizzy. He was the only one who could benefit by his brother’s
death, and he’d been in chains across the ocean. Etienne benefitted. He was too
young. Besides Yvette and Etienne had been in Saint-Domingue during the
revolution. They couldn’t have been here to provoke an accidental death. It
still didn’t make sense. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Just thought you should know.” Gates busied himself with a
bridle.

Beau’s scalp tightened. Perhaps he should take it as a
reminder that he shouldn’t trust Yvette just yet. She might have been sincere
in that she had nothing to do with his poisoning, or she might just be a great
actress. Still he had to think that Arri had just had a horrible accident with
the horse. Perhaps he’d been sick and blacked out. Or he’d fallen elsewhere,
caught a foot in the stirrup, and the horse dragged him to where he was found
before freeing itself. There were a thousand rational explanations.

The least likely of which was that both he and Arri had
fallen victim to nefarious plots to do away with them.

 
*~*~*

Maman hugged tight as she bid him a good night. Etienne held
on longer than he should have, but it had been a strange day. He’d been so
certain he liked his new papa after the horse ride. Then he’d asked stupid
questions about Saint-Domingue, and Etienne wanted to hit him. His papa would
probably never take him riding again and that made a ball of fire lodge in his
stomach.

Papa appeared in the doorframe, and the fire in Etienne’s
stomach raged. Papa had been on the side of the slaves, the murderers. And
Maman had been crying again. Her eyes were puffy.

“Go away,” said Etienne. He ducked, knowing he was being
bad, but he didn’t want Maman crying anymore. He didn’t want to cry anymore and
he didn’t want to think about the little brother who had followed after him
anymore.

“Etienne!” cried Maman. The shrillness of her voice was like
when the chalk squeaked on Mr. Danvers’ slate board.

Etienne jerked his head down like a turtle.

“Do not speak so to your papa.” Maman’s scolding cut through
him like a cold wind. She never yelled at him. No one ever yelled at him, not
even the duke who yelled at everyone. His pere back in Saint-Domingue hadn’t
yelled at him either. He didn’t like his maman screeching. It was like she was
someone he didn’t know. That had to be his papa’s fault too.

“He’s upset with me.” His papa frowned and took a step into
the room. “I’ll deal with him.”

He looked sad and tired, and Etienne’s lip quivered although
he tried to stop it. Memories of his pere making his maman cry when he’d
knocked over his cup and spilled milk all over the table swirled in his head.
“Don’t be mad at Maman. I’ll be good.”

“Why would I be angry with your mother for
our
disagreement?” His papa’s forehead crinkled.

In Saint-Domingue he hadn’t known how to stop his pere from
being angry with Maman except to never cross him, never let him get angry.

“You are allowed to disagree with me as long as you are
respectful,” said Papa. He took another step forward.

Etienne’s arms and neck prickled. Was there a trap in his
words? It seemed too easy. He looked to his maman. She was watching his new
papa. Her eyes seemed brighter than normal. He didn’t know if that was good or
bad.

Maman petted his head, but he didn’t want to be soothed. He
wanted to tell his father he was wrong and he shouldn’t make his maman cry. He
hated it when Maman cried, especially when it was his fault. In Saint-Domingue
he’d been a baby, but he wasn’t anymore.

“I will see you first thing for our riding lesson then,”
said Beau.

Etienne wasn’t sure he’d heard right. He went still. He
looked up at his new papa. Sitting in front of this man as they galloped across
the grass this morning had been great. But he had to protect his maman. “If you
make my maman cry any more, I won’t ride with you.”

His papa glanced at Maman, his eyes cold. “I’ve never tried
to make your mother cry.”

Maman looked back and forth between them, her forehead
puckering. “What is this disagreement?” she asked softly.

“It seems Etienne and I have had our first political
argument.” Papa’s gaze transferred to his son as if he was trying to say
this is a thing for men, don’t mix up a
woman in it.

But that only made Etienne’s stomach turn. He hadn’t liked
when his pere showed him things only men should know because women were too
delicate to handle it.

“Quite a common thing between fathers and sons,” continued
Papa.

His tone was much lighter than the tired expression he wore.
Etienne’s blood raced faster than the horse this morning. He hated it when
voices and faces didn’t match. It confused him.

“You were wrong.” His voice shook, and Etienne wanted to
pull the covers over his head. Instead he stared back at his papa. If he yelled
like the duke did, he might wet the bed.

“Ah, we should not have political discord in front of a
lady. There is time enough for that tomorrow. Or we can make a pact not to
sully our riding tomorrow with such heavy subjects before breakfast.”

“Etienne, you should give your father a hug goodnight,”
Maman urged softly.

He hated being told to give his pere hugs and kisses, and
maybe his new papa didn’t want a hug or kiss from a bad boy like him.

“Perhaps you could give us a minute,” said Papa.

He was in for it now.

Maman stood up, and he wanted to beg her to stay, to stand
between them, but he couldn’t be such a baby.

Chapter Twelve

Beau waited for Yvette to leave Etienne’s room before
sitting down on the bed. The boy was shaking.

Anger or fear?

Either way he needed to reassure his son that everything
would be all right. Disagreements between fathers and sons were commonplace. He
wanted at least one relationship left in a better place before he laid his head
on his pillow this night.

“You don’t have to give me a hug if you don’t wish. We could
shake hands instead. But I would very much like a hug if you can stomach it.”

Etienne’s nose curled.

A laugh bubbled in Beau’s throat. It was the wrong response,
but he rather liked his son. He extended his hand. “Shake hands then. Although
I’m certain it won’t be the last time we have opposing convictions. The duke,
my father, and I rarely see things the same way.”

Etienne eyed his hand as if uncertain of it.

“It does not mean that we don’t honor each other.”

Etienne still hadn’t reached for his hand, but he propped
himself up on his elbows.

Likely he shouldn’t have asked the child anything about
Saint-Domingue, but he only had two sources of information, and he didn’t trust
Yvette. He shouldn’t bluster on as if he’d never made a mistake, but he wasn’t
keen to blunder about too far in the direction of leniency either. A child
needed discipline.

“Why was Maman crying?” Etienne’s narrowed.

“Likely because we had to talk about things she’d rather
forget. I need to know what happened. I do not know how to stop the memories
from causing pain.” His memories were painful too. Somehow he’d thought Yvette
was living an easy life while his life was a hellish grind for existence. Until
the revolution her life had probably been relatively happy.

He hadn’t decided how much he believed of what she’d told
him. If she’d been a part of the poisoning or had known about it, she wouldn’t
want to admit it. Still Beau needed some time to sort out her revelations as
well as the concerns about Arri’s death. Time he hadn’t had. After talking with
the stable master, the duke demanded his focus on matters of the estate until
his brain was mushy and incapable of taking in anything new, let alone figuring
out what it all meant.

“You made her cry because you were angry with me.” Etienne
thrust out his lower lip.

Beau smoothed the covers. He wanted to gather up Etienne in
his arms, but he couldn’t force the child to love him, and they were both so
new at this. Never had he been more uncertain of how to go forward and so aware
of what was at stake. “Actually, she was upset before I spoke with you. I
needed to know more, which is why I questioned you. Possibly I should not have
asked you about Saint-Domingue, but I cannot undo what is done. Do you think we
could let bygones be bygones?”

Etienne’s brow furrowed. “What does that mean?”

“It means we’d leave alone what happened in the past. We
don’t have to agree about who was right or wrong.” He was so tempted to say,
you’ll understand when you’re older, but that was the sort of thing he hated
when he was a child. “We just decide there is no point in discussing it
further.”

Etienne lowered himself to the bed and stared up at him.

An acceptance? He wished he could get the duke to agree to
let bygones be bygones too.

“You’re not going to say I have to believe what you say?” he
said in a smallish voice.

“No, I expect you to have your own mind and decide for
yourself, but Etienne, you cannot shout at me if you think I am wrong. I will
promise to listen to you if you speak with civility and respect.” His son would
have to learn sometime that shouting and hard lines drawn in the sand never
really convinced another person to change his mind. “But I would ask that you
let me guide you, as a papa should do. You are a child and there is much you
don’t know yet.”

Etienne scowled. But Beau didn’t want to battle with his
son, and he’d just given a gentler worded version of the
you’re too young to
understand
speech.

“Now you need to go to sleep if you want to ride in the
morning.” Beau held his breath as he tucked the covers around his son.

He took not being shook off as a good sign. But he could see
the wheels turning in Etienne’s head.

The boy rolled to his side, undoing the tucking job. “Maybe
you could read to me for a while.”

“I should like nothing more,” said Beau with a flood of
relief that left him limp. It wasn’t a hug or a handshake, but perhaps a tiny
step toward the kind of bond that should be between a father and son.

 
*~*~*

Yvette slid in between the cool linen sheets. She tensed as
Beau entered the suite, dismissed Digby, and then rustled around his room. But
after a while she heard him settle into his bed, separate and apart. She stared
across the room at the fire in her fireplace.

The tension seeped out of her muscles slowly. With the
sleepless night before, she was tired but strangely jumpy as if she had gone
past the place where sleep came easily.

The logs crackled, the fire dancing in orange and yellow
ribbons. It should have been comforting, but the flames began to writhe with
the rhythm of distant drums...

The thrumming was low and vibrated through her. She moved
forward even though she didn’t want to. She didn’t want to be here. The flames licked
at white boards of the plantation house. Small fires yet, but the house would
burn if they weren’t careful. She shouted for the slaves to fetch water. Only
no one responded.

The sparks flew up, touching the swaying palm leaves, and
another fire burned at the opposite end of the house. Sweet Mother Mary, what
was happening?

A coppery tang filled her mouth as she struggled to make
sense of the deliberate fires. Henri didn’t like the drums. He’d have the
slaves flogged. If he found out who set the fires, the punishment would be far
worse. She tried to tell the slaves to stop, to have a care. Only the drums
thumped louder, nearer, vibrating with malice as if an evil beast stomped
toward her.

She saw the slaves, their dark faces glistening with
sweat, teeth bared in snarling smiles, eyes wide and wild. Their machetes
dripped with red. Non!

Not again.

Then she was inside the house and she wanted to run, but
her legs barely moved as if she were walking through chest high water. She
tried to close her eyes, but they refused the command. She knew too well what
she would see.

Her stepson on the floor, his arms covered in slashes as
if he’d tried to fend off the attacks. Her stepdaughter slumped behind a chair
as if she’d cowered there. Yvette moved toward the teen, knowing. The fire
burned brighter casting undulating light on sights that shouldn’t be seen. She
recoiled from the wide terrified eyes accusing her of abandonment, the mouth
open in a soundless scream, the glistening blood staining the white gown crimson.

All around her, sprayed on the ceiling, smeared across
the wooden floors was blood. Then Yvette flew to the bedrooms, the nursery.
Blood dripped from the bassinet.