Decision and Destiny (14 page)

“We used to track through this area whenever we went hunting, and came upon it accidentally one day. Occasionally it’s used by the bondsmen.”

“Occasionally? Why only occasionally?”

John was about to explain the trail was too narrow to accommodate buckboards, but was suddenly inspired. “The men use it when they’re in a hurry, and only when on horseback.”

“But why?”

“Because of the wildlife,” he replied.

“What kind of ‘wildlife’? Certainly not dangerous wildlife?”

John didn’t answer.

“It wouldn’t be what you and George used to hunt as boys, would it?”

“Actually, yes,” he conceded.

“Yes, what? They are dangerous creatures, or they’re what you hunted?”

“Both. We trapped and killed a few rattlesnakes here.”

“Rattlesnakes?”
Her eyes shot to the ground and darted about.

“Why come this way then?”

“There’s nothing to worry about,” he mollified. “We cleaned this area out long ago…haven’t seen one in years, not since George shot his trophy.”

“But if it’s been cleaned out, why don’t the bondsmen—”

“They’re just a pack of ninnies,” he cut in, “afraid of their own shadows and spreading tales about old man Lavar, who maintained he’d been bitten by one before he died. Robert Blackford claimed it wasn’t a snake bite at all.”

“But you said Dr. Blackford couldn’t be trusted in his judgments.”

“True. Still, if you are atop a horse you’re safe, and if not, you’re clad in boots. What are the chances of a snake biting through thick leather?”

“Probably none,” she mumbled, noting John’s boots next to her shoes and stockings. Suddenly, she wanted the protection of the lofty saddle. “I suppose I could give riding another try. It wouldn’t be fair to impede our progress.”

“Good,” he said, smiling down at her.

They rounded the bend and reached the twins. “Did she fall?” Yvette asked.

“Yes, she fell. Just like you did the first time.”

Yvette was miffed into silence.

With a soft chuckle, John helped Charmaine mount up. Amazingly, she replaced Pierre in the saddle with only a flash of white petticoats. He returned the lad to Phantom’s back and led the stallion to the front of the procession.

“Is Mademoiselle Charmaine all right?” Jeannette asked him.

“She’s fine. Her horse was just hungry.”

They were on their way again, and this time, Charmaine kept her mind on task. After a while, she relaxed, taking in her surroundings: the cabbage and royal palm trees towering eighty feet above them, the sapodilla and calabash blooming in white and pale yellow flowers, the bearded figs with their thick trunks, sporting heavy growths of hanging roots, like ropes gone awry off the rigging of a ship, their interlaced branches harboring the tropical birds that hopped from limb to limb. The soft breezes intensified as they advanced, and soon the foliage began to thin. When the trail widened, John drew back to ride alongside her. Salt was heavy in the air, and they could hear waves thundering on the beach to their right.

Charmaine turned to ask him how long they would ride parallel with the shoreline when she caught sight of Pierre, who reclined against his chest, eyelids sagging. John’s gaze followed hers. “He’s quite a boy,” he murmured, stroking Pierre’s hair.

“Yes, he is,” she whispered, touched by his gesture of affection.

The trees opened to sprawling sea grape shrubs, white sand, and aquamarine water as far as the eye could see. “Oh my!” she breathed, reveling in the buffeting gales that unfurled her long, wild hair.

“The perfect place for a picnic,” John added, regarding her when she didn’t immediately respond. “You’re not displeased with the location, I hope.”

“Displeased? Not at all! I love the ocean. Don’t you?”

“That depends on where you are when you’re looking at it,” he replied thoughtfully, casting his gaze out to the water.

Charmaine studied him, but he said no more.

“Where to now?” Yvette called.

“Why don’t you find a spot where we can have our picnic?” John suggested.

“All right,” Yvette agreed enthusiastically, “follow us.”

They continued down the parched beach, the horses’ hooves throwing sand high in the air. Not far ahead was a small cape, the
curved projection forming a charming, secluded inlet, a natural barrier against the open ocean. Jeannette pointed to an enormous silk cotton tree, its towering branches spread far over the sandy shore, an inviting haven from the blistering sun.

Once there, the girls jumped from their ponies and led them into the woods where they could graze in the protection of the shade. Charmaine sat indecisively in her seat, apprehensive of dismounting.

“The sooner you take courage, my Charm,” John remarked, “the sooner I can hand Pierre over to you. I don’t want to awaken him.”

Realizing the ordeal would be over quickly if she just got on with it, Charmaine swung her leg over the saddle rim and descended to the ground, quite gracefully for an amateur. She took charge of Pierre, cradling his limp body to her breast while John led the horses into the woods.

When he returned, the twins helped him spread the blanket, and they settled in, delving into the basket that had been packed with a feast. Pierre slept while they ate, Charmaine and the twins on the blanket, John reclining a few feet away against the tree trunk. Few words were spoken until the twins had swallowed the last of their dessert. “Johnny,” Jeannette queried, “why didn’t you ever bring us here before? I know Mama would have loved this spot.”

He didn’t answer, and Charmaine looked up.
Would he tell the girl the truth: he loathed her mother? Or was he remorseful for having scorned Colette?

“Yes,” Yvette piped in, “why
didn’t
you bring us here when you and Mama planned all those picnics together?”

The statement shook Charmaine, thundered in her ears.

“It was too far to walk,” he replied, grabbing his cap and walking to the water’s edge. There he stood, gazing out at the horizon.

“But we used to walk much farther plenty of other times!” Yvette called after him. He didn’t respond, and she shrugged. “Oh
well, come, Jeannette, let’s go collect seashells.” They raced down the beach, paying little mind to Charmaine’s admonition they not stray too far, leaving her to study the man.

What is he thinking?
Surely those thoughts could answer a score of questions. She attempted to dismiss the possibilities and began collecting the lunch plates. But her mind betrayed her:
Why didn’t you bring us here when you and Mama used to plan all those picnics together? We used to walk much farther plenty of other times! My dearest John…John has hurt many people; even Colette suffered at his hands…He’s a menace to certain members of this family…you’ll not speak of him again! Nobody likes John, they either hate him or love him, and it’s usually in that order…

Dear God, where did it all lead? Hate or love? Or something else? She regarded him again. He hadn’t moved. The man was many things, but a seducer of his father’s wife? No, she couldn’t believe that.

Colette would have loved this spot. As in a daydream, Charmaine’s vision blurred, and the blue-green waters melded into the eyes of her dear, kind friend. Just one year ago today, Colette was defending John to her husband. What secrets had she taken to the grave? It was better—safer—not to know.

And the letter. Did Frederic know his wife had written to John a month before her demise? What telling words were contained within its pages?
It is not my intention to cause you greater pain…

Yes, John had known pain. That was obvious. He had remained closeted in his chambers for days after he had learned of Colette’s death, brooding in the oblivion of alcohol.

My God!
Charmaine thought with quickened pulse. Colette and John. John and Colette. Intimate lovers? Never. Chaste lovers? Possibly. But how? Why? It made no sense and made perfect sense. She refused to believe it, certain her mind was playing tricks on her, yet the more she tried to suppress the unholy thoughts, the stronger they became. She closed her eyes in wild confusion, hoping to calm
her raging mind. It did not. They opened to a sound at her feet. John had returned to the blanket.

“Tired?” he asked.

“A bit,” she murmured as he settled next to her.

“Riding can be tiring,” he said as he pulled his knees up and encircled them with his arms, his eyes trained on the water.

Because he did not perceive her profane thoughts, she felt at ease to study him in a new light. The breeze caressed them, mussing his wavy hair. The sun’s rays glinted reddish-blond off the lighter strands, which curled about his ears, over his sideburns and white collar. The locks framed his profile: the wide brow, intense eyes, and clean-shaven cheeks. As he raised a hand to rake back the tousled strands, her gaze traveled to his flexed arm and the play of muscle against his shirtsleeve. Disconcerted, she breathed deeply against her thudding heart and the strange feeling building inside her. She looked at him as a woman looks at a man, perhaps in the manner in which Colette might have.

He leaned back on his elbows, stretching out his long legs and crossing them. Self-consciously, belatedly, she looked away, carrying with her that last glimpse of him—his hair windswept. She wanted to touch those locks, savor their texture between thumb and forefinger, to go further and run her hands through them. Oddly, she felt cheated at residing so close to the object of such wanton desire and unable to act on it. He was affecting her in a most perplexing way, and she was not pleased.
Imagine, wanting to stroke his hair! What am I thinking?

Pierre stirred beside her, opening sleepy eyes. Dazed, he looked around, then settled his head in her lap, muttering, “Mama.”

“He loves you, doesn’t he?” John mused.

“Yes,” she said, stroking the child’s hair, “but he misses his mother.”

“Does he?”

“Very much. Colette cherished the children. They were her life.
Although her health restrained her in that last year, she spent as much time with them as she possibly could, even if it was only to be in the same room as they, or hold Pierre on her lap. I know he misses that.”

“And the twins?”

“The wound is healing, but the scars remain,” she answered.

“I’m sure you can appreciate the pain they’ve suffered. I know the feeling all too well myself.”

“I never had a mother to lose,” he replied dispassionately, “so I suppose I don’t know what they’re experiencing.”

“Experience isn’t the only teacher. Sympathy is easy, defeating their misery, another matter. Time and routine have seen them through the worst. They’ve accepted the fact their mother is gone.”

“And what of you, Miss Ryan? Surely you’ve given them the love they’ve needed. Isn’t that important for their recovery?”

“Yes, it’s important, but I can never replace Colette.”

“Perhaps you can. Perhaps you already have. They’re quite fond of you, and fondness can grow into love. You could become as irreplaceable as their mother.”

“I seriously doubt it. They turn to me because they have no other choice. But if Colette were here, I know to whom they would run.” She met his quizzical gaze, then boldly said, “Colette was a fine lady, good and kind.”

He didn’t disagree, though a wry grin broke across his face. “And you are not?”

“I didn’t say that.” When his smile broadened, she backtracked, “I mean, I try to be a good Christian, but Colette…she was perfect.”

“Nobody is perfect, Charmaine.”

“Not even you?” she challenged, unable to quell the urge to best him.

His eyes only sparkled. “There’s an exception to every rule.”

She clicked her tongue and rolled her eyes. Pierre turned his face into the folds of her skirts, calling for his mother again.

“Does he do that often?”

She massaged the boy’s back. “Only when he’s sleeping. Sometimes I think he feels the loss more than either of his sisters.”

“Surely memories of his mother have faded. He’s so much younger.”

“True, but Colette spent the most time with him.”

“Why was that, do you think?”

“Pierre was content to play near her, whereas the twins were always running off, and she couldn’t keep up with them.”

He seemed displeased with the answer, compelling her to explain. “She would have liked to chase after the girls. In fact, she often complained of how her malady restricted her. That is why she insisted on a governess. She didn’t want her infirmity to stifle them. She sought to make them happy, to see them run and play, to…”

“Go on,” John pressed, “I’m listening.”

“I’m afraid I’m talking too much.”

“No, you’re not talking too much,” he said. “In fact, this is the first time you’ve really talked
to me
. I must admit, I’m enjoying the conversation.”

“Circumstances never permitted me to do so, sir,” she tersely replied, aware they now tread upon dangerous territory.

“Ah, but I kept the faith,” he proceeded lightheartedly. “I knew, given time, I would break through your raging righteousness and reach the real Charmaine Ryan.”

“Really?” she snapped, annoyed he presumed to know her so well, that he blamed her for their strained conversations.

“Yes, really,” he smiled placidly. “Now, let us not destroy such a hard-won accomplishment. Finish what you were saying, Mademoiselle.”

“And what was that?” she asked coolly.

“About the Mistress Colette, and why she favored Pierre over her daughters.”

“Favored? That wasn’t the word I used.”
Why the misinterpretation?
“She loved the twins just as dearly.”

“But, according to you, she spent more time with Pierre. Isn’t that favoritism?”

“Not necessarily. I told you, the girls were more active than he. Beyond that, I think Colette knew she was dying and wanted to leave him with as many good memories as possible. I suppose she thought the girls would remember her because they were older. With Pierre, she wanted to be especially sure. Even to the end, when most days she was bedridden, she’d find the strength to come to the nursery before he fell asleep at night.”