Decision and Destiny (32 page)

“Come, girls,” Charmaine urged, “let us check on Pierre.”

The nursery was unusually quiet. Then Charmaine knew why: John and Pierre weren’t there. For all the times she’d found the boy’s bed empty, experienced that heart-stopping panic that left her limbs painfully weak, this time it did not, this time she smiled. Pierre was
with John. John had him. One last hour together; they needed that.

A chilling scream annihilated the happy thought, then thundering footsteps.

Paul’s desperate voice reached them—rapid-fire orders shot from the foyer. “Get Blackford! Now, damn it! And blankets, I’ll need blankets—all you can gather! Then Rose—find her and find her fast!”

Silence—a second’s silence and then: “John—my God—where were you?”

Another voice—John’s. “What the hell—”

Then Paul again: “We’ve got to get him upstairs! Damn it, John! He’s swallowed a great deal of water! We’ve got to—”

“What water? Where in God’s name did you find him?”

“The lake! Jesus Christ, John, there’s no time to explain! We’ve got to get Robert!”

“Give him to me, Paul. Goddamn it, give him to me!”

Wednesday, October 11, 1837

For the third consecutive morning, the sun broke free of the horizon and captured the navy blue heaven, blessing the world below with its promise of a new day. And for the third morning in succession, this was not so within the great manor, where family and servants alike awaited word from the governess’s bedchamber.

Pierre lay in a state of delirium. A raging fever swept him along a maelstrom of hallucinations in which his amber eyes grew wide, perceiving monstrous images crawling on the ceiling. Charmaine called to him, but he did not respond.

Rose changed the saturated bed clothing, but no sooner were the fresh linens tucked in place than the boy was drenched in sweat again. With a click of her tongue, she returned to the task of bathing his fiery brow, laying a chilled cloth upon his forehead. He vaulted against the polar contact, but she held it in place. The compress was
instantly branded. Undeterred, she removed it and tried again. Thus far, her remedies had been ineffectual, but she refused to cave in to despair. Instead, she relinquished the cloth to Charmaine, picked up her worn rosary beads, and knelt beside the bed, petitioning the Lord’s Blessed Mother to intercede. Her lips mouthed the prayers while her crooked fingers counted off the smooth beads one by one, decade by decade.

As the day wore on, Pierre’s condition changed. His limbs flailed against the blankets that suffocated him one moment and failed to warm him the next, his small teeth chattering in his scarlet mouth. He began to moan and call out names, incoherent phrases that slurred into “Mama” or “Mainie.” Charmaine consoled him with gentle caresses and endearing whispers, cursing her inability to do more.

The shadows lengthened, and at the toll of seven, an uneasy calm descended on the infirm chamber. The tossing and turning stopped, but Pierre’s lungs labored to capture what little air the selfish room offered, his wheezing amplified, though the rise and fall of the coverlet was barely perceptible. Rose tiptoed from his side and left the room. Charmaine took over her post, refusing to succumb to fatigue. She would not leave the boy until she was certain of his recovery.

Her resolve was not singular. Of all who had come to check on the boy’s condition, those who remained an hour or two, or those who milled in the hallway beyond, one person had not abandoned Pierre for more than a minute at a time, departing only to see to necessaries, eating nothing. Charmaine’s regard traveled across the bed to John. He had finally fallen asleep, his neck arched and head pressed into the back of the armchair. She sighed, grateful her eyes had not met his. She despised the desperation and guilt she read there. His momentary surrender to exhaustion was just as disconcerting. Yet, at least he was not pacing, a march that tore at the carpet as surely as it tore at her sanity.

For three days, he had measured the room by the length of his stride, an eternity of steps interrupted only when a knock fell on the outer door. The chamber had become a fortress he fiercely guarded, barring most, allowing entry to those few he himself selected: Paul and George, Fatima, bearing trays of food. The rest did not question his restrictions; perhaps they thought him mad. By all outward signs, the apathy apparent in his unkempt state, he was. His face had become drawn and ashen, the cheeks hollow, the chin prominent. Both carried the stubble of a beard. His sunken eyes were listless. The usually tousled, glossy hair was matted and coarse, clinging to his dampened brow. He looked like a man possessed.

Time drew on. Rose returned, though not alone. Paul was with her. Neither spoke as they stepped deeper into the room and stopped at the foot of the bed. Paul clasped a bedpost, his visage grim. He regarded Rose, nodding slightly to her. Taking the cue, she moved to John’s chair.

Sensing her presence, he opened his eyes. She considered him, noting the lassitude that had taken hold, his faltering lucidity. Inhaling, she spoke. “John, I’ve asked Paul to call on Robert. If you’d give your consent, he’ll leave immediately.”

The bleary mind was instantly sharp and attentive. “No,” he growled.

“But, John—”

“No!” he bellowed. “I don’t want him near the boy!”

“John, I’m not a physician. I’m not schooled in the remedies employed—”

“You are,” he stated vehemently, his rough voice growing earnest. “When we were young, never once did you fail us. No matter the illness, you always found the cure. Though you doubt your ability, I know you can help Pierre.”

“You expect too much of me. I’ve done everything within my ability.”

“If you can’t help him, then no one can.”

“You don’t know that, John. We have a physician on the island who—”

“I said ‘no,’ damn it! I won’t allow that incompetent ass to touch Pierre. My God, the man killed the boy’s mother. He killed
my
mother!”

“John, you’re wrong,” she whispered woefully.

“Think what you like,” he snarled, “but I swear, if Robert Blackford takes one step across that threshold, I’ll wring his neck with my bare hands. I swear I will.”

“Very well,” Rose soothed in resignation. “I’ll not press you on the matter. However, you will go downstairs and have something to eat. Fatima has prepared some broth, and after you’ve finished that, you must get some sleep.”

“No.”

“Charmaine and I will remain right here,” she persisted. “If there is any change in his condition, we will come and get you immediately.”

“No.”

“John, I won’t take no for an answer. You need nourishment and sleep.”

“No! I said ‘no’!” he barked. “I won’t allow you to sneak Blackford into this room by shooing me away!”

Rose gritted her teeth, unintimidated. “I wouldn’t do that, not to you or to anyone else to whom I’d given my word.”

The planes of the man’s face remained set, far from contrite.

Rose proceeded with care. “You’re working yourself into a state of collapse, and then I’ll have not one, but two patients to attend to.”

“I’ll be fine. Just minister to the boy and forget about me.”

“Rose is right,” Paul interjected, stepping forward. Though his words bordered on a command, they also rang with compassion. “John, please listen to her. You know she has Pierre’s best interest at heart. I’ll take up your vigil for a while.”

“You?”

“Yes, me,” Paul answered softly, impervious to the snide query.

“It would benefit me to stay. If I hadn’t wasted precious time arguing with Travis outside the chapel, if I had rushed to the lake right away, I might have gotten there before the boat capsized. I’d like to do something, know I’ve helped in some way.”

“You’re not at fault,” John refuted tightly. “I know who’s to blame.”

“John, please. I’ll not fail you this time. I swear I won’t.”

Paul awaited his brother’s response, unsure if his pledge had met its mark.

John pushed out of the chair, swayed, then cast imploring eyes to Charmaine. “Promise me you will not leave Pierre—you won’t permit Blackford access to this room.”

“I—I promise,” she stammered.

“Swear it.”

“I swear it.”

Satisfied, John stared down at Pierre, combed his fingers through the boy’s hair, and staggered from the chamber. Charmaine watched him go, disturbed by a sudden sense of desolation. Even in his incapacitated state, John had radiated an intensity of purpose that had guarded against the enemy. She feared his abandonment and turned worried eyes to Paul.

“No need to fret, Charmaine,” he said, “John will not hold you responsible.”

“Responsible? What do you mean?”

But he hadn’t heard her, for he’d already turned to Rose, who was speaking urgently to him. “You’d best leave immediately if you are to get Robert here before it’s too late.”

Charmaine reeled with the plot being hatched. “
What are you talking about?
You mean to bring Dr. Blackford to this room when you know how John feels about him?”

No answer, their muteness branding them guilty.

“I can’t believe it! You gave your word!”

“Charmaine—”

“Child,” Rose soothed. “There’s no time for explanation. Pierre is dying.”

“No!” Charmaine refuted fiercely. “You’re wrong, terribly wrong!”

“I wish I were. Like John, you deny in your heart what you know to be true. The boy
is
dying and if we don’t call on Dr. Blackford now, tomorrow John will blame himself for more than just this terrible accident.”

“No, he can’t be,” she whispered, her eyes sweeping to Paul, desperately seeking some ray of hope from him, finding only defeat. “You’re betraying John. You’ve deliberately deluded him—tricked him into leaving this room. And I won’t believe Pierre is dying. God wouldn’t claim the life of an innocent boy, not when there are so many praying for his recovery.”

Her words echoed off the walls, then died. No one spoke, though their minds raced, searching for solutions, finding none, aware only that there was no hope to be found in hopelessness, no miracle to be wrested from the firm hand of the Almighty. Charmaine studied Paul. He quickly diverted his distraught gaze. When Rose cast her eyes to the floor, taking on the yoke of the accused, Charmaine turned away, a tear trickling down her cheek.

Silence reigned. She slumped into John’s chair and took succor from the silence, reveling in its blanketing void. It was an unsullied silence, offering a peace she had not enjoyed for three long days. But suddenly, it seemed as if the room had become overwhelmingly silent, as a deeper, more intense silence enveloped her, severing itself from time and becoming an entity in and of itself. She concentrated on the silence, wondering what made it different. It was a silence that negated the gravity of the situation, a silence that lulled one into a false sense of security, a silence undisturbed. The wheezing had stopped.

Charmaine bolted to her feet and threw herself at the bed, grasping Pierre. “Rose! He can’t breathe! I don’t hear him breathing!” She tore away the suffocating blankets and shook him. “Pierre—breathe! Dear God—breathe!”

Her petition went unanswered, and slowly, painfully, the terrible truth took hold. Charmaine looked down at the feeble head that lolled against her arm, the long eyelashes fanning flushed cheeks. With an agonizing groan, she cradled the limp body to her chest, buried her lips in his matted hair, and sobbed.

“Charmaine…”

From far away, she discerned Paul’s voice, felt him loosen her hold on the boy, watched Rose restore the lifeless body back to the center of the bed, was cognizant of being drawn farther from it, her vision blurred, then farther still…

“Let me go!” she protested savagely, reclaiming her sanity, attempting to reach Pierre again.

“Charmaine! Don’t do this!” Paul commanded. “The boy is gone. You’ve held on long enough.”

With the strength of one possessed, she wrenched free, but came up short as she stormed the bed. Pierre lay so very still.

“He’s at peace now,” Rose murmured.

The statement was like a knife in her heart. Refusing to accept it, she fled.

“Charmaine—wait!”

“Let her go,” Rose advised, grabbing hold of Paul’s arm. “She needs to be alone, and I need you here.”

Charmaine reached the stairs and stumbled down them, for blinding tears distorted the shadows around her. More than once, she clutched the banister, catching herself before she fell to the landing below, still, she did not falter in her demonic pace, not even when she reached the foyer. Her legs carried her through the disused ballroom and toward the chapel doors. With muffled sobs, she closed her burning eyes, a fervent prayer racing through her mind,
already on her lips:
Dear Lord, help me to accept Your will and bereave the loss of my loved one. Please…give me the strength to go on…

She passed through the vestibule’s archway before she saw him. Head bowed, John was half-sitting, half-kneeling in the pew nearest her. His elbows were propped on the bench in front of him, his forehead pressed into the white knuckles of his entwined fingers.

She rushed forward, and his head lifted. He jumped up and grabbed hold of her. “What is it?” he demanded. “Pierre—is he all right?”

She hesitated, until he shoved her aside and raced for the doorway.

“John—don’t go up there! You mustn’t go up there.” She put a hand to her mouth as another wave of tears erupted in her throat. “Pierre is dead. Oh God, John, he’s dead.”

He stared, unseeing, as her words amplified—laid siege to his heart and ravaged his soul. Then silence reigned, carrying with it a cross and nails. He threw back his head and laughed pitifully. “And I came here to beg mercy from a God who has none!”

“You mustn’t say that!”

“Why?” he growled. “Because I’ll provoke His wrath?”

He stepped back and shouted at the crucifix suspended above the altar. “Must you punish me forever? Will I never see an end to it?”

“John! Stop it! Please stop!”

“He’s taken everything from me—everyone I’ve ever loved.”

“No, John, it wasn’t the Lord’s doing. He has no reason to persecute you, and you need Him now—the solace only He can offer.”