Healing Grace (16 page)

The only garment she left on was her chemise. It was damp, but not soaked like everything else. Once she had one of the blankets wrapped around her torso and tucked securely, and the second over her shoulders, she felt much better, and finally her teeth stopped chattering.

Several more minutes went by before she convinced herself to climb the ladder. The only reason really, was to see what Etienne was doing. As soon as she was high enough to peer over, she broke into a grin.

The lamp bathed his form, curled on his side and wrapped so snuggly in a blanket, even his arms were tucked in. He’d fashioned a pillow out of hay with one corner of the blanket draped across it.

Three things occurred to her as she hoisted herself the rest of the way up and worked at creating her own hay palate opposite the lantern. The first was that the loft was much warmer than the lower level. Not only that, but the roof was in better condition. It wasn’t leaking anywhere. The second was that he’d only found three blankets, and two of them he’d given to her. The third was that up here the sickly sweet scent of him didn’t permeate and overwhelm. Up here, she couldn’t smell him at all. It was funny, but he looked younger somehow, in repose.

Constance had no intention of napping too, but as she settled in, propped against a hay bale, while listening to the steady rainfall, her eyelids grew heavy. Soon enough there didn’t seem any point to fighting the lethargy.

Something propelled her, not just to open her eyes, but to sit up. At first she thought the voice was from below, that someone had come into the barn. Hearing it again her head swiveled instantly to Etienne.

No longer was he cocooned. He’d flung the blanket away and rolled to his back. Although he wasn’t flailing exactly, he was far from peaceful. His expression alone gave that away. Again he spoke, but the mumbled words were indecipherable.

“Etienne,” Constance said softly, hoping not to jar him too badly. “Are you okay?”

“C’est de ma faute. Je suis désolé… désolé.”

The words were rushed and slurred, but this time she understood. He was speaking French. He’d said it was his fault and he was sorry.

“Etienne,” she repeated, louder this time. “You’re dreaming. Wake up.”

But he didn’t wake up.

“Je ne pouvais pas les sauver. Ils sont tous mort à cause de moi. J’ai essayé, mais il était trop tard. Ils sont morts. C’est de ma faute. C’est de ma faute.”

Constance scrambled over, and still the whimpers cascaded out of him. He couldn’t save them he’d said. He’d tried, but was too late. They were all dead because of him.

Hunkered down by his side, she murmured, “Shhh, Etienne, wake up. It’s just a dream.”

Although he didn’t touch her at all, he sat up so abruptly, she fell back and landed on her rump. The sudden movement was enough to dislodge the blanket tucked at her chest. But Constance didn’t have time to repair it. Etienne couldn’t breathe.

His knees were up, his arms wrapped around them and his head down, and his torso heaved so badly the ribs in his back protruded with each guttural gasp. She thought he was awake, but then she wasn’t sure, because between each harsh inhale, he kept on,
“Ils sont morts et c’est de ma faute. Faites-les arrêter. Je suis désolé. C’est de ma faute.”

Constance did the only thing she could think of. She reached out to him. The heat of his skin was enough to burn her hands, but she didn’t back away. “It’s not your fault. It’s not.”

“Ohhhh… ohhhh…”
he groaned and shuddered.
“C’est de ma faute...”

In the next instant his arms were around her, and his head ducked against her shoulder, while ragged blasts of hot air seared her collarbone. Constance held on too, as if her arms could still his violent tremors. She stroked his hair, breathed in the scent of him—not the nasty smell but the other one, the fresh dewy scent—and murmured, “It’s not your fault. It’s not your fault. It’s okay. It’s over now.”

How long they remained like that, she didn’t know, but it was a while before his breathing slowed and he lifted his head. Never before could she remember being as struck. The utter despair reflecting through the brimming pools—pools that had spilled over enough to dampen and cling to his lashes—was her undoing.

At least later, his tears, along with her own attack of momentary insanity, were what she blamed for the next and most foolish act of her life.

She closed the mere inches that separated them and kissed him. On the mouth.

“Constance…” he whispered. “Constance…” And their lips connected again, but not fleetingly. The brush of his was heavier, insistent, opening her mouth under him. One of his hands came to the back of her neck to hold her in place. “Constance…” he breathed, slanting, delving deeper. “
Ma chérie
… Constance…”

He said other things while he kissed her, and he wasn’t still, either. His hands roamed, over her shoulders, along her arms, removing blankets, unfastening the buttons at the top of her chemise, dipping in to brush over her breasts.

“Oh… god… so beautiful… Constance…”

Next he dug into her hair, loosening the tie and spreading the pleats to plunge his fingers through the tresses.

“I’ve wanted to do this all evening… Constance…”

With his free hand, he trickled over her bare foot, up her shin to her knee, her thigh, lifting the light fabric higher and higher.

“Your legs… so gorgeous… Constance…”

He laid her back onto the blanket on the hay and slowly, inch by inch, lowered the chemise, baring her chest for his mouth’s pleasure, then her hips, and farther until the garment was tossed away.

“Chérie… si belle…”
Beside her he lay, his heaviness partially covering her. “…I want you so badly…”

Those words had never been spoken to Constance before, but she knew what they meant. It didn’t take long for his skimpy britches to disappear, for his hands to be on her thighs, pressing her legs apart, for demanding fingers to be sweeping in. Constance kept her eyes closed as he centered over her, but not seeing didn’t prevent her from feeling or hearing.

He opened her mouth with his again, matching the rhythm below, thrusting, filling her.

“Constance…
ooooh
… it’s been a long time for me… too long… oh god…”

For a moment he stilled, resting his forehead against hers. One of his arms was beside her head, holding his weight. The other went lower, his fingers splayed under her to pull her against him, and he began to move again.

“…mmmm… mmmm… mmmm… mmmm
… Oh, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry… ohhhhhh…”

The next thing she knew he withdrew and rolled away.

When George had done this to her, she’d been the same, lying as limply as possible, letting him do what husbands do. She’d learned it was less awful that way. But George had never centered over her like Etienne. George had liked his hands free to do… other things. Etienne hadn’t done any of those things. George had never kissed her for so long, or so tenderly, either. He’d never whispered complimentary words or moaned softly as he moved. George hadn’t done anything slowly or softly. George had never lain beside her when he was finished.

Did that mean Etienne wasn’t finished? Constance had thought so, but now she wasn’t sure. She didn’t know why her throat was tight, or why tears gathered in her eyes. She never cried when George had come to her room. Even when he’d done everything he could to make her cry, she hadn’t. So why she was so overcome now, she couldn’t figure. What she did know was that she had to get control, because if she didn’t, Etienne would find out and no matter what, she couldn’t allow that.

She sat up and reached for her discarded chemise. Quickly she slipped it over her head. Her next intention was to grab a blanket and scramble away, but Etienne didn’t let her. His hand was on her back, his fingertips grazing so gently, they tickled.

“I’m sorry,” he said, chuckling lightly. “So much for our romantic tryst, eh? This is embarrassing.”

She couldn’t look at him, because he’d done nothing to cover himself. She couldn’t turn either, because no matter how hard she’d tried to hold them at bay, tears slipped out. The trails tracked down her cheeks and dripped from her chin.

“I…I haven’t been with a woman for a long time… not since… since I was married,” he murmured. Tugging gently at her hair, he went on, “I’d like to make it up to you. It sounds like the rain finally stopped. We can go back to your house, have some pie. And I promise I’ll do better. If you’ll give me another chance.”

Constance didn’t say anything. She didn’t look back, but she knew by sound and shadows that he’d yanked his underclothing on. He remained there, sitting behind her.

“Do you have any idea how alluring you are? I’m exceedingly jealous of Simpson. And I have a confession to make. I was in the woods by the schoolhouse, spying on you when he brought you flowers last week. I saw him kiss you and I wanted to pummel him. Will you forgive me for asking you to sleep with him? Please? The request is fully rescinded, by the way. I want you to stay away from him. As far away as possible.”

Constance could hear the mirth in his tone. She didn’t know whether this meant he wasn’t serious or if it was self-effacing, but she thought it might be the latter.

He plucked at her chemise and went on, “I should also tell you I saw you bathing the dog, wearing just this, and you were wet…” His hands trailed over her shoulders and down to cup her breasts. “…right here…” As he caressed her there, he whispered, “I’d never been so captivated in my life. I wanted you then, and I want you now.”

His next path was a slow tickle up her arms, raising goosebumps everywhere, and then he delved into her hair.

“Shall I fix this the way it was? For the ride back? So long as you let me take it out again? I love your hair.” Already he was separating the mess into three strands. “I’m not very good at braiding, but I’ll try. Oh, you’re cold. Why didn’t you say so,
chérie?”

The only thing she could guess was that he’d noticed her shiver. Constance remained as still as possible while he draped a blanket around her shoulders. She didn’t move either, as his hands went once more to her hair, but he didn’t pull or yank. Slowly, carefully he folded the strands over each other, one after the other.

“Where’s that tie? Oh, here,” he murmured. “
Voilà!
Doesn’t look half bad if I do say so myself. Doing this for my nieces has paid off.”

She could hear his grin as his arms came around to embrace her from behind. Throughout his ramblings, though her tears kept falling, she’d held back the sniffles, but she couldn’t any longer. Her nose betrayed her twice, three times.

“Constance?
Ma chérie?
What’s the matter?”

His fingers came under her chin to turn her head. For a moment she remained firm, but quickly realized the futility of it. He could easily overpower her. Just like George used to.

“You’re crying?” he sounded so sincere, so concerned. George had never spoken to her that way. Ever. “Please tell me why. Did I hurt you?”

She shook her head. He hadn’t. Not in the slightest. And that was the strangest thing of all.

“Is it… is it because of Simpson? You’ve already slept with him?”

“No.” The simple word sounded like a bird’s squawk. “I…I would like to go home.”

“Yes, of course. Let me help you.”

Before she could move, he was on his haunches in front of her, holding his hand out. It reminded her of when she’d fainted. That was the first time he’d made her float. This time, however, she didn’t put her fingers in his. She didn’t touch him at all as she stood up.

She didn’t accept his assistance as she struggled to keep the blankets in place and find purchase on the ladder rungs. While grappling to put on the soggy dress, she kept her back to him. Still she knew, even though he was getting dressed as well, he was watching her. By then, thankfully, she was no longer sniveling and her eyes were dry.

“Can I help?” he asked of the buttons she was straining to fasten.

Constance shook her head. She had enough buttoned to keep the gown from falling off. The rest didn’t matter.

Once they were on the road, she increased the pace until she was speeding as fast as she dared while riding sidesaddle. Although Etienne was no longer rambling confessions and compliments, he stayed right beside her. She didn’t look at him, but she felt his lingering glances.

At the shed, he was off Igore and beside her, again willing to lend a hand. Constance pressed Izzy forward, a step or two beyond his reach, and jumped down on her own.

“Will you let me take care of Izzy for you?” he asked.

“Thank you. I appreciate that,” she said. Unable to look at him, she started past.

“Constance, please…” Etienne caught her hand. “Tell me what’s wrong. Tell me what I did.”

“You didn’t do anything.”

He took a breath and released it slowly. “May I… may I stay with you tonight? Please.”

Constance wrenched her hand away and fled across the lawn. Safely inside her house with Rex by her side, she leaned against the door and prayed silently Etienne wouldn’t knock.

She remained where she was, listening. She heard Igore’s dulled clip-clops in the grass and then on the road slowly becoming fainter and fainter. She listened until there was nothing but silence. Then, and only then, did her sobs begin anew.