Healing Grace (29 page)

That was when Etienne began to silently pray. He prayed, not for Julien to live, but for God to take him. Tears welled in Etienne’s eyes. His throat grew raw, and though he hated himself for it, the prayer didn’t change. He wanted Julien to die, not because it would end Julien’s suffering, not even to relieve Jessica’s, but because Etienne couldn’t stand it anymore. Each grating breath Julien took was a skewer driving deeper into Etienne’s chest.

That night, Etienne didn’t believe he would sleep, but he did. Dawn was cresting when he woke, except at first he didn’t know where he was. He raised his head, trying to figure it out, and discovered a crick in his neck from the hard angle of the sofa corner.

Everything was silent. Eerily silent. Not even the birds outside were chirping. As the events of the past few days slammed, moment by moment, into his head, he realized what the silence meant.

The rattle was no more. At some point, while he and Jessica slept, Julien had slipped to the other side. His brother was gone. Permanently. This time it was too late for Jessica to yell ‘I love you’ until he came back.

Etienne’s heart began to hammer. He choked. His eyes smarted. It was his fault, because he’d asked for it. In that moment all he wanted was to take his prayer back, to tell God he was wrong.

With a shaking hand he ran fingers through his hair. He didn’t know if his legs would hold him. As it was, his first steps toward the bed were more of a stagger than a walk. But eventually he was there, by the bed, staring at the couple lying upon it.

They were in exactly the same position, and Jessica’s eyes remained closed in peaceful slumber. In death, Julien appeared just as serene. The gray tinge to his skin was gone. Even his lips were no longer that ghastly blueish shade. And his mouth wasn’t open. He wasn’t struggling for each drop of air. There was no movement, no sound, just stillness and silence.

Except they weren’t exactly in the same position! Etienne’s own labored breathing stumbled over itself. Their hands were different.

Jessica’s hand wasn’t on top of Julien’s the way it had been. Instead Julien’s was on top of hers. His fingers were the ones curled tightly between her knuckles, not the other way around.

This was the nightmare Etienne couldn’t let go of—Jessica screaming because Julien’s death-stiffened hand was crushing hers. In the dream, no matter how hard Etienne tried to pry Julien’s fingers open, he couldn’t. He couldn’t budge them.

But in reality, that’s not what happened. Jessica, Etienne said, must have sensed his presence, because she opened her eyes.

“Jessie,” he choked. He had to say her name a second time to make it audible. His throat was so tight, his eyes blurring, his chest burning. He had to grab the bedpost to keep from collapsing. “Julien is… he’s… ”

“Shhh,” she interrupted. “He’s fine. He’s sleeping.”

She didn’t understand. She was experiencing some sort of delusional denial. Etienne didn’t know what to say, what to do.

“He’s going to be fine,” Jessica repeated. “When he wakes, you’ll see. He’s better.”

As if on cue, Julien’s eyes slowly opened, just as anybody’s would upon waking from a decent night’s respite, and he murmured, “Jess?”

THUMP. THUMP. THUMP.

“I’m here, Julien. I’m right here,” Jessica said.

She said more, asking Julien if he was okay, if he felt better, but Etienne couldn’t see her, because his knees had finally—and fully—given out. The thumps had been him, hitting the carpet.

He was still there, trying to scramble off his rump when he heard his brother speak again. This time Julien didn’t sound groggy with sleep, though he didn’t sound normal. He was weak, but it was definitely him. And he wasn’t lying against the pillow, too feeble to raise his own head. Julien was up, perched on an elbow, peering over the side of the bed, and Jessica was right behind him, looking down at Etienne, too.

“Eddy?” Julien had murmured. “Why are you on the floor?”

“Ma belle chérie,”
Etienne whispered as his arms snaked around Constance from behind. “What are you thinking about so earnestly?”

“You,” she whispered, letting her weight settle against his strength.

“Me?” he kissed her cheek, her ear, then pulled lightly on her earlobe with his teeth. “Because you want me to nibble elsewhere? A little further down, perhaps?”

“I wouldn’t call it nibbling,” she murmured.

He laughed at that, as she knew he would.

“Yes, I want you to…
er
… nibble,” she whispered. “Anytime you want, feel free to nibble away.”

“Oh,
chérie
, you have no idea how you thrill me,” his husky undertone tickled her. “I must have you…
mmm
… all day today…”

Already he was going for the belt of the robe, undoing the loose tie she’d put in it. Constance put her hands over his to stop him, not because she didn’t want him to—she did want him to—but she needed to tell him something first. And it didn’t matter that it wasn’t even noon yet. Five days had passed. Five days of him excessively giving, and, despite his claims to the contrary, taking nothing in return. Five days of wrestling with the right words. Constance still didn’t know what they were.

“What is it,
chérie?”
he murmured.

It occurred to her that speaking French might be easier. Except that seemed silly, since her conversational French was quite poor. Her accent alone would probably send his head spinning. Never mind that she had spoken to him in French before. That was different, though. Then, she’d been trying to comfort him.

She turned in his embrace as the robe slid off her shoulders and pooled at their feet. He was wearing his under-britches. Then again, in the last five days, the only time he’d put trousers on was when he went to teach at the schoolhouse, or to town to run errands. She knew he liked it when she touched him—his arms, his chest—so she did that, and she kissed him.

“Mmm,
chérie
, come to bed,” he whispered.

“No.”

“Non? Mais tu es belle et j’ai envie de toi.”

“I…I…”

“What do you want,
chérie?
Have I neglected you here… here… here…?”

She caught his roving hands. “I… don’t want you to… have to… run out of the bedroom anymore.” There. She’d said it. As best as she knew how.

His mouth was on hers. In his arms, she floated down, down to the bed, while his voice whispered to her,
“Oooo… ma douce chérie… mmm… oui, je vais t’aimer—”

BANG. BANG. BANG.

“Colonel, sir!” a voice heralded from beyond the front door—a voice loud enough to be heard all the way in the bedroom. Of course the windows were open, which could have accounted for the tidal wave of sound.

Rex only added to the chaos, paw nails clicking on the floor and barking frenetically as he went racing through the hallway.

Etienne was already up, stumbling across the room for the trousers he’d left hanging over the back of a chair. Constance grabbed the robe from the floor, but she wasn’t as fast as Etienne. He was still buttoning, but moving toward the bedroom door.

BANG. BANG. BANG.
“Colonel!”

“Is that your adjutant?” Constance asked.

“I believe so. As always his timing is idyllic. Stay here,
chérie
. I’ll find out what he wants.”

A moment later, still shirtless, though Constance was sure he would have finished fastening his trouser buttons, he shushed Rex, swung the door open and bellowed, “What!” Immediately his tone lowered. “Oh. Sorry. Hello, Sadie.” Then he said, “Good god, Sam, what did you do to your face?”

Constance could only guess what Etienne meant about Sam’s face. Apparently, however, Sam wasn’t alone. Thinking of Sadie having to view Etienne in his half-undressed state was enough to make Constance cover her mouth to hold back giggles.

“I’m fine, sir. Thank you, sir. But may we have a word with you?” Sam said. Then he added, “We’d also like to speak with Mrs. Pruitt, sir.”

Constance scrambled. She didn’t have any dresses handy. All week Etienne had chosen her clothes, and he’d put away the laundry—why she’d let him, she didn’t know—so she didn’t know which drawers held what. Whatever dress she chose would also require a chemise and stockings, and a petticoat, though she could get away without a corset…

“At the moment Mrs. Pruitt is…
er
… indisposed. What do you need, Sam?” Etienne asked.

Constance groaned. He’d made it sound like she was having an elongated stay in the outhouse. The robe may be gauche, but it covered her well enough, so long as the lapels weren’t fixed Etienne-style. With one last tug at the belt to ensure the knot was secure, she padded out of the bedroom.

Sam saw her first. Sadie, who was meekly standing behind him with her hands clasped in front of her, saw Constance, too. And oh dear, by the looks of the bruises on Sam’s face, he’d been in a fight. Poor Sadie didn’t look much better!

Etienne must have noticed their eyes dart her direction, because he spun. The minute his gaze settled on her, his expression softened and he held out his hand. Constance crossed to him to put hers in it.

As his grip tightened around her fingers, he said, “Sam, are you looking for a quick word, or do you need to come in and sit?”

“It will be quick, sir,” Sam said. “We don’t have to come in.”

“Alright. You have Mrs. Pruitt’s and my undivided attention. What is it?”

“Perhaps you didn’t hear, sir, but a week ago, my brother ran off. Sadie and I have been searching for him.”

“No, I didn’t know. I’m sorry, Sam. But why didn’t you tell me before now? You knew how to get in touch with me. I would have gladly helped you look for him. Never mind. Did you find him—Archie—is he alright?”

“We haven’t found him yet, sir. But we do have a lead. That’s why we’re here.”

“What’s the lead?”

“Yesterday a man befriended Archie and offered him a job on his farm taking care of chickens. Archie went off with him. The problem is we don’t know where this man’s farm is and have no way of figuring it out. The only thing we know is his name is Oscar. We’ve asked around town, but no one seems to know of a farmer named Oscar. We even went to the post office, but got nowhere there, either.” He paused briefly, then said, “Sadie and I were wondering if you, or Mrs. Pruitt, more particularly since she is a resident here, knows of a farmer who goes by the name Oscar.”

“I don’t,” Etienne said. “Constance?”

The name sounded familiar, but Constance couldn’t place it. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t know anyone named Oscar, either.”

“Have you asked Trent or Emily? They know everyone around here,” Etienne suggested.

“I would have, sir, but Mr. Emerson and Major Grace took their wives and children to Nashville yesterday. They went to the opera, I believe. As of yet, they haven’t returned, sir.”

Etienne let go of Constance’s hand and spun away so fast Constance startled. She could see by his expression he was furious, but he said nothing. Instead he stomped off toward the bedroom. Her guess was that he hadn’t known his brother and the Emersons had left town. For them to do so wasn’t wise, not when Luther’s killer was still out there, and that same killer wanted them dead, too.

Constance took a step closer to the door, intending to tell Sam and Sadie she would get ready right away and help search for Archie, but the closer proximity to the stoop allowed her to see what she’d missed. Sam and Sadie weren’t the only callers to her home. Harry Simpson was standing in the yard. And he’d brought flowers—flowers that fell out of his hand and landed on the ground with a splat.

His stricken expression made it clear he’d seen Etienne shirtless. He’d seen her as well, garbed in nothing but a slinky summer robe. “Harry! Wait!” she called out, but she was too late. He was already running away.

Constance had never wanted to hurt Harry. The very idea that she had was mortifying. But, dressed as she was, she couldn’t go after him to try to explain, or to at least apologize. And Sadie and Sam were still standing on the stoop.

“I’m sorry,” she told them. “I’ll go talk to Etienne, and we’ll help look for Archie. We’ll have to catch up to you. Are you going back to town? Is there a place we can meet so we can iron out a plan?”

“In front of the railroad office? Will that work?” Sam asked.

“That will be fine.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Pruitt,” he said, but Constance was already closing the door and hurrying back to the bedroom.

Etienne was there, pacing like a caged tiger.

“We have to help find Archie.”

“Yes,” he said.

“Are you upset because your brother went to Nashville and didn’t tell you?”

“No. He’ll be fine. But of course you already know that.”

“What?” He confused her. “Then what’s wrong?”

“I want you. All of you,” he said. “That’s what’s wrong.”

She almost smiled. He was mad because their lovemaking had been interrupted, and now they had to leave. “You’re a passionate man, Colonel Grace.”

“You make me passionate,” he said. “Did you see your
friend
in the yard?”