A Silent Ocean Away (25 page)

The blessing of sisterhood was now a liability, and the desolation they read in each other’s faces was beginning to affect Pierre, who already cherished memories of his mother. Just tonight, they cruelly chastised him when he innocently called Charmaine “Mama” instead of “Mainie.” With bottom lip quivering, he ran to her, crying hysterically as he buried his face in her skirts.

It was the last straw. “This sniveling has gone on long enough!” she struck out, furious. “Look what you’ve done, making Pierre feel guilty just because he’s happy again.
Why?
Do you want to add to your mother’s suffering?”

Yvette retaliated with: “Mama isn’t suffering anymore—only we are!”

“You think not?” Charmaine countered. “You think she’s found peace knowing her children can’t be happy without her? How can she even think about heaven when the two of you hold her bound to earth, imprisoned in this very room with your self-pity?”

The plausible words sent Jeannette into tears. “You—you make it sound as if we shouldn’t miss her—as if—as if we shouldn’t cry for her!”

Charmaine’s face softened, yet her voice remained hard. If a dose of severity were efficacious in getting them to talk to her, she’d lace her words with it. “You’re not crying for your mother. You’re crying for yourselves.”

“What’s wrong with that?” Yvette demanded.

“Not a thing, had it been a month ago or a few times each day. But you have been crying every hour of every day for too many days now. You’re not even trying to accept the Good Lord’s decision to take your Mama to paradise with Him. She should be at peace now, not worrying over you. But you’ve not thought of anyone but yourselves—not your brother, not your father, nor anyone else in this house who grieves as you do. Poor Mrs. Henderson, she’s so upset you won’t touch the special treats she’s prepared just for you, that you’re withering away. And Nana Rose, she’s known your mama longer than the two of you have, and have you hugged her even once? Or your brother Paul, who took time out of his busy schedule to spend the day with you? You cast aside his attempt to console you and hurt him. I’m ashamed of you! And what of me? Do you realize how difficult it’s been for me to watch you like this?”

Charmaine sighed deeply, her voice growing irenic. “I understand your tears, and I know there will be many more over the months to come,
but not like this.
Right now, they’ve become a ter
rible burden to all of us. If you really miss your mother, if you truly want to make her happy, you’d best dry those eyes and start living. I’m certain wherever you run, wherever you play, your mother will be watching from heaven. I’m equally certain she’d enjoy seeing you smile a great deal more than she would seeing you cry.”

The room fell silent. Surprisingly, neither offered a rebuttal.

Charmaine walked over to Pierre, pleased to find her lecture had lulled him to sleep. She crossed to the doorway and stopped. “You can’t bring your mother back with tears,” she concluded. “I wish you could, but you can’t. She’s been dead for over a month now, and during that month, you’ve ravaged her soul in much the same way her illness ravaged her body. It is time to show her how much you really love her.”

Now, minutes later, sitting alone in her bedroom, Charmaine wondered if they had listened or shut her out. Had she been too hard on them? Hurt them? Suddenly, she was angry with herself. Returning to the nursery, she was astonished to find them asleep. Maybe they had heard. Maybe God would answer her prayers this night.

Wednesday, May 17, 1837

Disgusted, Agatha Ward lifted the untouched tray of food and left the master’s quarters. Frederic refused to eat, deciding two weeks ago this was the easiest way to follow his wife to the grave. He had not wavered from his insane plan. Nor had he budged from the chair that faced Colette’s bedchamber, as if she still lay on the other side of the connecting portal.

Starvation was an ugly thing, but Agatha would not allow him that final triumph. She’d arrest the situation before it was too late. To that end, she swiftly stepped in for Travis Thornfield, horrified to learn ten days had lapsed. The manservant, beside himself with worry, was only too happy to allow her to take charge.

That had been three days ago, three days of ineffectual empa
thizing, coaxing, reasoning, entreating, and finally, ranting. Agatha’s thoughts raced to Paul, wishing him home. But even if the younger man were here, what could he do that she hadn’t already tried? Nothing.

Frederic, refusing everything but water, was a wretched sight to behold, with a full fortnight’s beard, disheveled hair, gaunt cheeks, and crazed eyes. His tailored clothing hung limp from his emaciated body. But his weakness was deceptive: cross the line, challenge his suicidal crusade, and his despondency evaporated like a drop of water in a scorching desert, replaced by a rabid fury that shook even his stalwart sister-in-law.

Tonight, Agatha would not be shaken or deterred. Tonight she would win this unholy war. She looked down at the tray once more, then back at the closed door. If Frederic wanted to dwell on his dead wife, she would make him think again. The time had come to remind him exactly what type of woman Colette had been—to make him reconsider his misplaced affections. A drastic measure, perhaps, but dire circumstances called for merciless intervention.

Robert Blackford hastened to the Duvoisin estate and waited patiently in the drawing room as Travis went in search of his sister. He didn’t need to be told why he’d been urgently summoned at so late an hour, though Agatha’s swiftly penned note painted a gruesome picture. He’d heard of Frederic’s “grief” from any number of patients throughout the week; the entire island loved gossip, especially Duvoisin gossip. Apparently, Frederic was not adjusting to his wife’s demise.

If the rumors were as bad as they sounded, present conditions threatened to eclipse those of the distant past. He chuckled with the irony of it. Even the players were the same, save the wives. A score and eight years ago, that role had been played by his younger sister, Elizabeth. Her death had shaken the great Frederic
Duvoisin’s sanity as surely as Colette’s death shook it now. There had also been a child involved, an infant—John. Robert shuddered with the memory, and even today, wondered how Frederic had survived intact. He remembered fearing for his own life; Frederic had held him responsible for Elizabeth’s death. But then, Robert blamed himself as well. True, the baby had been breech, a dangerous delivery at best, but he had needed her to live, his own happiness contingent upon her recovery. Yet, she slipped into unconsciousness and never awoke, and Frederic had never forgiven him.

But Elizabeth was not the problem this night, Colette was: A new time, a new event, and for all the mirrored circumstances, a new pain. There was Frederic’s age to consider, as well. He was no longer a man of thirty-three, in the prime of life. He was over sixty and badly beaten by a harsh world. He was also intent upon giving up, bolstering the probability of success. Though the outcome should have pleased Robert, bringing the long and winding road to an end, he feared Frederic’s death would destroy Agatha. This compelled him to intercede. For his twin sister, he would put a stop to the man’s self-destruction.

At the sound of the drawing room door opening, he pivoted around, placing under lock and key the painful decision he had just made. “Miss Ryan,” he acknowledged in surprise, having expected a servant or his sister.

“Dr. Blackford,” she nodded, equally surprised. She had not seen the man since Colette’s death and wondered why he was here now.

“I suppose the children are abed?” he asked.

“Well over an hour ago,” Charmaine answered. “It’s quite late.”

“So it is,” he said, checking his pocket watch. He snapped it shut, replaced it, then considered her speculatively. Agatha held
the girl both inadequate and insubordinate. Still, Robert wondered what information he might garner if he drew her out. “How
are
the children?”

Stunned, Charmaine canted her head. The man had never conversed with her before. “Better,” she replied cautiously. “They’ve accepted their mother’s passing, but as for their grief, it remains. They have not forgotten her.”

“Nor should they. Nevertheless, you are to be congratulated on seeing them through this terrible time,” he praised. “Agatha tells me you have worked wonders. If only I could be that effective when meeting with their father tonight.”

Charmaine didn’t require an explanation. Frederic had not emerged from his impenetrable quarters since Colette’s death, and the rumor he was starving himself had taken root. Thankfully, Jeannette had stopped asking to visit him. Charmaine didn’t want the children exposed to that horror.

Agatha arrived and whisked Robert away. Feeling lonely, Charmaine rummaged through the music drawer and found the piece she was seeking. It was perfect for this night: why not a haunting melody to release the ghosts that trampled her soul? She propped the pages on the piano stand, arranged her skirts, and let her fingers sing.

Frederic remained slumped in the high-backed armchair, contemplating death and the ease with which it evaded him. A knock at the door, and his listlessness gave way to ire. Damn them! When would they accept his decision to die? Was he not master of this house? Why, then, was everyone hell-bent on stopping him? He
would
follow Colette into the next world, and those of this world be damned if they didn’t like it!

He ignored the second rap, the third, and the fourth. But the persistent intruders would not retreat. After the fifth knock, they
entered without permission. Now, sister and brother hovered nearby, assessing him as if he were not present. Robert stepped closer still, abruptly gripping the arms of his chair. He leaned over and looked him square in the face, willing his hooded eyes to lift in acknowledgment. “Frederic?” he demanded.

Frederic remained impassive, affording not the slightest indication he’d heard or was aware of the “visitors” who had come to converse with him.

Blackford straightened up and faced his sister, hands on hips.

“Didn’t I tell you?” Agatha whispered as if she knew he was listening, yet not hushed enough to be inaudible. “He has been like this for the better part of two weeks—since Paul left for Espoir.”

“And this will come to an end,” Blackford snarled. “Frederic—look at me!”

Frederic tilted his head back and shot him a piercing glare.

The raw condemnation shook Robert. “That’s better,” he muttered, nervously adjusting his waistcoat. He dragged a chair even with Frederic, sat, and forced himself to meet the enraged gaze levelly. With Agatha standing behind him, he could do this. “It is time we talked,” he began. “Colette is dead, and nothing can change that. You, on the other hand, are very much alive. This lunacy stops tonight.”

The declaration elicited no reply, and though the eyes remained stormy, Robert began doubting the man’s coherency. “Frederic—are you listening to me?” he pressed. “Do you understand what I’m telling you? You cannot go on like this! Surely you don’t intend to meet such an end?” Still no response, just the branding eyes. “I tell you, I won’t permit it,” he threatened. “Even if I have to order you held down and force fed!
Do you hear me?
”

“The good doctor, come to save my life,” Frederic remarked, his deep voice raspy, as if he worked hard at speaking. But for all
his difficulty, the chilling statement was not lost on brother and sister, who were taken aback.

“Yes,” Blackford reaffirmed as he squirmed in his chair, “if need be.”

Frederic grunted. “I desire death, and you,
dear friend
, come to interfere?”

The query was a slap in the face. “You don’t know what you are about!” Robert railed, reflecting on the countless services he had performed for this man for the better part of thirty years. “You are mad if you think the afterlife is going to reward you with what you desire!”

“
What I desire?
” Frederic thundered. “
What I desire?
I’ll tell you what I desire. I desire what you’ve taken from me! Not once, but twice!”

Blackford bristled. The man
did
blame him! “I’ve taken nothing from you,” he answered softly.

“Haven’t you?” Frederic sneered through parched lips. “Elizabeth wasn’t enough—”

“There was nothing I could do!” Blackford expostulated, losing his composure. “John’s was a breech birth and he—he alone stole Elizabeth’s life. I thought you comprehended the severity of that delivery!”

Frederic’s eyes grew baleful. “Leave me alone. I don’t want to hear your excuses. I accepted them once, but never again.” He bowed his throbbing head and grumbled, “You cannot explain away Colette’s death so easily.”

“I will not be blamed again for a situation beyond my control!”

Frederic’s head snapped up. “
Beyond your control, man?
She was under your constant care for nearly a year! How, in God’s name, did the situation get beyond your control? And don’t talk to me about this fancy condition you call ‘pneumonia’! If it was as deadly as you
knew it to be, it should have been arrested in its infancy. You were by her bedside for weeks! So tell me,
Doctor
—how can you stand there and maintain the situation was ‘beyond your control’?”

“Because it was,” Robert bit out malignantly. “Colette did not die of pneumonia, though it contributed to her weakness. I told you years ago: No more children. Delivering twins was too much for her. But did you listen? No, you pressed yourself upon her, and she found herself carrying Pierre.”

Frederic’s jaw grew rigid, but Robert callously continued. “Again, another strain, yet you were lucky, and she survived. But she did not recover unscathed. Last spring, you almost lost her; the most minor illness can easily take hold. And that is exactly what happened with the pneumonia. But there’s more, Frederic. Not one week after she contracted that infirmity, she suffered a miscarriage.”

Frederic inhaled sharply, and Robert fed on the man’s horrified expression, his courage suddenly limitless. “That’s right—a miscarriage. Her weakened constitution made it impossible to carry the baby to term, and for days, I was unable to stem the bleeding. That bath was the worst thing for her. I warned her. She knew the risks.”