Healing Grace (21 page)

“Open your eyes,” he said. “Look at me,
chérie
.”

George had never cared whether her eyes were open. She didn’t want to open them. She didn’t want to see… anything. Etienne was on the bed with her. She knew because the mattress dipped. And he was above her, leaning over her, his face so close she could feel his breath. His hand was running up and down her leg… her shin, her calf, the outside of her thigh, the inside…

“Open your eyes,” he repeated. “I don’t want you to fall asleep yet. I want you to watch me make love to you.”

She thought he was going to kiss her, but he didn’t, not on the lips. His mouth and hands were trailing down the center of her, and going so slowly, lingering here and there, taking an exorbitant amount of time in some places. But he didn’t squeeze or pinch. He didn’t slap, or twist, or claw, or bite. Still Constance dug her fingers into the bedding beneath her, wishing he would stop, and just… just get the pounding over with. So he could go away.

Lower still he went, his hands running up and down her thighs, pressing them wider, as his tongue tickled her stomach. Lower, lower…

Constance’s eyes widened, and although she wasn’t supposed to move, she couldn’t help it. Her hands pressed into the mattress. He was doing things to her she’d never felt before. And she didn’t know what to do!

“No… don’t… please…” she whispered.

“Oh, yes…
chérie
…” he breathed against her most intimate place. “I’m going to… for a very long time… until you can’t take anymore… until you beg me to come to you.”

He was mocking her. Tears sprang to her eyes. All she could see was his hair. With his head buried like that—when she couldn’t see his face—he looked so much like George. She knew better than to try to get away, but she also knew the sore scabs on her elbows and shoulders would be nothing compared to what she would soon endure.

Maybe it was the drink in her? She didn’t know what it was, but this time she didn’t listen to the voice in her head telling her to keep still and let him have his way. Squeezing her eyes shut, she screeched, “Stop it! Stop it! Just do what you have to do! Just get it over with.”

Etienne did stop, and though she didn’t look at him, she felt him abruptly back away. But this wasn’t the end. He still had to shove himself in, to ram into her over and over again, to make her hurt…

“Please… just do what you have to do…” she murmured again.

“
Chérie
… my god, love…” he said, but he didn’t sound angry. She didn’t know how he sounded, but he closed in again. She could smell him, feel the heat of him, looming and vicious.

He touched her, the faintest touch on her head, and she shrieked. And just like that, his hand withdrew. Not just his hand, but all of him. She knew where he was going this time—to get the leather strap. He would tell her she deserved it.

But no punishing blows came. Instead a blanket was drawn over her—a soft afghan. Only then did she dare to open her eyes. He was there, standing by the bed, and he’d put his britches on. For a second the expression on his face confused her. It was only when she noticed how drawn his brows were that she realized he was angry. When George was angry, it meant…

“Please,” she whimpered. “Please don’t hurt me anymore.”

The schoolteacher was asleep. Finally. Rex was on the carpet beside the bed. Although the dog’s head rested on his paws, his eyes were open. As they should be.

“Keep watch over your mistress,” Etienne whispered, and he could have sworn the pup nodded. Then again, it wasn’t easy to see with only ambient light coming from the sitting room. The bedroom was dark.

It wasn’t long before he doused the lamps in the sitting room, as well. The only remaining light in the house came from the lantern he carried. He was tiptoeing toward the back of the house when he heard the knock at the front door. For a moment he considered ignoring it. The danger in that, however, was that Constance might awaken. And whoever it was, knowing she was home, might keep pounding until she answered. The added complication was Rex. The dog didn’t bark, as if he knew better than to make noise, but he was out of the bedroom and high-tailing it toward the front room.

Etienne followed the dog, ducking where needed through the hallway, wondering who would call on Constance at this hour. It was past nine o’clock on a Sunday night. He set the lamp on a nearby table and yanked the door open.

The man on the stoop was none other than Harry Simpson, holding a picnic basket, of all things. Etienne should have known.

“Oh, you’re still here,” Harry said.

The man’s tone was timid, yet Etienne was sure Simpson was annoyed. So he should be if Etienne’s theory was correct, and he was ninety-nine percent certain it was. Simpson showing up again was actually a boon. This time, rather than letting his temper take over as he had earlier that morning, Etienne needed to tread lightly.

“Yes, I am,” Etienne said. “Though not by choice. As I mentioned earlier, Constance is under the weather. Emily was concerned and wanted someone to sit with her, but no one else from Grace Manor was available.” That was about as farfetched as one could get. Plenty of people from Grace Manor could have come to stay with Constance. So long as Simpson believed him, Etienne supposed the lie was worth it. He ended by adding, “She’s sleeping now and shouldn’t be disturbed.”

“No, of course not. Will you give her this?” Simpson asked, holding out the basket. “It’s soup.”

Etienne took the handle and made a show of lifting the lid to look at the container inside. Soup wasn’t the only thing in there. More flowers—purple ones—and a small pie, maybe? It was impossible to tell without removing the covering over the dish. “This is thoughtful of you, Harry. I’m sure Constance will appreciate it.”

“She’s a good friend,” he said.

“She’s a nice lady,” Etienne agreed.

“I guess I’ll go,” Simpson said. “I just came by to see how she’s doing.”

“She’s pretty ill.” Etienne gestured to indicate stomach upheaval. His next words were borne of a hunch. Harry’s response would be telling, and would either confirm or deny Etienne’s theory. “I doubt she’ll be able to attend the Independence Day races tomorrow. I believe she was planning to go.”

“Yes, we were supposed to go together,” Harry murmured.

Although it was the answer Etienne had expected, it wasn’t what he wanted to hear, because it substantiated his conclusions—conclusions he hadn’t wanted to come to. “I guess your plans will have to change.”

“Yes, the race won’t be the same without her,” Simpson said. “Well, goodnight, Colonel Grace.
Um
… thank you for taking care of her.”

“You’re welcome, Harry,” he said. “Thanks for checking on her. Goodnight.”

He watched Simpson saunter off into the darkened night. The skinny man was well out of sight when Etienne secured the front door and once more headed toward the back of the house, and on to the shed where Igore was napping, or eating oats—one of the two.

Soon enough the immense white house at Grace Manor was in view, and even with the delay caused by Simpson’s visit, timing couldn’t have been better. Once the children were in bed, Emily often went to the morning room to knit. Etienne knew this. Sometimes others were with her, though tonight he guessed they had turned in early in anticipation of the Independence Day events. He was right. Through the lighted windows he could see Emily, and she was alone, knitting needles flying.

It occurred to him briefly, as he took in the pale blue ‘whatever’ draping her lap, that she might be with child again. But he also knew most of Emily’s knitting went to the poor. She belonged to some ladies’ charity group that passed out blankets and other knitted whatnot.

After securing Igore, Etienne sauntered across the lawn and crept into the house. The doors to the morning room were standing open. Emily looked up the second he shuffled through.

“Oh, Etienne,” she said brightly. “If you’re looking for Julien, he and Jessie already went to bed. So did Trent.”

“Actually,” he said, “I was hoping to speak with you.”

“Me?” she tittered. “Well, this is a treat. Come in. Have a seat.”

“I won’t disturb your counts, will I?” he asked as he settled on the chair across from her.

“Of course not, I can count and talk at the same time. But I think I’m finished for the night, so you have my full attention.” True to her words, she stuffed the blue thing in her knitting basket. “Is this about Julien’s plans for tomorrow? If it is, you don’t have to worry. It’s not nearly as dangerous as it sounds.”

“No, this isn’t about tomorrow.” Etienne wasn’t worried about Julien’s plan. No, Julien would be fine making his unexpected appearance at the races tomorrow, because the killer wouldn’t be there.

Etienne had already taken steps to ensure that particular fiend would be in no condition to go anywhere. Yes,
Constance
would be so miserably hungover she wouldn’t be able to lift her head from the pillow. And her cohort, Simpson, couldn’t do the deed without her. The weapon that had killed Luther, the same weapon intended to be used on Julien and Trent, was no longer in Constance’s possession.

Of course, ensuring Constance would be too ill to attend the races wasn’t the only purpose for getting her drunk. Etienne had wanted to extract a confession from her. The whole seduction routine had been another means to that end. But he’d failed, and not just with the confession…

“What is it, Etienne?” Emily prompted. “Is this about Sadie? Or Archie? I thought Sam would have filled you in by now. That Edward Murphy is a nasty man. As far as I’m concerned he needs to be back in prison.”

Her comments were enough to jar Etienne from unsettling recollections. “No, I mean, yes, Sam told me about Archie.” Forcing a bashful smile, he murmured, “I wanted to talk about something else. I wanted to…to ask about Constance.”

“Constance?” Emily eyes flashed knowingly. “Well, that’s a much better topic. Let me see…”

Pulling the wool over Emily was easy. She was, after all, a hopeless matchmaker. Of course, Etienne wasn’t about to reveal any of what had already happened between him and the schoolteacher, or what he’d done to her. He wasn’t going to tell Emily that Constance was the spook or even remotely hint about the painful throbbing in his chest that had begun last night and hadn’t stopped for a second since.

Soon enough he had the facts. Constance had been born and raised near Baltimore, Maryland. Her family wasn’t rich, though they’d been comfortable. Her father was a grocer and had his own store. Her mother had come from a family of higher social standing, and this was how Constance had access to a better education and horses. Her independently wealthy grandfather had prided himself on his extensive line of thoroughbreds. This was why Constance had picked Izzy. She recognized good horseflesh.

Through her grandfather, Constance had been introduced to her husband, a Union captain. She’d been sixteen when they married. Three years ago he’d died of influenza. After his death, Constance had decided to follow through on a childhood dream she’d not had the opportunity to pursue—becoming a teacher.

Sebastian Nash, the superintendent of the teacher’s college in Washington she’d attended, had recommended Constance for the position in Tennessee. The great paradox was that this particular teacher’s college was funded almost solely by Julien. Not only that, but Sebastian Nash was a close family friend. Etienne knew him well, as did Emily.

Learning this piece of Constance’s history sent another spear into Etienne’s already aching gut. What this meant was that this horrid scheme had been in the works for years. Constance had gone to the teachers college, not to fulfill a dream, but because she’d known of Julien’s connection to it. She must have somehow manipulated Sebastian into believing she’d always wanted to live in Tennessee, hence the reason he’d recommended her for the Mount Joy position. Then, once here, she’d wheedled her way into Emily’s good graces.

If only Sebastian, Emily and Trent knew how they’d been duped, they would most likely swoon. Emily would, at any rate. Sebastian would probably be on the next train from Washington, and he’d be among the fiercest in demanding Constance be brought to justice.

“Did you and Constance ever talk about the Klan?” Etienne asked Emily next.

“The Klan?” Emily startled, but then she laughed. “Are you worried Constance is a bigot, Etienne? Far from it! No. There’s not a mean bone in her body. She’s a sweetheart. Why, she’s even helped Sadie get books from the library.”

If you only knew, Etienne wanted to say, but now was not the time. Soon enough Emily, Trent, Sadie, and everyone else would know what kind of person Constance truly was.

Emily went on, “Funny you should mention the Klan, though. I remember Constance asking about them. It was simple curiosity. She said they didn’t exist in Maryland, at least as far as she knew. She did agree with me that the lot of them are a bunch of hoodlums.”

Hoodlums
. That word, Etienne was sure, was Emily’s, not Constance’s. That she’d asked, however, was further proof of her guilt. Obviously she’d wanted to know if Emily and Trent were aware of the scheme. Etienne had one final question. He could only hope Emily couldn’t tell how his pulse sped up when he asked.

“What about her husband? You said he was a captain in the army. Do you know anything else about him?”

“Well, no. Constance doesn’t really talk about him. I don’t even know what his name was. But she’s commented several times that she has no desire to marry again. Perhaps you’ll change her mind,” Emily’s eyes twinkled, and she continued, “I will tell you this—keep in mind Constance has never said so, it’s just my gut feeling—I don’t think her husband treated her well. I think he used to beat her.”

Etienne left shortly thereafter. The whole ride back to the schoolhouse cottage, he couldn’t stop thinking about Emily’s last claim. Somewhere deep down he knew Emily was right. He didn’t want to believe it, though. He couldn’t afford to think of Constance as a victim. He couldn’t afford to have sympathy slant his views, or steer his decisions. There was no room for compassion when hatred had to be the governing emotion. His only concern needed to be gaining her confession—a coherent confession. Once he had it, and knew who was behind this whole treacherous plot, he would turn her, and her accomplices, over to the authorities.

Except that, when he was in her house, standing in the doorway watching her sleep, all he could see were her tears. All he could hear was her voice, small and afraid,
“Please… don’t hurt me… anymore.”
All he could taste was her kiss.

Etienne didn’t know if any of that prompted him to do what he did next. What he told himself was that in order to protect the people he loved, from now until Constance confessed, he couldn’t let her out of his sight. To ensure she wouldn’t sneak out while he slept—if he slept—he had to be close enough that if she stirred he would also wake.

Last night, he’d lain beside her, but on top of the bedding. Last night, he’d kept his clothes on. But tonight, he stripped to his under-britches and crawled under the blankets. And then he curled in close, burying his nose in her feathery hair, wrapping an arm around her slight waist.

She was so small, so delicate, and yet the most formidable, most engaging, most awe-inspiring creature he’d ever known. And she was his worst enemy.

Etienne remembered how, years ago, Julien had accused him of being in love with Jessica. Julien had been teasing, and Etienne had denied it. But the truth was he
was
in love with Jessica, though not in the way Julien alleged. Etienne was in love with the way Jessica loved his brother. She made Julien better. She made him whole. Until he’d witnessed it, Etienne hadn’t believed that kind of love existed. But since he had seen it, he did believe.

He’d thought he wouldn’t ever be fortunate enough to find that kind of love for himself. Then he’d come to this place. And met
her
.

“Why,
chérie
, why?” Etienne choked out as despair burned through him. “You were everything I’ve ever wanted. You could have been my Jessica, my whole world, my forever love. I wanted you to be my wife…”