Secrets of Midnight (38 page)

"His mistress, Papa?" Corisande blurted out,
as stunned by what he had just said as that his hoarse words had spilled forth
in a lucid flood she'd only heard before in his sermons. She glanced at
Donovan, who stood listening silently, then back to her father when he gave a
broken sigh.

"Adele told me about her mother before we were
wed—how she escaped from Paris at the height of the Revolution, de LaCroix
already imprisoned and facing execution, and fled to Brittany to the country
house that he had provided for Adele no matter she was not his child. Ah, God,
she wept so when she told me how a wild mob set upon the house, screaming that
they were going to kill the monarchist's whore. Véronique made Adele change
into a servant's clothes and entrusted her care to their beloved maid Laurette,
then she secreted them both from the house just as the mob shattered the front
door. That was the last time Adele saw her mother; the house was in flames by
the time she and Laurette reached the hills."

A heavy silence fell in the kitchen, but it did not
last long as Joseph went on, rocking himself forward and back as tears began to
stream down his battered face.

"She didn't tell me about the jewelry until a week
after you were born, Corisande. I think she'd known it might cause an impasse
between us, and said nothing until Laurette decided she wished to return home
out of concern for her parents. The woman would take no payment for all her
pains, but Adele insisted she have one of her mother's rings, a ring such as I'd
never seen before, gold with a heart-shaped blue sapphire surrounded by
diamonds. And there was more, too, rings and necklaces and brooches and pearls
and . . . and I demanded it all be thrown into the sea."

"The sea, Papa? But why?"

"Because I was a fool and didn't understand how
much it meant to your mother! A leather packet filled with those things had
been pressed into her hands just before she and Laurette had fled. Because
Véronique had been a man's mistress, not his wife! It was the only time we ever
raised our voices to each other, your mother crying that the jewelry should one
day belong to our children while I wanted nothing more than to be rid of it.
But when she swore she would leave me, I said no more. We never spoke about it
again until she fell sick—"

Joseph's voice broke, and Corisande jumped up to sit
beside him. But he seemed determined to continue, turning his ravaged face to
hers.

"She was dying, she knew it, and she made me
promise that I keep the jewelry safe for you and your sisters. I found a small
chest, and the night she . . . she left us, I remember walking outside and
digging a hole, but nothing after that—nothing! God help me, I tried to find
it—
while Louis came here almost every day telling me what he
would do to you and your sisters if I didn't. He murdered Laurette! He showed
me the ring! He's been an émigré in Germany all these years until he finally
went back to France to see if there was anything left of his father's estate.
That's how he found us! He came upon poor Laurette in the village where Véronique's
country house . . ."

His voice had grown so choked that he clearly couldn't
go on while Corisande sat there stunned, feeling as if the blood had drained
from her face.

"Corie?"

She met Donovan's gaze, her voice no more than a
whisper. "I know. I think I know where my father buried that chest."

Chapter 34

Incredulous, Donovan had already been planning what
they might be able to do to help Corisande's sisters—had been since he'd seen
the letter—but now he stared at her while her father appeared dumbstruck as
well.

"That night . . . that night my mother died, I
followed Papa onto the heath. It was raining,
a terrible
storm like
last night's, and he was weeping so hard, I feared he might
become lost. So I followed him and watched as he buried a small wooden box, but
I never thought to ask him what had been inside. It seemed a private thing—"

"Good God, woman, then let's not sit here!"
Donovan shouted vehemently. "We've got to find that chest and get
ourselves a ship, though with that revenue cruiser in the bay it might be
difficult . . . hell, we'll think of that later. Do you have shovels?"

"Yes, in the stable." Corisande was
astonished at how quickly Donovan had taken charge. Yet she was nearly knocked
to the floor as her father lunged to his feet so suddenly that the wooden
settle tipped forward. Donovan reached out to catch it just in time. Breathing
her thanks, she rushed after her father, grabbing his arm as he headed down the
hall.

"Papa,
Donovan
and I can
do this! You're hurt—you should lie down—"

"No, I will help!"

Her father's tone as determined as she'd ever heard it,
she said no more, but instead ran back to the kitchen to grab one of the oil
lamps while Donovan went after her father.

"I'll meet you in the garden!" Corisande
started to the kitchen door, but then decided she should check on Frances. She
took the steps two at a time, holding the lamp high as she went into the
housekeeper's room.

"Corie?"

Scarcely recognizing the weak-sounding voice, Corisande
sank down onto the bed. "Yes, it's me."

"My girls, Corie, my poor girls. I heard them
weepen, so scared—"

"They'll be fine, Frances, I promise. Donovan and
I will find them. He knows what to do. We'll find them."

The words were out before she realized she'd said them,
but Corisande didn't linger to dwell upon how much she was depending on
Donovan. She pressed a kiss to the housekeeper's forehead and then left the
room, almost ready to head down the stairs when a faint whimpering made her
move to the room shared by Estelle and Linette.

Tears burned her eyes at the signs of struggle,
bedclothes twisted and lying upon the floor, a lost slipper,
Linette's
collection of seashells that she kept beside her bed crushed into fragments
beneath a heavy foot. And lying forlornly across Estelle's pillow was Luther,
his scruffy head tucked between his tiny paws, his tail wagging halfheartedly
for an instant before it fell still altogether as he began again to whimper.

"I know, Luther, I know," Corisande murmured,
swiping at her eyes. "I want Estelle home too."

She couldn't stand it, fleeing down the
stairs
and rushing outside to find her father and Donovan
waiting for her by the garden wall.

"I'm sorry. I had to check on Frances." She
lifted her lamp and led the way through the metal gate and out onto the heath. "Careful,
there are holes dug everywhere."

"So I discovered," came Donovan's wry reply,
making her smile in spite of herself.

But she sobered as she searched around her for
landmarks, not wanting to remember that terrible night eight years ago but
forcing herself to remember, forcing herself to retrace painful steps taken
when she was only twelve years old. When her father had wept so wretchedly she
thought he might become ill. She had feared for him then, and followed him into
the pouring rain.

She had almost gone to him when he stumbled, her own
silent sobs tearing at her as she watched him pull himself to his feet though
he was nearly doubled over with grief. Finally he had stopped only a few yards
from an old stunted tree she'd used to climb and begun to shovel . . .

"Over here! By the tree, but not too close."

Donovan was there first and immediately threw off his
coat to begin digging at the spot where Corisande had shoved the toe of her
shoe into the damp earth. The hole was soon several feet deep before she
realized from studying the positioning of the tree that she'd misguided them.

"Donovan? Papa? I'm sorry, but I think it was
closer over this way." She was grateful that neither complained. Donovan's
strong steady strokes with the shovel more than overshadowed her father's
efforts,
who
did his best to keep up.

And even when her father had to pause to catch his
breath, Donovan continued on, sweat soaking him, his white shirt becoming
almost transparent and clinging to his powerful body. She swallowed and looked
down instead at the deepening hole, gasping aloud when Donovan's shovel
suddenly scraped against something hard.

She went down on her knees beside
him,
all of them digging with their hands to clear away the dirt from what she could
see as her breath caught was a sturdy wooden chest. She nearly
fell
forward face first in her haste to retrieve it from the
hole, but Donovan caught her shoulder and threw her a glance that clearly said
he was the one to try.

While she and her father looked on, he leaned into the
crater and hauled out the chest. Corisande thought that it appeared much
smaller than she remembered, no bigger than Donovan could clutch easily under
his arm. But she had been a child when last she'd seen it. She held up the lamp
when he set the dirt-caked chest in front of her father, whose hands shook as
he slowly opened the lid.

For a moment Corisande felt as if she could hardly
focus her eyes for the sparkle and glitter that seemed to burst forth from the
chest. Her breath snagged again as she gazed down upon a dazzling tumble of
pearls and brilliant jewels, silver, and gold. But what caught her attention
lay half buried in one corner, and she glanced up at her father.

"May I, Papa?"

"It's yours, Corie. Yours and your sisters'—"

He choked on the words, and Corisande's heart went out
to him; she knew they couldn't tarry, Donovan already having
risen
to his feet and thrown on his coat. But she had to see . . . it looked like a
portrait . . .

She slowly drew in her breath as she lifted with
trembling fingers a diamond-framed miniature of a woman wearing large
pearl-drop earrings—the same lustrous earrings she could see gleaming in the
chest—and with rich auburn hair . . . a gently smiling young woman who looked
much like her.

"Véronique,"
came
her father's hoarse voice. "Your mother was holding that medallion when
she died."

"She was lovely," Corisande murmured almost
to herself, tracing a finger over the portrait.

"Like you, Corie. Just as I've always said."

She glanced up to find Donovan staring at her with such
intensity that she quickly dropped her gaze again, her hands trembling even
worse now as she replaced the miniature and closed the lid. "We—we should
go . . . see about a ship, I mean."

She rose to her feet, ignoring Donovan's proffered hand
and hoping her father hadn't noticed. But he was occupied with the
chest,
although it was clear he barely had the strength left
to lift it. As Donovan went at once to help him, irrational anger filled her to
see that her father could trust him so.

The man was a bloody informer!
she
ranted to herself as they walked back to the house, Donovan carrying the chest
tucked under one arm while supporting her father with the other. He'd brought
the king's excisemen down upon Oliver and the
Fair Betty
, she was certain of it!

Yet even as she nursed her mutinous thoughts, she knew
they rang as false as the glaring lie she'd told herself earlier, which only
made her hold on to them all the more desperately.

Donovan helped her father to a chair and then set the
chest upon the kitchen table. Her father broke down and began to sob, the
strain of the past two weeks, the strain of painful memories aroused, finally
proving too much for him. She could only kneel beside him and clutch his hands.
Her father had become once again the wretched shell he had been since her
mother died . . . his misery making her throat tighten and cold, paralyzing
fear burrow all the deeper into her heart.

"I'll fetch the doctor and see what we can do
about finding a ship," Donovan told her, but she refused to look at him,
his low curse lost to the anguished sobs echoing in the room.

***

"Ais, Corie, 'ee can imagine my Rebecca was none
too pleased to see me heading back to sea. But when Lord Donovan found me at
the inn an' told me what had happened to your poor family, I was ready to sail
in a blink. Now all we must do is keep a good look out for that damned revenue
cruiser, but it's so dark I'd wager a pocketful of guineas they've gone home to
their fires. Ais, gone home to their fires and to cry into their beer that the
Fair Betty
was clean as virgin snow, not
a barrel of brandy on her!"

As Oliver Trelawny's delighted laughter swelled around
her, Corisande couldn't help smiling either, more than relieved that he and his
ship had survived their close call. Survived it and triumphed, apparently, in
only ten minutes' time, the disgruntled excisemen heading back to their cruiser
after a fruitless search that was done before darkness had fully fallen.

Yet her smile quickly faded as she thought of Donovan
below deck in Oliver's cabin, where the captain had told him he could help
himself to a bracing bit of rum brought aboard to bolster them all during the
long Channel crossing. And she had no plans whatsoever to go near that cabin
but to stay aft with Oliver

"Lord, Corie, I'm sorry to be laughing at such a
terrible time for 'ee." The captain's gruff apology broke into her
thoughts. "You say Dr. Philcup had a good look at your father an' Frances?"

"Yes, they'll be fine. It was hard to make my
father stay in bed—he wanted to come with us to Roscoff—but the doctor said it
would be too much of a strain for him. He'll be staying there through the night
to keep an eye on them both."

"Ais, good man, Philcup. Charges a mite too high a
price if 'ee ask me, but a competent fellow all the same." Oliver gave a
grunt, searching Corisande's face in the lantern light. "As for feeling
well or not feeling well, why don't you go join your husband? You're looking
pale, Corie, agitated, jumpy as a cat—"