Rogue's Mistress(58)
All that love, all those dreams seemed to be dying now.
Julian tried to be brave for Justine’s sake. But when she left the room briefly to brew more tea, he fell to his knees beside his son’s cot, clutching the coverlet with trembling fingers. He stared with raw anguish at his son. Arnaud had grown so pale, he already seemed a ghost of his former self.
Julian glanced around the room, studying the many toys and books he’d brought Arnaud over the years—the brightly colored toy boat, the wooden blocks, the handsome edition of Perrault’s Mother Goose Tales. Each item brought a separate, poignant memory of the wonderful times father and son had shared together. Now his son lay so ill, so helpless, so far removed from him.
A sob welled up in his chest. He crossed himself and issued a frantic plea to the Holy Virgin that his son be saved. Yet somehow he knew that his prayer was futile, that Arnaud was already headed for another plane.
Julian had known so much pain in his life, and nothing had ever broken him. But this—this had brought him to his knees.
***
When Justine returned to the room, it was to watch her son slip deeper into the malaise, until he struggled for each breath. Julian tried moving the boy about on the bed and adjusting his pillows; yet nothing he did seemed to help. He was on the verge of asking Henrí to summon the priest when he heard a small, angelic voice call out, “Papa?”
Both he and Justine turned to the bed, their eyes filled with desperate hope. Arnaud was staring up at them with glazed, fever-bright eyes. Justine issued a sob of gratitude and crossed herself, while Julian gripped his son’s tiny, clammy hand and kissed it tenderly.
“My son—you are awake at last!” he cried, staring down at the child through blurring eyes.
“Why do I feel so queer, Papa?” Arnaud asked in his weak, thready voice.
Julian fondly stroked the boy’s damp hair. “You’ve been sick, poppet.”
The child nodded, blinking sleepily. “Have you come to take me to the park, Papa?”
“As soon as you’re well, son,” Julian replied in an agonized whisper.
“Will we ride Smoky Mary again?” he asked with delirious eagerness.
“Oh, yes.”
“Will you buy me a pony for New Year’s as you promised?”
“Of course,” Julian said hoarsely, kissing his son’s precious fingers. “I’ll buy you many ponies.”
“Bien, Papa,” Arnaud murmured happily. He turned slightly to stare at Justine. “Mama, why are you crying?”
Justine could only sob hopelessly.
Julian hugged Justine’s heaving shoulders and braved a smile at his son. Unable to think of a suitable answer, he said lamely, “Mama burned herself with the iron.”
Arnaud attempted a laugh which ended in a frightening spasm of coughing. Julian reached out to elevate the boy; in a moment, the child managed to recover his labored breathing. Between gasps, he forced out, “You . . . should not cry over something so . . . so silly, Mama.”
Justine gazed at her beloved son over her handkerchief. “I’m just worried about you, darling.”
“I am all right, Mama,” Arnaud said bravely. “I feel as if I’m floating in the heavens.”
At that, both parents had to turn away to hide their unspeakable sorrow.
“Women are silly, are they not, Papa?” Arnaud was continuing with a deep yawn. “They are not brave like us, no?”
“Oh, yes, my son—you’re so very brave,” Julian said brokenly, leaning over to kiss his son’s damp forehead.
“I’m going to sleep now,” Arnaud murmured, closing his eyes. “Good night Mama, Papa . . .”
“Good night, my son,” Julian choked back.
As the child nodded off to sleep, Justine distraughtly gripped Julian’s sleeve. “Julian, please, don’t let him—”
He pressed his fingers to her mouth. His tortured eyes met hers. “Let him sleep, love.”
Her eyes were wild with fear and pain. “But it’s not sleep that’s summoning him now, it’s—”
Julian caught her close with a groan. “I know. I think le bon Dieu gave us these moments so we could all say goodbye.” His voice cracked as he added, “If he’s bound somewhere else, chère, I don’t think we can hold him here any longer.”
They clung to each other, trembling and sobbing quietly, as Henrí slipped from the room to summon the priest.
***
The moments of false recovery had been brief and beautiful, but also cruel, as Arnaud now slipped into a deep coma. Toward dawn, a grim group gathered over the dying child’s bed: the priest, intoning extreme unction in his kindly, hushed voice; Julian, unshaven and bleary-eyed, his expression stark with grief; Justine, weeping openly; Henrí, trembling and crossing himself.
On the small bed, Arnaud was now breathing in a death rattle, his lips chafed and cracked, his eyes closed, his expression oddly serene. Julian well recognized the hopeless sounds from the night he had spent with Corrine O’Shea on her deathbed. He knew that the only justice in this entire obscene tragedy was that his son would succumb quietly. Whatever cruel god was taking Arnaud at least possessed the mercy to let him pass in peace.
After the priest left, the parents sat vigil with their child. Julian held Arnaud’s cold, clammy hand, wishing he could breathe the breath of his own life into his son’s lungs, wishing he could die in his place. But the fates had decreed otherwise.
The final moments came quietly. The pale rays of dawn stole across the room; the soft calling of a mourning dove drifted in through the window. Arnaud’s eyelids fluttered; his tiny hand went limp in Julian’s, and he breathed his last, raspy sigh.
At first both parents stared at him stupidly, uncomprehendingly. Then reality hit them both with the force of a mortal blow, and Justine issued a mother’s heartbroken cry. “Julian, no! Oh, no!”
He caught her close, emitting a howl of anguish that came straight from his shattered heart. He turned to stare at his son—Arnaud looked as angelic in death as he had in life. Tears blinded him and grief choked off his throat.
There was no peace left in this world for him.
Only Arnaud was at peace now . . .
***
An hour earlier, at Julian’s town house, Mercy had awakened in a rage, wild with jealousy. One look at Julian’s unrumpled side of the bed told her all she needed to know.
At last her husband had done it. The cad had abandoned all pretense and had spent the entire night in his mistress’s bed. It was the ultimate insult!
She would confront him, she decided quickly and vengefully. She would catch him in the act of adultery! She would tell him to go to the devil and then she would leave him!
Because Henrí had also been absent since yesterday, Mercy sent Risa to rouse old Rubin, with orders to prepare a buggy for madame. She dressed hurriedly, suppressing her tears and hurt with renewed anger.
When she left the town house ten minutes later and emerged on the quiet banquette, she found Rubin already waiting for her with the horse hitched to the barouche out in the street.
Dawn was breaking when they turned onto the Ramparts. The golden rays lifted the fog and tangled in the smoke curling from several chimneys. A fresh morning breeze wafted the scent of honeysuckle and the odor of woodsmoke over Mercy. She leaned tensely forward in her seat.
As soon as she spotted Julian’s carriage ahead of them, her heart sank. She ordered Rubin to halt the barouche behind her husband’s coach. Warning the old man to wait in the buggy, she alighted and crept stealthily up the path to Justine’s cottage. Spotting a light at the side of the house, she tiptoed around to the window and peered inside.
Mercy gasped in horror. Inside the small room, she spotted Julian and Justine, who stood tightly embraced over their child’s bed. Since their backs were turned to her, she couldn’t see their faces, and their bodies blocked most of her view of Arnaud. But the impact of the tender, domestic scene was devastatingly apparent!
Choking on a sob, Mercy whirled and ran back to the buggy. She’d seen all she needed to. Her marriage was over, her heart broken.
Obviously, Julian had his life, his love, and his child right here; there was no place in his heart for her.
It was time for her to seek a life of her own.
***
Within minutes of Arnaud’s death, Justine gave in to her grief and collapsed. Julian carried her to the parlor, and Henrí stayed with her.
Meanwhile, Julian sat vigil with his son, holding Arnaud’s cold, lifeless hand. “I’ll take you to the park, poppet,” he promised brokenly. “We’ll ride Smoky Mary. I’ll buy you a pony . . .”
Endlessly, he repeated the words, as if they were some magic litany that held the power to bring his son back to life.
Finally, he succumbed to hoarse, agonized sobs, crying until he had no tears left. Then he lovingly washed and prepared his son’s body, dressing Arnaud in a fresh gown and laying him out in clean bedclothes.
The house was flooded with sunshine by the time Julian left Arnaud’s room and went out to the parlor. At the portal, he paused to stare solemnly at the scene inside. Justine sat on the settee, huddled against Henrí. She was hiccoughing, her expression mirroring her devastating grief.
“How is she?” Julian asked Henrí.
Henrí’s worried gaze flashed to Julian’s. “She’s completely exhausted, but she refuses to go to bed.”