Rogue's Mistress(59)
Julian stepped over to the settee and gently shook Justine’s shoulder. When she didn’t respond, but simply twisted her handkerchief in her fingers and stared into space, he glanced sharply at Henrí.
Henrí stood to face his friend. “Maître, you must talk some sense into her, and force her to take better care of herself.” The manservant coughed, then added with both anxiety and pride, “You see, she’s carrying my child.”
Julian appeared taken aback. “This is a shock,” he murmured.
Henrí’s abrupt announcement also brought a spark of life back to Justine. She sat up, glancing wildly at her lover. “Henrí, no, you mustn’t—”
But Julian was already sitting down beside Justine, taking her hands and staring at her earnestly. “Is this true, Justine?”
She nodded, gulping.
“Why did you not tell me?”
Miserably, she bit her lip. “I feared you would not approve.”
“Not approve?” he asked in surprise.
“You told me once that you hoped one day I’d find—someone upstanding.”
He shook his head ironically. “And Henrí is not?”
She lowered her eyes. “I thought you meant someone like yourself.”
He nodded slowly as comprehension dawned. “Ah, yes. So that was your fear.”
“I must tell you, maître, that Justine and I did not pursue our feelings until after you were married to madame,” Henrí interjected.
Julian glanced from one friend to the other. “It does not matter when you pursued your feelings, mes amis. The point is, you had every right to.” He smiled at Justine. “I wish you both only happiness.”
“You do?” she asked.
He squeezed her hand. “Of course I do, chère.” Then he frowned, smoothing down her wrinkled collar. “But you must know that Henrí is right. You must not become ill and lose this child. Arnaud”—he paused to clear his raspy throat—“Arnaud would not have wanted that.”
“Oh, Julian,” she sobbed. “You’re too good to us both.”
He patted her hand, then stood, nodding to Henrí. “The two of you must marry as soon as possible. I’ll help you in every way I can.”
“Thank you, maître, ” Henrí said gravely.
“But we must first see to Arnaud,” Justine added, dabbing at tears as she gazed up at Julian.
He nodded soberly. “Of course.”
Henrí cleared his throat. “Maitre, I will now go fetch the undertaker. And your mother should be informed, no?”
He sighed heavily. “Yes, she’ll want to know. Thank you, Henrí.”
Once Henrí had left, Justine said to Julian, “My dear, I’m so sorry. I mean, I know our news must have been a shock to you.”
He moved back to her side, sitting down and smiling at her. “There’s nothing to be sorry for. This is a small breath of hope on such a grievous day. I’m glad that you and Henrí will be having a child.”
“No child can ever replace Arnaud!” she cried.
“I realize this,” he said tenderly. “But you’re young and you should have another baby—many babies. Arnaud will never be forgotten by any of us. He’ll always hold a hallowed place in all our hearts. But perhaps in time, the anguish will lessen a bit.”
She nodded. “And what about you, Julian?”
He stared at her with a haunted emptiness in his eyes. “There’s nothing left for me.”
“Not even Mercy?”
He shook his head. “Nothing,” he repeated in a barely audible whisper.
She clutched his sleeve and spoke passionately. “Julian, if I must try for a new life with Henrí—for Arnaud’s sake—then you must also try with Mercy. Arnaud wouldn’t have wanted you to be miserable either. And I know Mercy loves you.”
Julian blinked convulsively and glanced away.
“Julian, promise me you’ll at least try!”
He sighed resignedly. “Very well, dear. I’ll try. For Arnaud’s sake.”
Justine stared anxiously at the hallway. “Now we must go wash Arnaud, prepare him—”
“I already have, love.”
She gazed at him with tear-filled eyes. “Then we’ll sit with him, until—”
He slipped his hand into hers. “Yes, we’ll sit with him.”
***
It was early afternoon by the time Julian returned to the Quarter—this time, in the company of Madelaine Devereux, who had met him at the funeral parlor.
Julian had expected his mother to be upset over his son’s death, but he hadn’t expected Madelaine to be utterly disconsolate, which she was. He hadn’t realized how fond she’d become of Arnaud over the years. “My poor lost little angel,” she repeated endlessly, crossing herself and weeping against her son’s shoulder. “My beloved grandson . .
When they arrived at his town house, Madelaine was still so prostrated with grief that Julian had to assist her across the patio. They walked among the fragrant flowers and past the tinkling fountain, through the brightness of midday that seemed to taunt them now.
As soon as Julian had his mother safely ensconced in the parlor, he hurried upstairs to break the news to Mercy.
But his wife was nowhere to be found. Julian searched for her, wild-eyed, only to discover that her armoire and her bureau were empty, her portmanteau missing.
Back in the parlor, Julian summoned his wife’s maid. Risa awkwardly informed him and Madelaine that madame had left very early that morning, in the company of a stranger.
“My wife left with Philippe Broussard?” Julian demanded furiously.
Risa shook her head, lowering her eyes. “No, m’sieur. Madame, she leave with a gentleman from Natchez, a M’sieur Gerard.”
Julian received this news in flabbergasted silence. As Risa slipped from the room, he heard his mother’s horrified cry.
Julian whirled to face Madelaine’s guilt-ridden countenance. “Do you know something about my wife’s disappearance?”
“Oh, Julian,” she whispered, wringing her hands. “I fear this is all my fault.”
“What do you mean?”
She bit her lip miserably. “Several weeks ago, I wrote to a friend of mine in Natchez, asking her to get in touch with Mercy’s people.”
“What?” he cried. “Why?”
She flung a hand outward in anguish. “Oh, Julian, it was my own stupid pride. When I first started taking Mercy around and introducing her to my friends, there was some gossip about her humble upbringing. I thought of inviting her grandparents down from Natchez, to set the gossips straight—”
“Damn it, Mother!” Julian cut in explosively. “Why did you have to interfere?” Before she could answer, he went on angrily, “And you think this Gerard character is a representative of the Dubois family?”
“Most likely, yes.”
“And Mercy simply left with the man.”
Julian issued a vivid curse and strode across the room, savagely kicking a basket of wood. He slammed his elbow down on the fireplace mantel and raised a trembling hand to his eyes. “Damn the little baggage to everlasting hell anyway, for walking out on me without a word, even as my son was dying.”
Watching him, Madelaine Devereux felt her heart aching. “Julian, I know you’re very hurt, but you can’t be thinking clearly right now. Didn’t you say you spent the entire night at Justine’s house, sitting with your son? Mercy can’t have known that Arnaud was desperately ill. She doubtless thought you were sleeping with—with that woman again—”
He whirled on her, his eyes brilliant with rage. “Her name is Justine, Mother. And Mercy should have trusted me.”
“Sorry, son, I meant no insult,” Madelaine humbly replied. “As for Mercy, I’m sure this is all just a misunderstanding. We’ll get it straightened out in time—”
“I don’t give a damn if we ever get it straightened out,” he countered vehemently. “To think that she simply ran off with the man, without benefit of a chaperone even. She can rot in Natchez—or in hell—for all I care.”
He turned away, banging his fist on the mantel; then he sagged against the fireplace.
Wincing at her son’s pain, Madelaine went over and placed her hand on his trembling shoulder. “Julian, I know that this is all too much for you to bear right now. We’ll get it resolved in time, son. I’m sure there is some perfectly logical explanation for your wife’s—er—behavior. In the meantime, however . . . we must see to Arnaud, my love.”
He turned to her with crazed anguish. “I suppose you’ll suggest a discreet burial?” he asked, his mouth set in bitter lines.
Madelaine drew herself up with all the pride and dignity in her slim body. “My grandson—your son—will be eulogized at the Cathedral, in the full light of day. All our friends will be in attendance—as will his mother, of course. Afterward, Arnaud will be laid to rest in our family plot at St. Louis Cemetery, next to your beloved father—”
Madelaine was not allowed to finish. Julian had thought he had no tears left. He was so wrong. With a rending cry, he pulled his mother into his arms and wept.