Julian nodded. “Thank you, doctor. Justine and I shall see to his every need.”
“Then I’ll bid you both good day, m’sieur.”
As soon as the doctor stepped from the room, Justine fell into Julian’s arms, trembling and sobbing. “Oh, Julian, I’m so worried!”
He drew back, brushing a tear from her frightened face. “Why didn’t you summon me at once?”
“Arnaud seemed fine yesterday,” she explained, twisting her damp handkerchief in her fingers. “He was just a bit peaked, his appetite a little less than normal, and he complained that his throat was sore.” She glanced at the child and uttered a low cry. “Then, this morning, he awakened coughing and feverish, and so weak that he couldn’t get out of bed! That’s when I noticed the rash on his body. By the time the doctor arrived, he was delirious. It all happened so fast . . . But I was going to send a neighbor to summon you just as soon as the doctor left.”
He nodded, pulling her close again. “It’s all right. I understand.”
“But scarlet fever is so serious. Arnaud could die!”
“Shhhh!” Julian admonished, pressing his fingers to his mouth. “He might hear you.”
“Oh, mon Dieu,” she cried, glancing horrified at the child, then collapsing into sobs against Julian’s chest.
Feeling a deep, aching helplessness, Julian patted her back and comforted her as best he could. He spotted a flash of movement, and turned to watch Henrí stride into the room. The servant’s features were tight with worry.
“Maître, I overheard. Is there anything I can do?”
“Take Justine to the kitchen and get her some breakfast and hot tea.”
“No!” Justine cried. “I won’t leave my baby!”
Julian caught her face in his hands. “You haven’t eaten this morning, have you, chère?”
“No, but—”
“Then you must do so now. You may come back directly, but first you must rest a few moments and take some nourishment. You’ll need your strength to care for Arnaud, and there’s no sense in your becoming ill as well.”
“He’s right, Justine,” Henrí concurred solemnly.
Justine nodded. Giving Arnaud one last, anguished glance, she left the room with Henrí.
With a troubled sigh, Julian went to sit in the chair next to his son’s bed. Watching Arnaud thrash about and throw off his sheet, Julian reached out to cover him. His heart ached at the pain his tiny son must be feeling, and he would have given his life to make the child well.
There was a bowl of water and a cloth on the night-stand. He wrung out the rag and began sponging off his son, his features creased with terrible apprehension.
***
While Julian was ministering to Arnaud, Mercy was sitting in the parlor of their town house, feeling anxious and depressed.
Her attempt to apologize to Julian last night had gone horribly awry. For some reason known only to him, he’d scorned her offer of a reconciliation and had accused her of feeling only pity for him.
Pity! As if she could ever feel anything for him but endless confusion, and the most hopeless love! She moaned aloud as she remembered how he had bedded her so passionately all night long. Mon Dieu, the shameless things he had made her feel, and do!
Still, this morning, he had cynically informed her that last night had meant nothing to him, that he’d only taken advantage of her feelings, that her opinion of him had been right all along. Oh, how could he be such a cad, to take her that way when he had no feeling for her? How could they go on wounding each other this way?
“Madame, you have a visitor. He’s waiting in the courtyard.”
The sound of Risa’s soft voice interrupted Mercy’s anguished musings. She looked up to see the black girl standing in the open doorway leading to the patio.
“Who is this guest?”
“A M’sieur Gerard from Natchez, Mississippi,” the girl replied.
“I know nothing of a M’sieur Gerard.” As Risa stared back at her in confusion, she waved a hand in resignation. “Very well. Send the man in.”
A moment later, a brown-haired gentleman strode in. He looked resplendent in a teal-blue velvet frock coat and cream-colored trousers. One beautifully manicured hand held a black silk top hat, while the other clutched an elegant ebony walking stick with a gilt tip. Mercy’s eyes were drawn to his face—the angular, handsome lines, and the intelligent eyes of light brown. He looked to be in his mid-twenties, and was studying her with a speculative smile.
“You are Mam’selle Mercy O’Shea?” he asked.
Mercy stood. “I am Madame Devereux. And what may I do for you, sir?”
He strode into the room. “You are the daughter of Corrine O’Shea, nee Corrine Dubois?”
“Yes,” Mercy answered cautiously.
The stranger broke into a broad grin. “Then I am most honored to make your acquaintance, cousin.”
“Cousin?” Mercy gasped.
He nodded proudly. “Actually, I am your first cousin once removed. I am Anton Gerard, of Natchez, Mississippi.”
Mercy could only stare at the man, too astounded to speak. At last, she sputtered, “Why, this is . . . quite a shock, m’sieur.”
“Please—call me Anton.” He glanced at the settee. “May we speak a moment?”
“Of course,” she said, distracted. “Forgive my rudeness.” She stepped forward and extended her hand. “I am pleased to meet you, m’sieur.”
Shifting his walking stick, Anton took her hand and leaned over to brush it briefly with his lips. “The pleasure is all mine, madame.”
“I’m sure,” she muttered awkwardly. “Won’t you take a seat?”
They sat down, Mercy on the settee and Anton in the chair flanking her. “So—what brings you to New Orleans, m’sieur?”
He frowned. “Why, you, of course. Actually, madame, I thought you would be expecting me.”
Mercy laughed dryly. “I was expecting nothing of the kind.”
He scowled, stroking his jaw. “That is odd. You see, several weeks ago, a lady you know by the name of Madelaine Devereux—”
“My husband’s mother. What does she have to do with this?”
“Well, it seems that Madame Devereux wrote to a friend of hers in Natchez. She explained to Beatrice Davis that you were about to marry her son—”
“We are married now, m’sieur,” Mercy corrected.
He smiled. “Why, of course. Congratulations, then.”
“Thank you.” She frowned deeply. “Now tell me what my mother-in-law has done.”
“It seems that Madame Devereux wrote her friend to inquire about your family in Natchez. And Madame Davis did her bidding, contacting your grandparents, Gaspard and Hélène Dubois. Hélène is my aunt, you see, and as their solicitor, I’ve assisted the Dubois with their legal affairs for some time. So of course they soon summoned me and asked me to come here to inquire after you.”
“But—how did you find me?”
“After I arrived in town, I appeared at the convent where I was told you were staying. The gatekeeper instructed me to come to this address.”
“I see.” As the import of these disclosures sank in, Mercy clenched her fists in her lap. “Madame Devereux had no right to interfere that way.”
Anton flashed her a conciliatory smile. “But, madame, the Dubois were beside themselves with joy to discover that they have a grandchild.”
“Were they?” Mercy inquired bitterly. She got up and strolled over to the window. “I find my grandparents’ belated turnaround and newfound devotion rather hard to swallow, considering how they cruelly disowned my mother.”
With a heavy sigh, Anton strode over to join her. “My dear, both Gaspard and Hélène have expressed to me their deep regret over that incident. But you must understand that they had such high hopes for Corrine. They are devout Catholics, and they were so proud that their only daughter had decided to give her life in service to the Church. Then to have her forsake her vows and marry an Irish immigrant laborer . . .” His voice trailed off.
While Mercy greeted Anton’s disclosures with a haughty stare, inwardly she had to concede that his explanation made some sense. Following the devastating things she had learned regarding her father’s betrayal, she had to admit that her mother had not made a propitious choice in marrying Brendan O’Shea. Still, familial loyalty prevented her from revealing her doubts to this stranger.
She tilted her chin at Anton. “Why are you here, m’sieur?”
“Why, to implore you—and your husband, of course—to come to Natchez and meet the Dubois.”
“Why, that’s out of the question,” she snapped. “I have no desire to meet them.”
He gazed at her with kindly patience. “Madame, please don’t be hasty. Give yourself time to consider my offer. I must tell you, as well, that’s there’s a substantial trust in your mother’s name, still sitting in a bank in Natchez.” He coughed discreetly. “I’m sure that if you will only come to Natchez, the Dubois will turn the trust over to you.”
“I don’t want their money,” she cried.