Dead of Winter (19 page)

“Morning,” he said, scratching his beard.

Her perfume struck his senses. The fragrances of lilac and orange blossom. For a brief moment, while his eyesight was still hazy, Tom had the illusion that his wife Beth had returned, as if miraculously sent down from heaven. Then his haziness cleared, and he stared at Lady Willow Pendleton. She held up a dish covered with a towel. “I brought you a shepherd’s pie. It has roast lamb in it.”

His favorite. Just like Beth used to make. “Where on earth did you find lamb?”

“In the storehouse where we keep the canned foods. I have to confess, it was my cook who baked the pie. But I had her make it especially for you.”

He accepted the warm dish. “Thanks, but you didn’t have to—”

“I wanted to…” She smiled then, blushing, looked down at the porch. “I just wanted to make sure you were eating okay.”

“I’m fine.” Tom didn’t quite know what to make of the gesture. Her behavior seemed peculiar for a married woman. It took a moment for his dull senses to catch the twinkle in her eye.
Dear God, she fancies me.
The idea of it made his chest tingle.

Willow looked over his shoulder. “Um, would you like to invite me in? I could make you a pot of tea.”

“No, not now.” He blocked the threshold. “I mean… perhaps another time.”

“Oh, okay.” She backed away. “I’m sorry, Tom, I didn’t mean to bother you.”

She hurried down the steps.

“Willow, wait.”

At the bottom step she turned back around, gazing up at him with those bright blue eyes. Her full lips were pouting.

“I mean no disrespect, Willow. It’s just…” He stared off at the surrounding cabins, squinting at the glare from their snow-covered rooftops. “I’m not in the right frame of mind to be good company. Another day, perhaps.”

“Okay, that would be nice. Take care of yourself, Tom. And know that others care about you, as well.” She sauntered across the courtyard, white fur blending with the bright snow. Tom stood in the doorway, awestruck. He shut the door.
Damn, that was close.
He walked back into his bedroom. Anika, who was fully nude, peered out the window. “I think she fancies you.”

“Never mind her, what the hell were you doing in my bed?”

Anika turned toward him. The sight of her nakedness added arousal to his anger. Her hair hung wild over her shoulders. “I thought I was pleasing you.”

“Please, cover yourself.” Tom lost his train of thought as Anika pulled the dress up her legs. Her tan breasts jiggled with the movement of her hips. He had vague memories of kissing those brown nipples. A wave of emotions flooded over Tom, as his mind relived the sensations of their bodies moving together beneath the blankets. Last night his head had been dizzy from alcohol, while his body engaged in an act of pleasure he had not experienced in well over two years. The musk of their sex still lingered in the bedroom. She was dressing herself way too slowly. Tom’s animal urges made him want to throw her down on the bed and ravish her again. But that was a very bad idea. Everyone in the fort knew that Anika was Master Pendleton’s mistress. A mistake made once can easily be forgiven. If he made the same mistake twice, it would only complicate his life.

When she finally got her dress over her shoulders, Tom breathed easier. Anika sat on the bed and tied the leather tassels of her moccasin boots. “You don’t remember last night, do you?”

Tom buttoned up his shirt. “I remember that you came over, and we were drinking a lot. After that, everything’s a bit foggy. If I took advantage of you, I’m sorry.”

Anika giggled as she pulled on her parka. Her face was much softer as she smiled.

“What’s so funny?” he asked.

“You’re not like other men.”

“Oh, how am I different?”

“Most men don’t care how I feel. I feel in my chest that you do.” There was a new spark in her green eyes.

Tom felt guilty for scolding her. She was probably just a lonely widow who needed some winter comfort. Last night he had ventured down a path he shouldn’t have and now feared the Ojibwa tracker might want something more. “Listen, Anika…this has been a very confusing time for me. If Master Pendleton learns you and I slept together…”

Her face hardened. “You don’t have to tell me to stay hush. No one will know.” She exited the room, wrapping her mane up in a ponytail. “I won’t bother you again.” By the tone of her voice, she was clearly upset.

“Anika, I didn’t mean it to sound—”

The back door slammed shut.

“Fine, woman, then bloody bugger off!” Tom pushed one of his chairs.

70

That afternoon, Tom paid a visit to the empty chapel. He lit a votive and kneeled before the Madonna’s altar. The statue of the Virgin Mary gazed down at him. He gesticulated and inwardly recited the poem that he had been reading all morning.

On a dark night, Kindled in love with yearnings, oh, happy chance! I went forth without being observed, My house being now at rest.

Then he walked down the aisle to where a second altar had been set up to remember the six who had passed away. The nave was nearly pitch black at this end. The shimmering light of the single candle barely illuminated the wall and pews. The framed photos—ovals and squares—were all mere shapes in the gloom. He started to light a votive candle, then stopped, remaining in the darkness. He couldn’t bear to look at his son’s photo yet. And believing that spirits watch from above, he couldn’t bear for his son to see his father in this wretched state.

In darkness and secure, By the secret ladder, disguised oh, happy chance! In darkness and in concealment, My house being now at rest.

The last two weeks of heavy drinking had been Tom’s “Dark Night of the Soul.” He had suffered much like Saint John of the Cross, the Spanish poet and mystic who wrote the famous Catholic poem about loneliness and desolation. Tom had sunken into the deepest despair of his life. Each day and night passed slow and torturous. He kept to himself as a hermit, staying locked away inside his cabin. Each night he had tossed and turned in bed, shaking, mouth as dry as cotton. He heard noises in the den, as if the bottles of whiskey stashed inside their crate had somehow turned into living things that clawed at the wood, tempting him to get out of bed and pour himself another fiery throat scratcher.

We can make you forget,
the voices chanted.
Escape from your misery is just a gulp away.

Even now, Tom felt the thirst itching at the back of his throat. He swallowed. He drew strength from thinking about his visit from the angel. First she came to him as a snow owl, then as a woman who resembled his wife. Down to the very scent of her.

I remained, lost in oblivion; My face I reclined on the Beloved. All ceased and I abandoned myself, Leaving my cares forgotten among the lilies.

Tom took a deep breath. It was time to face his son and accept that Chris was gone. Tom struck a match and lit a votive candle. The wick sparked. Flame light reflected in the glass frames. He stared at the ovals and squares, a memorial of the dead. Six faces stared back at him. In the center was a portrait of Chris wearing his prep school uniform.

Tom clasped his hands. “Son…I tried to be a good father… I tried so hard to protect you, and I failed.” He swallowed hard. “I know my drinking was hard on you, and I said some hurtful things… I’m sorry. When I lost your mother…” Tom wiped a forearm across his eyes and sniffled. Thinking of Beth’s death was the hardest memory to pull up. His mind would never relieve him of the image of her body, found inside the cannery warehouse. “Chris, if you only knew the monster I faced…you might understand. The whiskey helped me sleep. And some days it allowed me to forget.” He felt as if a heavy weight were lifting from his chest, opening up feelings that he could only describe as hope. “But I realize now I cannot go on this way. As much as I would like to die and join you and Beth, something won’t let me take my own life. Maybe I still have a purpose here.” He picked up his son’s flute. He could only see the outline of it, but he could feel the holes and intricate carvings. “It’s a mighty fine piece. I wish I could have appreciated your talent more.” Sighing, he slipped the flute into his coat pocket. “Please forgive me, son, for the mistakes I made. From this day forward, I promise to stay sober.”

Part Eight

Masquerade

71

Montréal

Horse hooves
clip-clopped
as the carriage carried the Jesuits along Rue St.-Paul through the Bourgeois Centre of the port city. Father Xavier rode with gloved hands in his lap. As he watched each familiar building and street go by, he felt a bit of sadness. The bishop had assigned him on this mission with such short notice that Father Xavier was still adjusting to the idea that tomorrow he would be leaving his favorite city in Quebec.

Sunlight passed over the face of his young apprentice, who sat in the opposite seat. Andre had gray circles under his eyes.

“Have you been up late reading again?” Father Xavier asked.

“
Oui
, I’m trying to memorize the rituals.”

“Good, you will need to know them by heart. Did you pack your holy water?”

Andre nodded. “As well as my crosses, robes, and sash.”

Father Xavier was hoping the young brother could follow the strict disciplines. He would play a supporting role of reading scriptures, while Father Xavier dealt directly with the demon that possessed its host. Battling the Devil’s Plague was a beast much greater than one man could handle, so Father Xavier was teaching Andre everything he knew. By the end of the training, the young man would be ready for priesthood. He was certainly dedicated and showed promise. But Father Xavier had been performing exorcisms for twenty years, and he had yet to find a novice who had the strong-willed spirit necessary to fight the forces of evil. Time would tell if Andre’s faith matched his devotion.

The carriage pulled up to the curb.

“Ah,
Hôtel de Rasco
.” Father Xavier smiled, stepping out. “The most luxurious lodging in all of Montréal.”

Andre looked up at the flat façade of the five-story stone building. “Father, shouldn’t we be staying at a nearby church to honor our vow of poverty?”

The old priest waved a hand at the notion. “Nonsense, your fort master invited us to spend our last evening at his hotel. I don’t think the Church would mind if we indulged for one night on our journey.”

The carriage driver pulled off their luggage.

Father Xavier grabbed his two bags. “Come, Andre, let’s get out of this cold. I believe this hotel has a café that is famous for its hot cocoa and
crème brûlée
.”

72

Avery Pendleton walked
Hôtel de Rasco’s
main corridor with a teenage mistress on his arm and a high step in his gate. His reunion with Celeste Douglas, the redheaded debutant he had met here last summer, was a much-needed reprieve from his problems at Fort Pendleton. Celeste was an heiress to a fortune, and at age seventeen, already quite the tart in bed. If Willow didn’t start behaving like an obedient wife, Pendleton thought Celeste would make a fine replacement.

The lovers reached the hotel’s grand lobby, and Pendleton’s nose was greeted with the floral scent of dried roses. The décor of
Hôtel de Rasco
was an elegant display of European nobility. The walls were adorned with paintings of British colonial ships, Parisian cityscapes, and Italian vineyards. The first level offered seating in several parlors with plush velvet chairs. One parlor had a man in a brown derby hat playing a piano. With a silly grin on his face, he danced his fingers along the keyboard and bowed his head at the guests walking past.

A polished staircase wound upward to five stories of rooms. The stairs and lobby were busy with the hustle and bustle of guests, many of them dressed in aristocratic attire. Two men in black overcoats stood out among the others.

“Andre, welcome back.” Pendleton patted the young missionary on the shoulder. He studied the second man, a tall priest in his mid-fifties who looked Russian at first glance due to his black mink hat. When he spoke, he was undeniably French Canadian. “
Bonjour, messier
.” The priest tipped his hat, revealing a bald crown with trimmed, white hair above the ears.

Andre introduced them. “Master Pendleton, meet Father Xavier.”

He shook the older man’s hand, feeling a strong grip. “I appreciate you making the journey, Father.”

“I’m happy to go where God calls me.”

Pendleton noticed Brother Andre was eyeing the young redhead on his arm. “Yes, and this lovely woman is Lady Celeste. Her great grandfather is a shareholder. I was just escorting her.”

“It is a pleasure, Mademoiselle.” The priest bowed to the young lady.

Celeste said, “How about we all go into the parlor for some tea?”

“Perhaps later,” Pendleton said. “I’m sure these gentlemen would like to get to their rooms.”

Celeste said, “Okay, darling, then take me to my boudoir. This dress is absolutely suffocating.”

“Why don’t you run along without me? I have business to attend to.” He ushered her to the stairs.

She whispered, “Don’t make me wait too long, lover,” then sacheted up the stairs.

When Pendleton returned, he caught Andre whispering something to the priest. The younger Jesuit had a cold look in his eyes. “Andre, there will be no mentioning of Lady Celeste to Willow or anyone else for that matter. Do we have an understanding?”

The young man nodded. “
Oui
, Master Pendleton.”

“Splendid.” Pendleton slapped his hands together. “I’m sure you two are exhausted. Let me get some help for your luggage.” He snapped his fingers, and two bellhops came over.

Andre looked up at a crystal chandelier and marble staircase. “This hotel is the most elegant place I have ever visited.”

Pendleton said, “It was designed by an Italian named Francisco Rasco back in 1832. He wanted to provide the most luxurious lodging for the
haut-monde
class. You two may find it interesting that Charles Dickens once stayed here with his wife. He was directing three plays for the British garrison at the Royal Theater across the street.”