Healing Grace (28 page)

Constance didn’t know how to describe what Etienne was doing to her. And she didn’t mean the current physical act, because
that
she very well could have described. That is, if one spoke of such lascivious things, which one would never do! How he’d convinced her to let him do so in the first place, she wasn’t sure. But she had given in. All week long, every night, she’d given in, and oh goodness, now she hoped he would never stop. Did it even matter that today was Saturday and it wasn’t night? It was mid-morning…

His attentions set her on fire, and not just the particular place he was catering to. Her whole body was tingling, and she couldn’t help writhing, moaning, and bucking as he sent her spiraling closer and closer to a netherworld of bliss.

This was what making love was supposed to be like, Etienne had told her. He’d also said what George had done to her was wrong, that husbands who sought to inflict pain were sick, reprehensible bastards. Etienne said husbands were supposed to put their wives’ needs first. And if a husband truly loved his wife, he would ensure her experiences in the bedroom were always pleasurable and fulfilling.

Constance’s only thought—at the moment she wasn’t capable of much more than one—was that Etienne would make an extremely fine husband. A girl could only get so lucky. A second later she found out, once again, what it truly meant to be floating.

When finally she opened her eyes, he was looking up at her and showing off his dimples.

“Did you like that,
chérie?”
he murmured as he stealthily crawled up her body.

Constance attempted to nod, but already his mouth was on hers, his tongue sweetly dipping. She could taste her scent on his lips, reminding her again of something else he’d told her—something that contradicted what she might have otherwise believed.

“I love the flavor of you,” he whispered again as he stole his way—nibbling and kissing—down the front of her. “I can’t get enough of it.”

The number of times he’d indulged her thusly, proved this claim was no lie.

“Would you like more,
chérie?”
he whispered, as the tip of his nose tickled her. “
Je veux te faire jouir encore plus.”

“Yes,” she heard herself say. “Yes, please…”

“Mmm,” he murmured.
“Je vais te faire jouir encore plus, tous les jours… ma chérie, mmm… ma belle chérie...Tu es tellement belle… mmm… J’ai envie de toi… mmm… j’ai envie de toi…”

Oh, how she loved when he spoke to her that way. His breathy voice and the sultry words telling her how much he wanted to give her more, how ready she was for him, how much he wanted her, were enough to send her twirling into the most serene abyss.

It didn’t take long for him to bring her around again to the shimmering heights. This time, however, he didn’t kiss her through the subsequent freefall. When she opened her eyes, he was gone.

This wasn’t the first time he’d abruptly disappeared like this. Constance knew where he’d gone and why. He’d told her before, “I won’t make love to you
that
way,
chérie
. Not until you’re ready. Not until you tell me you want me to.”

Did she want him to? Part of her did. Part of her knew what she’d thought of as a repulsive act for so long, wouldn’t be that way with Etienne. She knew, somehow, he would make it special and beautiful, because he had the most uncanny way of making everything special and beautiful.

And she wasn’t just thinking of sex. She was thinking of everything—every lesson taught at the schoolhouse, every glass of sweet tea served, every cherry picked, every chess match, every night holding her close. Even his words were special and beautiful—his wit, his teasing, his counsel, his many heartbreaking stories, his way of drawing out her deepest secrets. He’d told her he couldn’t sleep without her, that no one could keep his nightmares at bay and dissolve his melancholy the way she could. If that didn’t boost the ego and make one feel exquisite, she didn’t know what could.

Constance pushed herself up, then took the time to fix the ties of the silk robe Etienne had given her, the same ties that an hour before, he’d unfastened. She crossed to the window and opened the curtains wide. It was a lovely day, not too hot, with a lilting breeze. Absently she patted Rex’s fluffy head as she stared at the schoolhouse.

She didn’t need to be in that quaint building to picture Etienne there, teaching—or rather
entertaining
—the children. She’d gone to the schoolhouse every day, because he’d insisted. He’d said she had to be there in the event he needed help. However, she hadn’t been allowed to get up from the cozy rocking chair he’d brought over from the house, and she hadn’t been allowed to speak unless first spoken to.

Etienne had made the children pretend she was a ghost—an angel ghost—they couldn’t see or talk to. But they knew she was there, watching over them, as angels did. To the children, this game had been uproariously funny. As had all the others Etienne had improvised to assist with lessons. That he was an exceptional teacher—much better than she could ever be—was unquestionable. Constance was sure the children would be disappointed next week when the regular schoolteacher took over again. Even so, she couldn’t stop smiling just remembering Etienne in the role. To say she’d spent most of her time in that rocking chair laughing, would be an understatement.

In the evening, when they weren’t otherwise sensually engaged, he’d told stories of his family. Through them, Constance had learned of Etienne’s father, Joseph Grace, and how he’d been killed during the war. Elise, his mother, more affectionately referred to as
Maman
, had remarried four years ago, to an officer who at one time had been Julien’s mentor, General Seth McLean.

Etienne also shared tales of his brother, Adrien, who he described as being reserved and quiet. Adrien’s profession was that of an attorney—he even wore glasses that made him look the part—but his true fervor was his art. Etienne said Adrien’s talent was extraordinary, and his paintings were so breathtaking they would make her cry.

Julien and Adrien, however, weren’t Etienne’s only siblings. He had another one, a younger brother, Leon, more familiarly called Leo. Etienne said if the family had a black sheep, Leo would be it. Leo was reckless and irresponsible. He’d dropped out of college and never pursued a career. Most of the jobs he’d held as a young lad, he’d been fired from. Now he was a philanderer, roaming the country, doing Etienne-didn’t-know-what. The only thing they could rely on with regard to Leo was that he’d show up every year for the family gathering at Christmastime.

Even though they’d all asked, what Leo shared of his escapades was always vague at best. No one really knew where he’d been or what he’d done. Adrien was the only one who could get in touch with him. But more often than not, Adrien didn’t know whether his letters and telegrams had been received. Leo rarely responded.

Of course Etienne hadn’t been the only one doing the talking. Constance had told him personal things as well. As she smoothed the red silk robe he’d given her, she recalled how he’d brought it for her, two evenings ago.

He’d taken a quick trip to town for foodstuffs and other supplies. Upon his return, he’d come into the bedroom, hiding something behind his back. He’d made her stand up, then moved in so close she couldn’t see what he whipped around her back and dropped on the bed. With his gaze locked on hers, he slowly stripped her nightgown away. Then he drew her in, and started with lingering, heated kisses. During them, the soft fabric was picked off the bed and draped over her shoulders. Soon her arms had been slipped through the sleeves.

At that point he stepped back. Grinning rakishly he tied the belt, then whispered in her ear, “Do you like,
chérie?
Do you know how much easier it will be for me to get to that delectable body of yours when you’re wearing this?”

The last thing he’d done was make a show of adjusting the lapels. He wouldn’t allow them to touch. Instead he kept them loose and separated almost to the waist. While standing back, admiring his work, he’d murmured, “Hmm… not quite right. Like this, I think.” And then he’d turned the lapels even farther out.

Softly, as his palms had moved over her exposed upper body, he’d whispered, “Now we get to behold true beauty. Keep this open like this,
chérie
. For me.”

This had been followed by a sudden retreat, a flashing grin, and a heralded, “Good things become even better for those who wait, a lesson I must remember.” He’d grabbed her hand to pull her along, though not without an appreciative,
“mmm,”
coupled with another lingering downward look. “It’s time for dinner,
chérie
,” he’d said.

That night, after spending an inordinate amount of time sublimely tantalizing her, his quiet words had compelled her to talk about George. And she had. She’d admitted, “I wanted my husband to die. I imagined killing him myself.”

She’d thought Etienne might mention that she’d said as much before, in her delirium, but he hadn’t. This made her think that perhaps she hadn’t spoken aloud like she’d originally believed.

Nevertheless, as soon as she told Etienne her disgraceful secret, she’d wished she hadn’t. She’d been sure he would condemn her. He would back away and tell her she was a terrible person with a sick soul. But then his arms had tightened around her and in that whispery, soothing voice, he’d said, “Of course you did,
chérie
. Of course you did.”

Just like that, the wall of shame she’d been up against for so long had split down the middle. Although it was still present, because of Etienne, every day it crumbled a little more.

Sweet, wonderful Etienne. Funny, bossy Etienne. Compulsive, vulnerable Etienne.

Through his absolution he’d created a path that would eventually deliver her from the crushing guilt. Through his attentions, he’d helped her realize all women didn’t put on an act, that perhaps her mother hadn’t been unhappy, that Emily wasn’t an enigma when it came to the marriage bed. Through his stories she’d experienced hardship and despair, wonder and triumph, and she’d learned the kind of love poets raved about
did
exist. Nothing could have solidified her conviction about this more than what Etienne shared about his brother and Jessica.

Much of the tale Constance already knew, both from Emily’s and Jessica’s narratives. She knew that while rescuing a child from the Klan, Julien had been gravely wounded. He’d taken two bullets in the back and the doctors believed he wouldn’t survive. What Constance hadn’t known was that Julien did, in fact, perish. This was the story Etienne told her…

A bed had been set up for Julien in the parlor at Grace Manor, and they’d all been with him—Etienne, the Reverend Sebastian Nash, who Constance knew from the teacher’s college, and Seth McLean. Also present had been a man named Herlin Jefferson, who had worked with Julien on the mission to breech the Klan. For years now, he’d been one of Julien’s closest friends.

For most of the day, while Julien gruelingly labored for each breath, Jessica hadn’t been with him. This wasn’t by her choice. It was because Julien had requested she be kept away. He hadn’t wanted her to see him suffering.

It was late afternoon when Julien changed his mind. He asked to see Jessica one last time, to say goodbye. In those moments, while Jessica sat on the bed beside him, quietly praying, Julien’s harsh breaths suddenly stopped. His eyes were open, but fixed, staring at nothing—the eyes of death.

Even though his dead weight had been too great, Jessica dragged him into her arms. She clung, rocking, crying, wailing things like, “Please, please don’t die.” But it was too late. Julien was gone.

Etienne stood up, as did Sebastian Nash. They both started toward the bed, their intent to pull Jessica away, to tell her there was nothing more to be done. Witnessing her grief was too much to bear.

But then, over and over again, Jessica screamed, “I love you! I love you! I love you!”

How many times she yelled, Etienne didn’t know. It may have been seconds, but it may have been minutes, too. Suddenly Julien drew in a harsh breath, the kind that grates on the ears and makes one want to cringe—that was how Etienne described it. At the same time, Julien’s wide-open eyes slammed shut.

At that moment, Etienne’s knees threatened to buckle. If it weren’t for the bedpost, which he grabbed hold of, he wouldn’t have stayed upright. Frozen there, he watched Jessica frantically shift Julien. He listened to her scream his brother’s name.

Julien didn’t awaken. Not once did his eyelids even flicker. Not when Jessica shook him repeatedly. Not when Sebastian Nash convinced her to lay him down. The gray hue of Julien’s skin and the blue tinge to his lips remained, but he was breathing. Steadily the death rattle droned on, in, out, in, out.

The hours ticked by and Jessica refused to leave. They all knew of course, it was only a matter of time. Any moment Julien would succumb once more to the peace of death.

Well after midnight, Sebastian, Seth and Herlin left, but Etienne stayed. By then, exhaustion was eating away at him. He was slouched in the corner of the couch, but afraid to close his eyes. Somewhere along the line Jessica laid down on the bed. Because of the way Julien was propped, partially on his side, Jessica settled on top of the covers behind him and drew a light crocheted afghan over herself. Then she put her hand over Julien’s and tucked her fingers between his knuckles. Her grip was so fierce, Etienne said it looked like she was trying to convey her own strength into Julien.