Healing Grace (8 page)

Etienne didn’t say anything for a moment. His eyes were on the chess board. Absently Constance regarded the remaining pieces. After what they’d just discussed, there was no way she could concentrate on the game. Etienne, however, didn’t appear as flummoxed. He reached over and moved his queen, but then didn’t take his fingers off the piece.

Constance looked up. Their eyes met.

“We almost lost him once, you know. Julien was dying and there was nothing anyone could do. Nothing
I
could do—” He stopped short, but didn’t look away. “I won’t let that happen again. I can’t.”

“Of course. He’s your brother. Your family. You want to protect him. As you should.”

“Harry won’t be forthcoming with you. If he does know who’s leading the Klan, he’ll have been sworn to secrecy. Getting information may require some… how shall we say this…
persuasion
on your part.”

“Are you suggesting I bribe him?”

“That’s one way of putting it,” Etienne said slowly. “You were… married. I wonder, did you find your husband to be more… obliging while being…
er
…
charmed?
Most men are.”

“I see.” Constance could feel her pulse racing. She understood. She understood very well.

“It may not come to that,” Etienne added. “I hope it doesn’t, but if it does…”

Abruptly Constance stood up. She couldn’t look at him anymore so she crossed to the window. But seeing through the pane was impossible in the darkness. The only thing left to focus on were the droplets, countless tiny droplets, like tears, shimmering on the glass. Perhaps that’s what the pressure in her chest looked like—teardrops splattered on a frozen heart?

Constance didn’t want to be intimate with Harry. She didn’t want to be intimate with anyone. Ever. The very thought twisted her gut into a thousand knots. Oddly, however, it wasn’t this dreaded possibility causing the strangled cries inside of her. At least, not entirely. It was something else, something she couldn’t define.

“Constance?” Etienne was behind her. She could feel his presence. She could smell him, like dew and pine trees. “Will you help me? Will you help my brother, my family? Please. I will forever be in your debt.”

She wanted to tell him to go to Hell. She wanted to tell him she hated him. Because she did suddenly, vehemently. But she didn’t say either of those things.

“I will consider it,” she murmured.

“Thank you,” he said. “That’s all I ask.”

Silently she took a breath, then pasted a smile on her face and turned around. “Shall we finish the game?”

“It’s already done.” Etienne’s lips quirked, either apologetically or wryly, Constance wasn’t sure. Then he said, “Checkmate.”

“Sacrifice”

I am you, but you don’t know me.

You don’t know me, because I was gone.

I was gone, but I’ve come back.

I’ve come back, because I’m guilty.

Tonight, I cry.

I am guilty, but I can’t tell.

I can’t tell, because I must protect.

I must protect, but I’m afraid.

I am afraid, because I’m not worthy.

Tonight, I hurt.

I am not worthy, but you don’t know.

You don’t know, because you’re young.

You’re young, but you’re not innocent.

You’re not innocent, because you are me.

Tonight, your pain will be mine.

The boy read over what he’d written one last time and closed the raggedy notebook, thinking as he did that he’d need a new one soon. There weren’t many empty pages left. He blew out the candle on the desk, rose and set the notebook on the spindly chair. It was dark, but he didn’t need light, not here in this room. He may not have been here for many years, but he knew every corner, every crack in the floorboards, every dent in the plaster, every nick and scar in the furniture. He wasn’t a boy anymore, not on the outside, but here he had to be.

Silently he sidestepped to the open window, and for a long time stood there staring out at the rain, breathing in the dewy scent filtering through. Then one at a time, he shrugged out of his suspenders. Slowly, he unbuttoned his shirt and slid it over his shoulders. Still taking his time, he folded it neatly and laid it on top of the notebook. Bending over, he removed his boots and set them by the chair. His trousers followed. Just as he’d done with the shirt, he folded them and laid them on top of the growing pile. All that was left was his underwear. He folded them as neatly as the rest of his clothes and added them to the chair. The breeze coming through the window whispered over his skin and chilled him. He shivered but didn’t move away. Not yet.

He closed his eyes and waited. The footsteps in the hallway resounded just as he remembered. Automatically, silently, he counted them.

One… two…

He turned around and opened his eyes. The darkness didn’t hide the outline of the bed, or the thin patchwork quilt draping it. The last time he’d slept here he’d been fourteen years old. He’d been a kid—a stupid, hopeless boy—slipping through the window, climbing down the tree outside, escaping. Much like the stupid, hopeless boy he’d sent down the tree earlier. The one he’d sent to hide. When he could, he’d put that boy on the train bound for Washington. That boy wouldn’t cry tonight. That boy would never cry again.

…five… six…

He dropped to his knees beside the bed, folded his hands and bowed his head like he was praying, but he wasn’t praying.

…seven… eight…

The latch on the bedroom door clicked, the rusty hinges creaked, and the smell of whiskey drifted in, like smoke from a fire. Nothing had changed.

Think of other things, he reminded himself. Think of what you have to do tomorrow. Think of good things, like poetry and soft kitten fur. Think of Toby’s warmth curled on your chest, the purr vibrating along with your heartbeat. Think of skipping rocks in the creek, of basking in a swimming hole on a hot summer day.

Remember it will be over soon.

Think of the colonel.

The shadow loomed and the boy looked up. The figure was the same—big, imposing, a black silhouette sucking away the moonlight. The boy recoiled, shriveling, making himself even smaller, meeker, afraid. As he’d always done.

It will be over soon, he told himself one last time.

Then, raising his voice so he would sound young, like a child, he whispered, “Daddy…”

“Fithher’th Tavern,” Etienne mimicked, as he brought Igore to a halt half a block away from the old saloon. It was late, most of the surrounding buildings—some homes, some businesses—were dark. Fisher’s, however, was still awake. Its windows were bright and the torch on the porch beside the front entrance prickled from the pelting rain. The crooked wood shingle with its faded painted fish twittered back and forth in the wind, like a child’s swing.

The last time Etienne had been here, nine years ago, the place had been in poor repair, and it appeared little, if anything, had been done to improve it. But he didn’t care about the condition. What he cared about was the proximity to the street, the narrow pathways between adjacent structures, the rear alley and the accessibility of windows and doors.

To better familiarize himself with the area, he rode around the block, and through the alley twice. It was there, on his third pass, that he decided to dismount and secure Igore. Several other horses were hitched to the post, though not as many as in front, evidence that a few of Fisher’s patrons entered from the rear.

There was a short walkway that, due to the rain was more mud than dirt, a small porch and a door with hinges so rusty, they looked about to fall off. Etienne didn’t attempt to open it. His first stop was around the side in the narrow aisle, at the first of four windows. There were times in life when his height was an advantage. This was one of them. As he peered through the glass into the lighted interior, it briefly crossed his mind that had Julien been here with him, he wouldn’t have had so grand a view. Julien was two inches shorter.

Through the first window, Etienne saw crates and other stacked bundles. Shelving on the side wall held a mess of bottles, glasses and dishes, and everything looked gray, as if covered by a thick layer of dust. It could have been a trick of the lighting, but Etienne didn’t think it was. He stood there long enough to watch a man, dressed in an apron, wheel an empty keg in from a hallway. Another man followed him, sipping from a bottle. Neither of them were of particular interest.

From having been inside, Etienne remembered the building contained a few private rooms. The second window was to one of them. Several tables were set up, some with mismatched chairs. A handful of broken seats and a table without legs were leaning against one wall. Otherwise it was empty. The third window was also to a private room, but no lamps had been lit in the interior. Beyond the pane was nothing but darkness.

The fourth window was to the main bar room, and it was full. Every stool at the bar itself was taken, and most of the randomly set tables were in use. Etienne scrutinized one man after the other—this wasn’t easy through rain-dappled panes—seeking someone he recognized. Despite Edward Murphy’s denial that his pals had no plans to be here tonight, Etienne’s instinct told him differently. Apparently, however, as far as Edward Murphy’s entourage went, he’d been wrong.

A noise—the monotone chanting of drunken men—had Etienne quickly stepping away from the window. He continued moving up the narrow path toward the front of the building, just as two men rounded the corner at the back of it.

Because of the way the passage was shrouded by walls, it was like a dark tunnel. Soon, even though Etienne could hear the men coming, he couldn’t see them. But that meant they couldn’t see him, either. As soon as he reached the front end, instead of turning left toward Fisher’s entrance, he went right and hunkered down in the shadows beside the porch of the next building.

There, under the eaves, at least for a moment, he wasn’t being pelted with raindrops. As it was, his hair had become a straggly mop, and the non-descript clothes he’d purposely changed into, were soaked through. The only dry parts left of him were his feet, and this was only thanks to well-made boots.

He waited there, hoping as he listened to the slurring words of the two men, that they would say something Klan related. But they didn’t. They sauntered right on past, not noticing him at all. Their destination, however, was obvious. They were going to Fisher’s. And, Etienne supposed, so was he.

He grappled up and followed them, his moves so stealthily made, the man he caught the door behind startled.

“Oh, shit,” the man prattled, “Didn’t see ya there, laddie! Do I know ya? Nope, don’t think I do. You sure is a tall one, ain’t ya? No matter. If yer lookin’ for some good spirits, dis be da bes’ place in town. Cheapes’, too. Would ya like ta join us? The more the merrier, I alus say! What’s yer name?”

At least the drunk was the friendly sort. Etienne held out his hand only to have it so vigorously shaken, his shoulder joint cracked.

“I’m Tom Peepers,” he told them. “Up from Pulaski on surveying business.”

“Yer name is Peepers?” the other chap guffawed.

Etienne laughed too, while more or less being pushed through the door and having an already filled glass shoved into his hand.

Subsequent eavesdropping yielded little, but soon enough he was going from table to table, buying rounds, embroiling himself in one drunken dialogue after another, inserting leading remarks where he could. It wasn’t until he told them he’d ridden into town with Stone that one of them bit.

“Stone was on the same stage?” the man gulped. “What’s he doin’ here?”

“Don’t matter. Stone ain’t gonna do nothin’. Da Klan be gone fer good,” a burly character cut in. “’Tis a damn shame.”

Another said, “Stone or no Stone, even if they was ta git back together, I ain’t gonna join up. ’Taint worth it, no siree. I ain’t goin’ ta prison like good ol’ Murph. Poor ol’ coot.”

As the comments continued, several men admitted to having been involved with the Klan before its disbanding, but this was no surprise. If, however, Stone was behind a recent resurgence, either they were keeping quiet or they weren’t aware. Because of how loose-lipped they’d become, Etienne was fairly certain it was the latter. Sympathies toward Murphy, Houser and Simpson were expressed. The common consensus was the prison terms had been too stringent. About Luther Emerson’s passing, they were all saddened, and well-wishes were expressed for Trent and his family. Etienne hadn’t expected that. But, by these remarks, he deduced that none of them knew about the note that had been left with Luther’s body. If any of these men had considered Luther a traitor, it didn’t show.

Etienne stayed until the barkeeper announced the bar would soon close for the night. In the dark and rain, along with a couple of his new mates, he stumbled down the narrow corridor and out the walkway to the alley where ever-faithful Igore waited.

Once mounted, he set a slow pace toward the train station, or rather toward the nearby inn. He’d told the men at Fisher’s he was staying there. And it was just as well. He wanted to pass by one more time, to see if any lamplight shown from Stone’s room. The former Klan leader’s window had been dark earlier, and alas, it still was.

For now, Etienne’s work was done. It would have been nice to have discovered who Luther’s killer was tonight, but then again he hadn’t expected to. Sad to say, but mysteries like this never resolved quickly. Overall he was pleased with what he’d accomplished thus far, and tomorrow was another day. He spurred Igore onward. As soon as he reached the town limits, he let the massive beast fly.

Grace Manor was in view—it wasn’t really in the darkness, but it would have been had he been traveling during the day—when Etienne drew rein. The momentary indecision was brief.

It didn’t take long to reach the schoolhouse grounds. No lights burned through the windows of the small cottage, not even the faint flicker of a single candle. The schoolteacher was asleep, as was Stone and every other sane person at this time of night. Etienne had known even before steering Igore around, this was what he’d find, and yet his gut still clenched. His eyes still swarmed.

At the tavern, he’d purposely spilled away most of the whiskey poured into his glass, but not all of it. The wooziness he felt was undoubtedly a result of what he’d consumed. And yet, it disappeared as quickly as it had overwhelmed.

It was guilt that compelled him to come here, he decided next.

But he’d had no choice. He’d done it for Julien. And it wasn’t as if the schoolteacher didn’t already
like
Harry Simpson. She’d
welcomed
Harry’s courtship. All Etienne had done was ask her to take the inevitable next step in that relationship. In the long run, it wouldn’t matter since eventually she and Harry would probably marry.

Etienne yanked the reins so hard, Igore bellowed at him. All he could see was the schoolteacher’s eyes, those glittering, pale blue transoms, beseeching him, and silently conveying what a bastard he was.

He was a bastard, the worst possible kind. Especially now, since all he wanted to do was get off Igore and peek into the windows of her house, to see, if indeed, she wasn’t asleep. Not because he wanted to watch her sleep, although that wasn’t a wholly unpleasant idea, but to see if she would sit with him again, talk to him, banter with him, make him laugh like she’d done so effortlessly before. They could play chess again…

Nobody ever beat him, not even Julien, and Julien was the most formidable opponent Etienne had ever faced. But the schoolteacher very nearly had. Who would have thought? Who would have known she would be so beguiling, so captivating, so… he didn’t know what it was… the way she carried herself, the way she spoke with the children, held baby Mary. The way her hair cascaded like dark swan feathers over her shoulders. And those eyes, those mesmerizing, translucent eyes…

Igore’s snort stopped him in his tracks. Good god, when had he dismounted? When had he crossed the yard? He was inches from her window—her
bedroom
window. Even now, with his bearings in place, he was still compelled to peek. His excuse… this was his role tonight. He’d been a peeping tom at Fisher’s Tavern, so why quit now?

If she caught him peering in her window would she faint like she had when she’d first seen him? Despite her denial, he knew he’d caused it. She’d taken one look at him and screamed. He’d scared the schoolteacher…

He had to stop thinking of her as the schoolteacher. Her name was Constance.

Constance. Demure. Perceptive. Clever.

Constance.

Constance…

The temptation was too strong. He wanted… no, he needed… to see her, if only for a second. To tell her he was sorry. But he wasn’t sorry. He couldn’t afford to be sorry.

If it weren’t for Igore’s inharmonious whinny of disapproval, Etienne wouldn’t have stopped in his tracks. He would have taken the last few steps and gaped, like a stalker, into her bedroom window.

The whole ride back to Grace Manor, her name whispered through his head.

Constance. Elegant. Sensible. Surprisingly witty.

Constance.

When he lay down in the room Emily had assigned to him at Grace Manor, his eyelids were heavy. Maybe that was good. Maybe he would sleep for a few hours. Whiskey could be blamed for the drowsiness, but that was okay, so long as the drink kept the dreams at bay. Funny, for those few minutes he’d been asleep on the schoolteacher’s sofa, he hadn’t dreamt. It was the first time in years he’d slept without being overcome.

Constance. Charming. Resilient. Different.

Constance.

“Constance…”