Silver Storm (The Raveneau Novels #1) (35 page)

Suddenly Raveneau was seized by a violent
desire to consume an indecent quantity of cognac. Dusk was
deepening to indigo night as he quickened his step along John
Street, anxious to feel the reassuring sway of the
Black
Eagle
under his legs.

* * *

Everyone told Devon that the oppressively
warm weather was highly unusual, especially for April. Unusual or
not, she wasn't sure if she could stand another day. Her back had
begun to ache and the baby seemed restless, often waking her
repeatedly through the night with a series of acrobatics.

"Just another month," she whispered aloud.
She lay on her bed, fully dressed. Uneaten food and clean dishes
were neatly arranged on the table.

Hermann Kass had returned from his travels,
closed-mouthed and suffering with a fatigued cough. Elsa had spent
the day with him, and a young maid named Jeanette had taken over
her duties. The girl was nice enough, but so obsequious that Devon
felt uncomfortable and had dismissed her when supper was served. It
was barely seven o'clock, but Devon felt drained and let her eyes
close.

The dream was disturbingly vivid. In it, she
was standing on the beach where Veronique had died and she and
Raveneau had made love. A delicate white skiff emerged out of the
starless night, and she watched it approach until it came up onto
the beach. The Blue Jay stepped out, garbed in his usual cape and
mask, sending a burst of joy through Devon. When she attempted an
embrace, however, Jay held her off, whispering, "Later."

"Have you brought me a message?"

"No, I have come to take you away. When you
leave this island, your troubles will be over."

Mesmerized by the intensity of his gaze,
Devon allowed Jay to take her hand. Slowly, they moved toward the
boat, but before she could step in, she woke up. A warm breeze
billowed the edges of the brocade draperies and cooled the tears on
Devon's cheeks. Lying in the darkness, she put her hands on her
awkwardly round belly. The baby had begun to kick again and she
tried to sooth it and herself with a rhythmic massage, while her
mind drifted back to the Blue Jay. His appeal was potent even in a
dream, and she wondered what it meant. What had become of Jay? Did
he ever think of her?

Sighing, she closed her eyes and allowed her
thoughts to turn to Raveneau. Where was he tonight? Had he attacked
the prison ship yet? Perhaps he was already dead.

Devon struggled up from the bed and went to
the dumbwaiter in the hallway, opening the door to see if the stand
was there so that she could clear the dishes from the table. The
contraption was at the bottom of the shaft, level with the kitchen,
and Devon was pulling the rope to raise it when she heard a shrill,
all-too-familiar voice rising up the dark well from the library or
dining room.

"Mais, Papa, ce n'est pas beaucoup de temps jusqu'd
I'arrivee d'Andre!"

"Oui, je le sais, cherie."
Souchet's
voice dropped. There were footsteps, a strangled sob, and the
conversation continued in whispers. Devon recognized only one other
phrase—
"avant la naissance de ce batard-la!"

Devon closed the door and put her warm cheek
against it. Was it true? Was Souchet Eugenie's father? If so, what
were they after, and how did her unborn child fit in?

Devon bolted from the hallway like a prisoner
escaping from a cage—she had to get away from this house. A balmy
breeze sifted over the island and the perfume of flowers rose out
of the trees. Devon folded her arms over her belly and began to
walk, her thoughts chaotic. Breathing hard, she headed straight for
the secluded beach at the other end of the island, but when she was
about to emerge from the concealment of the overgrown, vine-draped
trees, she stopped short.

On the cliff, the black silhouette of a man
stood out against the inky-blue, star-strewn sky. There was no
mistaking the full coat, the stockinged calves, or the outline of
side curls on his wig.

Souchet! To keep from gasping aloud, Devon
pressed a hand to her mouth. What on earth was he doing
here,
of all places? She had thought to escape from him and
Eugenie, to ponder what she had overheard and to attempt to unravel
the tangled questions in her head, but now she was more confused
than ever.

"Veronique..." Souchet implored in French.
"What am I to do? I have
tried
to direct Eugenie, but it is
difficult. If only you were here!" Tears glittered in the starlight
as he shook a fist at the moon. "It was your own fault, Veronique.
I loved you! I watched you and Eugenie for five years, waiting for
you to tell
him.
You promised me!"

Caught in the emotion of his tirade, Souchet
stumbled slightly and turned as he tried to regain his balance. His
wild eyes fell on Devon, who stood rooted to the ground, pale and
wide-eyed with shock. Her French was not perfect, but after nearly
six months of living with a largely French staff, she had absorbed
enough to translate Souchet's rantings.

"You followed me!" he shouted.

"No—no—I just came here for a walk.
Truly—"

"You heard? Do you speak French?" He came
nearer, staring. "I can see that you do. No doubt that talkative
maid of yours has related the tale of Veronique's death."

Devon could only nod. She saw the fire dim in
his eyes; suddenly he dropped to his knees in the thick, wild
grass. "She should have been
mine,"
he choked, emotions
squelched for twenty-five years finally pouring out.

"Veronique?" Devon's fear abated. Souchet
seemed too distraught to harm her and she bent to hear his
answer.

"Oui.
Yes. Veronique. I was only
eighteen years old when I came here. I was the butler then. The
first time the master went to sea, she invited me to her room—the
one where you stay. My passion for Veronique ruled my life. When
he
was at home, I used to think of killing him. I couldn't
eat or sleep. Once, while he was away for two months, Veronique
became
enceinte.
He was at sea when the child was born as
well, so we were able to juggle the birthdate a bit. He was a
fool... but of course, she was bewitching..." His sigh echoed
mournfully on the night breeze. "She could not bring herself to
break off with Raveneau, though we spent five long years making
plans. Eugenie grew older, and by the time she was Louisa's age, I
was in agony each time I saw her on the master's knee or heard her
call him papa. Finally, I told him that Eugenie was not his child,
and when he sent for Veronique, she promised me again that this
time she would break off with him. We could all hear them fighting,
throwing things, and after a few hours—she said she waited until he
was asleep—we met and slipped outside to walk."

The tortured voice trailed away and Souchet
looked up to meet Devon's intent gaze as if he had just noticed
her. "What are you doing here?" he asked, dazed.

"But... was it you? Did you kill her?"

Souchet ignited like a torch, leaping to his
feet. "She brought it on herself! She told me that they
made
up!
I... simply couldn't bear any more." He lapsed back into
French, raving about spending over half his life as the faithful
servant, the agony of hiding all his emotions. "After Veronique...
our daughter was my only reason for living." A vein stood out on
Souchet's forehead as his voice rose. "If it were not for you and
that bastard in your belly... You probably think you can tell
M'sieur Raveneau that Eugenie is Veronique's daughter and that he
will turn from her to you." He paused to draw a ragged breath.

Devon didn't wait to find out what he would
say or do next. She turned and lifted her skirts to run. She felt
damp fingers grasp at her arm. Utterly terrified, more for her
innocent baby than for herself, Devon scrambled and stumbled in the
night-shrouded underbrush. Somewhere behind, she could hear Souchet
coming, and each time her foot caught in a hole or tripped over a
rock, she thought he would be upon her. Then, on the winding path
leading up the hill to the house, a snarl of vines twisted Devon's
skirts and she fell backward, onto rocks and branches. The sound of
Souchet's labored breathing, nearing by the moment, forced her to
pull herself up. Her belly seemed like dead weight and she felt a
long, wrenching cramp when she started back up the hill. No time
for worry now. Later...

Somehow she staggered across the grass to the
rear door. A cramp tore through her insides again; her legs were
wet. Devon began to sob, crumpling on the landing of the servants'
stairs. "Elsa! Elsa!" she screamed.

A blond, plaited head appeared, blurring as
Devon blinked and lost consciousness.

***~~~***

May 7, 1782

This day marked a fortnight of life for
Mouette Deborah, who was about the same size as the porcelain doll
Louisa had brought with her from England. During the first days
following her premature birth on the servants' stairs, everyone had
waited sadly for her to die, except Devon. She had been groggy and
weak as a kitten herself, but she had insisted that Mouette stay in
her bed. All through the day and night she had held the swaddled
infant close to her body, warming her and loving her. Devon had
known that Mouette was meant to live.

And she did. Mother and daughter stayed in
the servants' quarters, sharing a room and a lowpost bed that was
made up daily with fresh linens. Cook was in heaven and never
questioned Devon's refusal to return to the lavish bedchamber two
floors above. Once it was evident that Mouette was going to
survive, Cook was transformed into a solicitous
grandmere,
who delighted in every moment she could spend with the tiny
raven-haired charmer. The rest of the staff was nearly as doting.
Devon let the children gather around the bed when she changed
Mouette's diaper or gown, and they cooed and giggled at the baby's
wide-eyed, uncoordinated antics.

Devon was completely well now. She had
dressed four days after giving birth, and except for her refusal to
leave the servants' quarters, she had been engaged in a busy
mother's routine ever since. Elsa no longer waited on her; their
relationship was that of affectionate friends who helped each
other. Mouette had only her mother for a nurse, and if anyone else
rocked her or changed her diaper, it was because Devon allowed
it.

This day in early May found Devon alone with
Mouette in her room, primrose muslin bodice unfastened to allow the
baby her noon meal. Devon put out her free hand and ran it lightly
over the feathery black hair covering Mouette's perfectly sculpted
head. Even at birth it had been just this round, though the rest of
her had not been so pretty. For three days she had been unable to
coordinate her mouth to nurse; as soon as she managed to get a drop
of milk, she would jerk with excitement in another direction.

How far she's come in only two weeks! Devon
smiled. Mouette sucked greedily, and had a pink, healthy appearance
to prove it. Astonishingly long lashes lay against cheeks that were
curved and rosy; a miniature hand rested trustingly on the swell of
Devon's breast.

A timid knock sounded at the door.

"Who is it?"

"Me," a child's voice declared after a
moment's pause.

"Oh, Louisa! Come in. I missed you
yesterday."

The little girl opened the door but stopped
after one or two steps.

"Don't be shy, Louisa. This is how babies
take nourishment. When Mouette was growing inside me, my breasts
were making milk to feed her. She won't need any other food for
several months! Isn't it lovely how God planned every detail?"

Devon's relaxed manner put Louisa at ease.
"My cat had babies one time," she revealed, coming closer to perch
on a ladder-back chair beside the bed. "She had milk inside her,
too."

"Yes, that's right. Most animals are the
same. What is your cat's name?"

"Duke," Louisa replied innocently. "But I had
to give her to my friend Sarah before we went on the ship."

"That's a shame. No doubt you miss her."

Louisa nodded.

"Tell me, how did you happen to choose Duke's
name?"

"I named her after Mama's best friend. His
name was Duke, and I think Mama wanted it to be her name, too, but
I told her Eugenie is lots prettier."

Devon's smile was crooked. "Tell me,
sweetheart, how is your mother? I know she must have been very sad
about M'sieur Souchet. I hope she's feeling better."

Louisa's hazel-gold eyes clouded. "I told her
that he's in heaven, way up on top of the clouds, but she still
cries—every hour almost! She tells me to go away."

Mouette had dozed off and Devon gently lifted
her to burp, trying to decide what to say to Louisa. She hadn't
learned of Souchet's death herself until Mouette was four days old
and out of danger. Elsa had blurted out the story then: it seemed
that Louisa had risen early the morning after Mouette's birth, and
finding Devon's room empty, had gone to look for her outside.
Halfway down the hill behind the house, she had discovered the
cold, chalky body of Bernard Souchet, sprawled with arms reaching
forward. Thinking him asleep, the child had shaken his shoulders
until fear had replaced confusion; then she had run to the house,
screaming and sobbing. Hermann had heard her and gone back to
Souchet. There wasn't a mark on the body, not even a bump to the
head. Everyone had agreed the man's heart must have simply
stopped.

In spite of her sublime contentment, Devon
had dreamed more than once of darkness and terror and raspy,
labored breathing that pursued her. She felt no pity for Bernard
Souchet; it was a blessing that he hadn't lived, for certainly
total madness would have claimed him soon. During the four days
when she had thought him still alive, she had worried that he might
again attempt to kill her, and Mouette too, but the news of his
death did not entirely dispel her concern. Eugenie, in her own way,
was just as dangerous.