Chapter Summary: Gustave and Katherine share a moment of comfort. Events of the last days cause Raoul and Christine to come to a sad realization. Inspector Berube brings news that brings a bit of hope.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Gustave sat in bed, propped up by pillows to cushion his back. He stared dejectedly out the bedroom window at a hummingbird burying its head in one of the morning glories the crept along the edge of the window. He wanted to throw something at that stupid bird to shoo it away. He wanted to scream at the top of his lungs for the bright morning to just go away. He wanted to get up and go do something ... anything! Gustave sighed for he knew well that he was not getting out of his bed without help. That last time that he had tried to move by himself, the pain had nearly caused him to pass out and his mother had ending up sitting by his side for hours. He could handle the pain; it was the look on his mother's face that he could not handle. Gustave closed his eyes as a knock came at his door.
"May I come in, please?" a female voice asked.
Gustave managed a smile as he turned towards the door to see Katherine sticking her head in. "I should like that," he said.
Katherine entered the room, nodding to the nurse who sat quietly in a corner, a book open in her lap. She crossed the short distance to stand at the foot of the bed. "I just wanted to see if you needed anything. I must go to Paris this afternoon to let my cousins know what is happening and wondered if you might like something to brighten your day. There is a wonderful little patisserie that Annalise ..." Katherine stopped speaking and looked away. "I'm sorry."
"There is nothing to be sorry for," Gustave told her softly and patted the bed next to him. "Come and sit for a moment, please." He waited until Katherine had gently lowered herself onto the bed, taking her hand. "You can say her name." He winced as his weight shifted. "It is almost as if anyone says her name it will mean that she is not coming back and I refuse to accept that." A flash of anger crossed his face. "I cannot and will not believe that Annalise is not coming home."
"Andrew will find her. I know he will."
Gustave managed a small smile. "It would seem Andrew and I are both fortunate in our sisters," the smile disappeared from his face, "and their unerring belief in our abilities." He leaned back against the pillows, closing his eyes. "I wish I could get up. I wish I could just shake everyone. I wish I had been able to ... " He opened his eyes, staring at the ceiling. "I wonder if Annalise will ever forgive me for failing her when she needed me most."
"You did not fail her!" Katherine exclaimed.
"I did, though, Katherine; I failed her. I should have gone to her the minute I saw her leave the gardens. I should have known something was wrong when I saw that damn coach stop. If only I had been smarter or faster, none of this would have happened and my sister would be here annoying me to distraction." Gustave shook his head, fighting back the tears. "I miss her so much and I cannot bear to think about what she might be going through." He looked at the silent girl next to him and saw the tears fall. "Oh Lord," he breathed, "I did not mean ..."
"I know," Katherine replied. "I am afraid for Annalise, too; she is my friend and I look up to her. I know you did not mean to forget about Andrew." She sniffled. "Just as you fear for your sister, I fear for my brother. I cling to my belief that he will find her and bring her home just as you cling to your belief that she is alive and will be coming home. But there are moments when my fears override my faith and I wonder if the fact that we have not had word in four days means that ...," Katherine drew a deep breath, "that something has happened to Andrew."
"I do not believe that and you must not."
"Now who is encouraging whom?"
"Hold to your faith that Andrew will bring Annalise home and I shall hold on with you." Gustave lightly squeezed the hand he held. "Perhaps together our faith will be sufficient to bring them back to us."
Christine had stood outside the door to her son's room, listening, not wanting to intrude. She knew Gustave had found her presence smothering but her fear of having another child slip away without warning was too much to bear. So it had been that when Raoul suggested Katherine come to stay with them so that she could be there when Andrew and Annalise returned, Gustave had agreed without hesitation. Christine was not blind and knew that Katherine's company lifted her son's spirits, however slightly, and that would aid in his recovery. The young people shared a bond into which she would not have thought of intruding and for the mutual comfort the bond brought to each of them Christine would be eternally grateful. She walked softly away from Gustave's room before Katherine could leave, guilty for listening, guilty for not being able to help her son through his grief and anxiety, guilty for being selfishly wrapped up in her own.
Christine stopped before another door, gathering her strength, before walking into her daughter's bedroom. She had forbidden Annalise's maid - and everyone else in the household - from touching anything until Annalise returned. Christine remained in the doorway, looking around, seeing everything just as it had been four days previous; the toiletries scattered carelessly across the dressing table, a dress tossed absently across the back of a chair, the sketchbook and letter resting on the bed where Christine had left them. She walked across the room and sat on the bed, picking up the letter, studying the almost forgotten handwriting.
"You still think of me as your angel," Christine whispered as she read the words flowing across the paper. "After all I did to you, I am still your angel." She ran fingertips over the paper as buried memories forced their way into the light of her thoughts, adding to the guilty weight she already bore. "After I betrayed you; after I left you in the dark; after everything you still love me." She did not try to stop the tears. "And my daughter. You love my daughter." She put the letter down and picked up the sketchbook, looking at the drawing of Erik that Annalise had done. "She loves you, too; I can see it in every line." Christine looked up as a mourning dove landed on the windowsill, cooing at her. "My angel ..." her voice broke and she let the grief and guilt of twenty-six years wash over her.
She had no idea how for how long she had wept or when the tears had finally stopped but she looked up when her husband had called her name.
"What are you doing?" Raoul wanted to know, even though he knew what she was doing and it broke a piece of his soul away.
Christine held onto the sketchbook. "You need to see something," she told Raoul and waited until he came to sit by her side. "Do you ..." Christine shook her head, willing away the tears that were always so close to the surface. "Do you remember how ... how happy Annalise was that morning?"
Raoul found he could only nod his head. He looked at his wife as she laid a hand on his arm.
"You are not a young girl with stars in your eyes so you did not see what I saw that morning."
"What did I not see?" Raoul was confused.
"Our daughter," the words hurt to say but Christine continued, "our daughter was falling in love."
"I do not believe that."
"Raoul, I was that seventeen year old girl or have you forgotten? Do you not remember the night on the roof of the opera house? Do you not remember how we looked at each other?"
Raoul closed his eyes, a hand covering the one that rested on his arm. "I have never forgotten."
"I think I know with whom Annalise thought she was falling in love," Christine said softly, taking her hand back, flipping the page of the sketchbook and holding it for Raoul to see. She watched as he looked at the drawing of the man who had taken his daughter, his lips setting in a thin, hard line.
"How long have you known about this?" he asked softly.
"Since that afternoon," Christine replied. "I was going to talk with Annalise after ... after ..." her voice broke. She looked at her husband, the unyielding look on his face. "Do not even think that," she warned him.
"How do you know what I am thinking?"
"After almost twenty-five years of marriage, I know the looks you wear upon your face. I know how stubborn you can be." Christine sighed miserably. "I know what you are thinking because I had the same thought for a brief moment and I know that you think my daughter is repeating my actions, my mistakes."
"I did not ..."
"Do not lie to me, Raoul," Christine told him in a tired voice, "for I do not have the energy to deal with your lies."
"I was not going to lie and you do not know what I was thinking." Raoul sighed and stood, walking to the dresser and picking up a very old, slightly tattered rag doll, holding it lovingly in his hands. "I was thinking that the priests were right and that the sins of the fathers are visited upon the children. If I had not asked you to betray Erik all those years ago, making you turn against the man you looked up to and admired," he turned to look at her, "and - yes - loved, then none of this would have happened. You and our children are paying for my sins and God! I wish I could make this go away but I cannot!"
The sad, lonely silence in the room was deafening.
"Do you remember when the boys ripped the arm off this doll?" Raoul finally broke the silence, crossing the room to resume sitting next to his wife. "Annalise could not have been more than six ..."
"Five," Christine corrected him, reaching out to touch the old doll. "It was her favorite doll and she was so upset with her brothers." She managed a small smile for her husband. "And she came to you, looking for you to fix the arm and her broken little heart."
"And you fixed the doll's arm."
"And you fixed her broken heart." Christine sighed, losing herself in the memory. "You helped her hide all the boys' toy soldiers and then took her to Paris for the weekend so that there would be no one at home to tell the hiding spot. They were so miserable."
"I do not think the boys ever tried to break anything of hers ever again," Raoul said.
Christine left her hand on the doll, not wanting to look at her husband. "It's broken, is it not?"
Raoul sighed, knowing she did not mean the doll. "Yes."
"Even if ..." Christine paused, correcting herself, "when. Even when Annalise comes home it will never be the same, will it?"
"I do not know," Raoul admitted sadly. "I do not know if we will ever be able to find the pieces that can put it back together again."
Christine laid her head upon her husband's shoulder.
They sat like that for a long time, hands upon their daughter's favorite childhood toy, Christine's head upon Raoul's shoulder, mourning an intangible loss that neither could fully comprehend. The silence was broken by the sound of someone clearing a throat, a gentle knock at the door. Raoul and Christine looked up to see Richard standing there.
"I do not wish to intrude," he began, "but Inspector Berube is downstairs." He saw the look of hope that passed over their faces. "I am sorry but he is alone. He just wishes to update Father."
"I should go," Raoul told Christine as he handed her the doll. "Will you be alright for a few moments?"
"I am not that seventeen year old girl anymore."
Raoul gave his wife's hand a squeeze as he stood; the look on his face sad and wistful. "No, you are not." He turned to his son. "Take me to the inspector." Raoul followed Richard out the door, not looking back, not seeing the tears the tears that his wife shed as she hugged the old rag doll.
"Where is Jean-Paul?" Raoul asked as he and Richard reached the bottom of the staircase.
"Already with the inspector," Richard answered.
"I heard Katherine go out earlier."
"She has not come back yet. I do not think she was planning on returning until supper time." Richard shook his head. "I know that Katherine feels torn. She wishes to be with her cousins for the comfort of being with family and she wishes to be here when," Richard found he could not say the actual words, "news reaches us. It is a difficult position for a child of sixteen to find herself in. I admire her, greatly, for how she is reacting."
"She is a remarkable young woman," Raoul agreed. "What of Leonie and Therese?"
Richard actually managed a small smile. "They took the children in to cheer Gustave's sick room. I fear it will only tire him out."
"I am sure that is what they had planned."
"It is," Richard said as he opened the door to the library, stepping aside to let his father enter first.
"Monsieur le Vicomte," Inspector Berube said as he extended his hand. "I understand that your son is on the mend."
Raoul nodded and watched as Richard joined Jean-Paul in standing next to the empty fireplace.
"I am glad of that," the inspector said.
"You bring news?" Raoul wondered.
"I do," the inspector replied and took the seat that Raoul waved him towards. He waited until Raoul was also seated. "The search in Rouen and at Le Havre turned up nothing, I am afraid."
Richard laid a hand on his brother's shoulder as Jean-Paul laid his head against the mantle.
"Surely you did not come all this way to tell us that?" Raoul asked in an irritated tone.
"No, I did not," Inspector Berube assured him. "We have had word that a known miscreant named Henri Laurent has been found dead of a gunshot wound to the head. He had recently come into a tidy sum of money and was seen in some of our more questionable taverns with a young man who - it has been said - did not seem the type to belong in such a place."
His words caused Jean-Paul to lift his head. "You do not think ..."
"I already have men continuing to question Laurent's known associates," the inspector continued. "Laurent's body was found but a day's ride south of here. I have some of my finest men on their way to the country to search and question."
Raoul leaned back in his chair. "Please," he whispered softly. "Oh dear God, please."
The inspector stood. "I must go for I wish to be there for the questioning of some of these men."
"Let me go with you," Jean-Paul blurted out.
"What?" Richard exclaimed.
"I can help. She is my sister and I would know if one of them said something about her. I know personal things that they do not."
"No," his father told him.
"But ..." Jean-Paul began.
"Let him go, Raoul," Christine said as she entered the room. She gave the inspector a brief smile as he rose upon her entry before turning to her husband. "Someone must begin to find the missing pieces," she told him softly. "Let your son help."
"Thank you, Madame la Comtesse," Inspector Berube told Christine. "It is a fine idea your son had and I know he can be of help. He may, indeed, hear a word that means nothing to us but would of great significance to your family."
"And I am expected to stay here and wait?" Richard wondered indignantly. "I need to do something or I shall go out of mind!" He looked at his parents. "Let me help them find Annalise. Gustave is healing and I truly believe I can be of more assistance out there than in here."
"It is a large area in which we must search," the inspector reminded them.
"It does not matter! It is my sister who is missing!" Richard reminded him.
"Richard," Raoul gently admonished his son as he stood. "We know that, Inspector," he addressed the man in front of him, "but you have given us the first hope we have had in four days. Do not think that we will not cling to this."
"I would not dare to presume otherwise."
Raoul looked at Christine before turning to look at his sons, both of whom were fidgeting like small children. "Go," he told them.
"Gentlemen," Inspector Berube addressed Jean-Paul and Richard, nodding towards the door. He shook the hand that Raoul extended and bowed slightly towards Christine. "We shall have a care for your children and return all of them to you."
Christine nodded and accepted the hugs from her sons, a tight smile on her face, unable to speak, not trusting her voice.
"If you have wives, you may wish to speak to them," the inspector was saying as the door closed behind them.
"Do not even think it, Raoul," Christine said softly, watching as her husband looked longingly at the closed door. "I need you here with me."
"I need to be doing something, as well," Raoul replied.
Christine sighed. "The last time you went chasing after a lost female, your arm was slashed clear to the bone, you nearly drowned and you were strangled.
"It is not the same as you and I," he told her.
"No, it is not," Christine agreed. "This time our son was to have been the murdered man."
Raoul did not have an answer for her.
"It is taking every bit of strength and control I have to let Jean-Paul and Richard leave at this moment," Christine said in a voice barely above a whisper. "If you were to go, too, I fear what you might find upon your return." She wrapped an arm about Raoul's waist. "We may not be the same as we were four days ago but you are still my rock and my strength. Do not leave me to face this alone."
"I will stay as long as you need me," Raoul told her.