impression you gave. Then, shortly after I returned home, injured and weary, I learned that my sainted mother had not only died, but left behind her a legacy of shame and disgrace. I couldn’t in good conscience intrude on your grief by telling you about it, yet at the same time I was angry with you for forcing her to indulge herself with someone like Follet. I had to get away before I exploded.”
It was quiet in the room for a few minutes, during which time the Standish butler entered and looked to his master for instructions concerning the serving of the evening meal, only to be waved closer so that he could hear a short, whispered instruction.
André Standish allowed his son time to compose himself, then walked over to place a hand on Pierre’s shoulder. “Have you read Follet’s searing love missives, my son, now that they are at last in your possession?” he asked, his voice light. “Or have you thought to tell me about them at last and then burn them, unread, like some brainless ninny out of a very bad pennypress novel?”
“No, I hadn’t thought of burning them,” Pierre answered, slowly gaining control of himself. He felt off balance, a feeling to which he was unaccustomed, and he disliked the sensation immensely. In London he was respected, even feared. Here, he was once again his father’s son, standing in awe of the master. “Nor have I read them. I couldn’t bring myself that low. To be truthful, I don’t know what I plan to do with them. That’s why I’m here—prowling about your drawing room like a panther. What I don’t know is what you hope to gain by dragging this old scandal out for an airing.”
“Here you are, sir.”
André turned to take the wooden box from the butler. “Thank you, Hartley. You are obedience itself. You may retire now. See that we are not disturbed.”
“Very good, sir. Thank you, sir,” the butler agreed, backing from the room, closing the double doors behind him as he went.
Pierre turned his head to see the offending box, then once more directed his gaze toward the gardens. “Taken to burgling my rooms, have you, Father? I am discovering new, disturbing things about you with each passing moment. I don’t want to hear those letters read, if that’s what you have in mind. How could you read them and still retain any feeling for Mother?”
“Quite easily, I imagine,” André replied, opening the box and picking up at random one of the dozen or so letters. “I loved Eleanore very much, Pierre, and miss her more with each passing day. Oh, my, there seems to be the smell of old perfume about these letters. Follet was always the fop, as I remember. No wonder that servant I turned off for attempting to steal some of your dear mother’s possessions took them posthaste to Quinton. Let’s see, I think I can make out this dreadful chicken scrawl. Oh, the spelling! It’s ludicrous! I’m afraid I must deny your request and read this one aloud. Prepare yourself, my son.”
André made a short business of clearing his throat and then began to read. “‘My dearest dimpled darling, light of my deepest heart.’” He closed his eyes for a moment. “Oh, that is dreadful, isn’t it? I can barely read on but, for your sake, Pierre, I shall persevere. ‘I sat awake till the wee morning hours just before dawn, my celestial love, thinking of you and our hasty, beatific meeting in the enchanted gardens last night. How I long to tell you all that is in my love-besieged heart, all the wonder and glory that I feel for you, but there seems no way we can escape for long your dastardly husband, André.’ Oh, that is good,” André stopped to comment. “He used my name—just in case it had slipped your mother’s mind, I suppose. No wonder Eleanore kept the letters; they’re better than a night at Covent Garden.”
“That is sufficient, thank you. You may stop there,” Pierre cut in, disgusted with his father’s levity. “Isn’t it enough that she had an affair with the man? Must you read his reminiscences of it?”
“An affair?” André repeated, his voice suddenly very cold, very hard. “You insolent pup! How dare you! Haven’t you heard a word I’ve read? The man was—is—an ass. A total ass! If his harridan of a wife hadn’t hauled him off to Ireland, you would have discovered that for yourself. Do you really mean to stand there and tell me you still believe someone as wonderful, as intelligent as your mother would have given the idiot who wrote this drivel so much as the time of day? Why do you think I didn’t kill Quinton when he first approached me? I laughed him out of the house!”
Pierre slowly turned away from the window to look piercingly at his father. “Are you telling me Follet’s love was all one-sided?”
André smiled. “Ah, and to think for a moment there I was beginning to believe you were slow. Yes, Pierre, Follet’s all-consuming passion for your mother was very much one-sided. To be perfectly frank, as I remember it, Eleanore considered him to be a toad. A particularly slimy toad.” He tipped his head to one side, as if reliving some private memory. “I readily recall one evening—Follet was skipping about our first-floor balcony at the London town house reciting some terrible love poem he had written to her pert nose, or some such nonsense, and causing no end of racket—until your mother cut him off by dousing him with a pitcher of cold water.”
Pierre smiled wanly, then returned to the drinks table to refill his glass. “All this time, wasted.” He turned to his father. “If you knew what I was thinking all these years—and how you knew I shall not be so silly as to ask, considering that you know everything—why didn’t you tell me? All these long years I’ve been warring with myself, trying to banish my love for my mother, trying to understand how human beings can be so fickle, so devious. And you knew—you knew!”
André put his arm around his son. “I must confess, I have known the whole truth for less than two years. It took me that long to figure out the reason for your defection, as I had taught you to hide your tracks very successfully. I had thought to tell you the truth then, but deep inside I was just the least bit put out that you could believe Quinton’s obvious lies, and I made up my mind to wait until you came to your senses. And, never fear, you never stopped loving your mother. I see the flowers you order placed on her grave every week, and I’ve watched you when you visit the cemetery.
“But I’ve also watched you grow and mature these past years, even more than you did during your years with me, or your time spent on the Peninsula. You have become a devoted student of human nature, my son, taking all that I’ve taught you and honing it to a fine edge. Of course, you have become a shade too arrogant, and even, dare I say it, a bit cold—but I think we can safely assume that your arrogance has now suffered a healing setback.”
“This has all been in the way of a lesson?” Pierre asked, incredulous. “I can’t believe it.”
“Oh, dear,” André remarked, looking at his son. “You’re angry, aren’t you? Good. You’re very gifted, Pierre, gifted with money, breeding, intelligence and a very pretty face. I taught you all I could about being a gentleman. The war has taught you about the perfidies and cruelties of mankind. Now, Quennel Quinton has taught you never to accept anything at face value, even if it is personally painful for you to delve into a subject. He has also taught you a measure of humility, hasn’t he, showing you that, for all your grand intelligence, you can still be duped. All round, I’d say the thing was a particularly satisfactory exercise.”
“I exist only to please you, Father,” Pierre drawled sarcastically.
“Of course you do,” André acknowledged in complete seriousness. “Never forget it. The only obstacle to becoming a complete gentleman left before you now is for you to accomplish some good, unselfish work—some compassionate assistance to one of the helpless wretches of mankind. You have made a good start by helping your friend Sherbourne secure the affections of Quinton’s supposed daughter, Victoria, but as you were trying to rid yourself of the title of murder suspect at the time, I cannot feel
