shall try not to, but that will be difficult.” Alexander swallowed. “I am sorry too, Papa, for the tensions between us during my last leave. The arguments about Alan and politics. I know I spoke harshly, and I regret it. Please forgive me.”
“I do. I forgave you long ago. And I hope you forgive me. I know I did not respond well. My own loyalties torn. The struggle within my own soul played out in real life by my beloved sons. . . . I fear God is not pleased with me.”
“God is merciful, Papa. You taught me that. He will forgive us if we ask Him for His Son’s sake.”
His father nodded. “I will meet my Maker soon, I believe. If He will accept me.”
“He will, Papa. But please don’t be in a hurry to go.” Alex’s voice grew thick with emotion. How old his father looked, how frail, how dear. “We have just been reunited, and I have missed you.”
“And I you, my dear boy.”
The door creaked open, and Alexander turned. A small head appeared, with a pair of large dark eyes. Alan’s eyes.
“Grandpapa?”
A five-year-old boy hurried into the room, then stopped short at seeing another man there—a stranger for all intents and purposes, as Alex had not seen his nephew in years.
His father held out his hand to the little boy. “Don’t be afraid. This is your uncle.”
“Mon oncle?”
His father nodded. “Oui. Oncle Alexandre.”
Alexander managed a tremulous smile. “Bonjour, Jean-Philippe. You have grown big since I saw you last.”
The door opened wider, and an elegant dark-haired woman appeared, framed in the threshold. His brother’s wife was even more beautiful than he remembered.
“I hope Jean-Philippe does not disturb y . . .” Her eyes widened. “Oh.”
“Bonjour, Léonie.” Alexander rose and bowed.
“Alexander!” She curtsied. “I am stunned to see you here. What a”—her voice cracked—“happy surprise.”
Her pretty face crumpled, and her dark eyes filled with tears, belying her words.
He saw then that she was dressed in black, and his heart squeezed with empathy. “I am sorry, ma sœur.”
She pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve and wiped her eyes. “Je t’en prie, pardonne-moi. It is only that you are so much like him.”
Her beautifully accented French was music in his ears, even though the words and her obvious grief pained him.
“That is a compliment, indeed.”
“Is it?” she asked, studying him as she walked closer.
“Yes. He was my brother, and I will always love him.”
She kissed his cheek. “Me too.”
The following day, on a chilly grey afternoon, Alexander and Léonie visited the churchyard together.
“Your father’s connections were not powerful enough to save Alan,” she said, “but at least they were able to return his body to our home parish.”
Alexander nodded, unable to speak over the lump in his throat.
“The headstone just arrived last week,” she added.
Alexander read the inscription, the carved words searing pain into his chest.
Ici Repose le Corps De
Alan Philippe Carnell
1784–1813
REGRETS ÉTERNELS
Tears filled his eyes as he whispered, “Je suis désolé, mon frère.”
Eternal regrets, indeed.
After a few quiet moments, his sister-in-law asked, “Would you like to see the grave of Enora and the infant?”
Alexander hesitated only a moment. “Oui.”
She led him to a simple headstone carved with small figures of Madonna and child, and her name: Enora Angelle Carnell.
She had borne his name at the end, though not his child.
I forgive you, he whispered in his heart. He sincerely hoped both Enora and François rested in peace.
Beside him, Léonie slipped her hand into his in silent comfort and empathy.
A few days later, Alexander undertook the visit he knew he could not put off any longer. Knapsack over his shoulder, he went to see Daniel’s widow, Vivienne.
He found her in lodgings in Quimper, a newborn child in arms.
His heart expanded at the sight. How was it that such a small, innocent face could look so much like his dearest friend? There was no doubt who this boy’s father was.
The realization brought both pain and pleasure. “I can see Daniel in him.”
She nodded. “So can I.”
“I am so sorry, Vivienne.”
She looked up from the swaddled babe, eyes wide. “He isn’t coming home?”
Alex shook his head. Throat tight, he managed only one syllable. “Non.”
Tears filled her eyes, and answering tears filled his.
“He died in a shipwreck,” Alexander explained. “We were trying to get home. He was so eager to return in time for the birth of your child. I wish I had been able to save him. I tried. . . .”
“Could you not have tried harder?” Vivienne’s voice broke, and Alexander’s