The Captain of Her Heart by Anita Stansfield
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“Jeanette Buchanan!” Ritcherd shouted and slammed the front door loudly enough that the echo penetrated the hallways. Servants scurried quickly from his view. Then there was silence. “Jeanette!” he repeated, not moving from where he stood.
A moment later she appeared, looking as if she had no idea in the world why he might be so angry. “What is it, dear?” she asked. “Is something wrong?”
For a long moment he just watched her, trying to comprehend the kind of woman she was. He reminded himself that he needed to stay calm if there was any hope of getting workable information out of her.
“That was quite a cup of hot chocolate you sent up to my room last night.”
“Don’t blame me for your hangovers,” she said without looking at him.
He reminded himself to stick to the point. “I want to know what is going on, and I want to know now!”
“Whatever are you talking about?” she asked with easy innocence as she sauntered carelessly toward him.
“You will never convince me that you don’t know what’s going on.” He looked at her closely as she stood near him. He wanted to see her eyes when he asked her this question. “How much bribery did it take to have Kyrah deported before I woke up this morning?”
“Don’t be absurd,” she said, but something in her eyes blatantly contradicted the innocence in her voice.
Ritcherd moved closer. “How can you stand there and lie to me like that, after you have looked me in the eye and threatened me? You told me you couldn’t allow this marriage to take place. You told me you would do whatever you had to. So, is this what it comes to?” She said nothing. Her expression remained stone-like. The very fact that she didn’t respond to his accusations only added to the verity of her guilt. “Listen to me, Jeanette,” he said through clenched teeth, taking her arm in a firm grip, “I want some answers and I want them now!”
“Let go of me,” she cried, pulling her arm free. “I dropped the charges this morning.”
“Then why was she deported?”
“How should I know?” she snapped with a determination that only urged his anger closer to the surface.
“Tell me!” he growled. “Tell me what ship it was! Where was it going? Tell me!” he shouted, even though she was only inches away.
“I don’t know,” she retorted. “And even if I did, I wouldn’t tell you.”
“What you have done, Jeanette, is evil. You think because you gave birth to me that you can toss me around like some toy to see where I land? You think you can manipulate who I care for and what I do with my life just because of your whims and fancies? Well, it’s evil! You had the nerve to come up with a false crime as a feeble excuse to discredit her. You will never make me believe that Kyrah would even want your jewelry, when every piece you were holding last night didn’t come near the value of the necklace she was wearing. Even if she was dishonest—which she is not—she had no reason to steal. I was with her every minute last night. I know she’s innocent. And so do you.”
“Of course you’d stick up for the little tramp,” she spat. “That’s the best way to keep her in your bed.”
Ritcherd slapped his mother without hesitation. Feeling no regret, he wondered what kind of man she had molded him into. Jeanette cried out as her hand went over her face. She glared at Ritcherd with bitterness in her eyes as she sneered, “You son of a . . .”
“Go ahead and say it,” Ritcherd said when she hesitated, then he gave a humorless chuckle. “You know what that makes you.”
Jeanette looked distressed at her poor choice of words, but she recovered quickly. “Can’t you see you’re better off without her?” she said. “She’s ruined you! Nothing’s ever been the same since she came into your life. I’m glad she’s gone! And someday when you realize that she’s nothing more than a comfortable habit for you, you’ll thank me for sending her away.”
She looked briefly startled at what had come out of her mouth, but it quickly disappeared behind a bitter determination that gave Ritcherd the excuse to do what he’d wanted to for years. Taking another hard look at his mother, he almost wanted to kill her. Instead he strode abruptly past her, grabbing her arm to bring her along.
“What are you doing?” she demanded as they entered a room that resembled a museum. The focal point of one wall was a huge, elaborate china closet with framed glass doors.
“Do you see this, Jeanette?” he said, motioning absently toward it.
“Why do you keep calling me that? I’m your mother.”
“I will never call you mother again,” he said calmly. Hearing the composure in his own voice, he felt somehow detached from himself in a way that made him wonder if he was going mad. From the fear in his mother’s eyes, he felt certain she was wondering the same.
Ignoring anything but his purpose, he pointed at the china closet and spoke bitterly. “I hate these dishes,” he began. “This set of china that you ordered custom made, with enough service for a hundred people. These gaudy, despicable-looking dishes that you treasure more than anything else completely represent everything you stand for. See how elaborately each piece has been hand-painted with the Buchanan family crest. You know, Jeanette, you got these dishes the same week my sister was taken away. Quite an exchange, don’t you think? And when I came home and found my sister gone, all you could talk about was your blasted new china. I realized then that it had always been that way—with everything.
“I loathe the aristocratic system that allows people with money to get so caught up in greed that they are only concerned with whether or not they have the best of everything, and they can’t even stop long enough to see life. I resent being raised by parents who were so concerned with social status and public demeanor that they could never find the good in me—or in the people I care for. I hate these dishes, Jeanette Buchanan, and for what little time I am going to remain in this house, I will not look at them again.”
Ritcherd reached out calmly to open the huge china closet and found the door locked. Jeanette looked smug as if she’d outdone him, but Ritcherd just smiled satirically.
“It figures that you’d lock it. Let the thief take anything—even your children if they must. But don’t let them get their hands on that china.”
“Ritcherd! No!” she screamed when he picked up the fire poker and sent it crashing through the glass doors.
“You might think it’s childish of me to be throwing a fit like this and breaking your china.” He spoke in heated, breathless spurts as he raged his way through the china closet. “Well it is! But I’ll tell you something, Jeanette!” He threw every individual piece crashing to the floor, except for the few that he hurled across the room where they shattered against the wall. “You have torn my world apart!” He raged with no control. “You’re a narrow-minded, self-centered snob, and you have taken from me the only thing that ever mattered to me. And I’m not going to let you get away with it. You are going to pay for this! You will pay for sending her away! I love her and she’s gone! I hope you rot in everlasting hell!” He shouted and raged until the closet was completely empty, then he picked up broken pieces and broke them again. When he couldn’t possibly find a piece big enough to pick up, he unwillingly tensed every muscle in his body as he looked toward the ceiling and screamed, “How could you do this to me?”
In the stillness that followed, Ritcherd turned to look at his mother. She was sitting on the floor as if she’d wilted into the carpet. Her face was pale, and the regret in her eyes penetrated through the shock in her expression. But he felt relatively certain that she felt a lot more regret for the loss of her china than for the way she had torn his world into little pieces—not unlike the innumerable pieces of broken glass that crunched beneath his boots when he left the room. Walking back out the front door, he wondered where to start searching for those pieces. And if he found them, would he ever be able to put them back together?