Separate Worlds: Taylor Family Series, #3

By Nancy Minnis Damato

The fulfillment of Taylor Pickett's dream is lost when she sails for France with her children, Lily, James and Amanda. In 1914,Taylor and the three siblings face the outbreak of WWI separated. Unable to communicate, trapped in Belgium, France and Italy, they each must depend on the only weapon they have to survive--boldness, self-sacrifice, courage, or blind stubbornness.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wings ePress, Inc.
• Release date: Jul 21, 2023
• ISBN: 9781597051996

Book preview

One

TAYLORSVILLE COUNTY, Illinois

May, 1904

Ten miles north of Taylorsville, acres of emerald grass served as the stage for a four-story pink marble château—an outrage of waste and pomposity to the inhabitants of the austere Dutch Apostolic community. Iron railings on the structure’s scattered balconies slanted downward, as if grimacing over the interment of their owner earlier in the day. In the chapel, chilly, dank air challenged a sporadic net of sunlight. The contradiction matched Taylor Pickett’s topsy-turvy mood. A few hours before the death of François ducLaFevre, who occupied the golden coffin ahead, her lifetime search to learn the identity of her father had ended.

Her long legs lagged, not pressing Amanda, the tiny daughter beside her, to keep up. Have my children and I inherited his evil seed? How could François, as my father and the grandfather of three children he seemed devoted to, profess love, all the while knowing he would deny that affection in a bitter battle to ruin me, my mother and her family? Or had he hated the world?

As if believing François had deliberately died to avoid answering her, Taylor’s frustration drew her toward his corpse. An absent father, he drove me into a nomad’s existence, erected life-threatening obstacles in my path, and yet, pursued Momma and me from the day he discovered I existed. Still, demonstrating an unwavering fascination that ended only with his death, he both celebrated and disgraced Momma. And me in turn. This banished Frenchman destroyed everything good that came into his life—as retribution for his own sins? Or because by nature he harbored evilness?

His silence taunted her. She needed an answer, ideally to prevent the children who carried his blood from growing into his likeness. Am I a fool to agree to his ghostly demand that James carry on the LaFevre name on his behalf? Am I endangering all my children to act in accordance with this dead mad-man’s wishes?

The pungent oil masking François’s decaying flesh offended the serenity of the small private chapel. None of his Dutch Apostolic neighbors who attended cared enough to gather flowers in his honor. For this, they would suffer their personal guilt and penance later. François would enjoy knowing that even in death, the discord he had created disturbed the grace of the ritual.

The puritanical men and women of Taylorsville squeezed shoulder to shoulder in the pews of the obscenely lavish chapel. Their uninspired dark dress contrasted sharply with the gold adorned saints, vibrant stained glass windows, and a white marble altar draped with the French red and gold crest of François’s royal line. Reflecting the significance of the occasion and their severe upbringing, the occupants did no gawking or talking, only bent their heads in somber meditation.

Except for the worldliness of profit, Taylorsville was almost publicly cosseted so strict were the reigning Elders. François ducLaFevre, however, had been the one tolerated wolf in the flock of lambs. His gold and obsession with Louise Taylor had bought his way. As Taylor walked up the aisle, barely discernable whispers trailed her. The steady gait of her carriage carried her authority. I am here to protect my children from your censure, she wanted to shout. We are of his seed but not of his nature.

None of them would see the results of her exhaustive days of wrestling to understand François’s chameleon passions. She had come so far, a lifetime, to end her tormenting obsession in the angst-ridden unveiling of her true father. Reliving his betrayal minute by minute had swept the spark from Taylor’s green eyes and robbed her face of its liveliness. Still, her tall frame appeared imperial, especially in perspective to the delicate, dark-haired girl alongside her.

At the altar Taylor’s hand strummed the shimmering metal. The tension had sapped her more than she realized, enduring the legal queries, staff inquisitions, and the plain nosy exercised their concern about the mansion, the hotel, the cartel, her future here in Taylorsville. She cared only about the future of her children.

She turned toward the assembled’s waiting faces. Three platinum blond heads peeped from the family pew. Her angelic looking mother, Josie Taylor Broderick, held the hand of Taylor’s first born, Lillian Pickett, a twin-like version. The eleven-year-old exasperated Taylor at every turn. Why must Lily keep harping to leave them behind and accompany her grandmother to Holland?

At the end of the row, Josie’s intended husband, Chess Tuffet, used his huge frame to box the heir apparent, James Pickett, the proposed future Duke LaFevre, against his sister.

Thank you. Taylor sighed, feeling the tightness in her chest ease. I need you all here with me. They guaranteed her survival with the same welcome of an oasis in a desert.

The space reserved for Josef Taylor—Taylor’s grandfather and François’s partner, waited empty, a lifeless dark cavity. A testament to the fear the men carried for each other and yet, they remained companions and business partners for decades.

Amanda wrenched her hand free of Taylor and ran to Lily who was reaching out for her younger sister.

Taylor turned back toward the closed coffin, unable to break the magnetism the cold, sleek metal held on her. Why can’t I accept that he was flawed? Taylor’s mindless battle whirled in a frenzy, wanting to bask in the beauty of the jeweled windows, but drawn to the darkest corner of the sanctuary. I am in control of my full faculties, and still, like a child, I excuse his devil’s ways—my father, a stranger—and look to blame other’s failings. I wanted a father who would be proud of me, who would readily parade me before his colleagues—and he had fulfilled that wish—just hours before he betrayed me.

A sob tore from her throat. Francois had to have loved me—but his duplicity went beyond her understanding and charity. Her clenched fist muffled another unwanted cry. Weeping for him or myself? Her knees quaked. I am worthy of love, I must believe that, and I must believe François truly incapable of loving.

A firm hand gripped her arm. Don’t fail now. Don’t give him—or them—the satisfaction! Josie whispered, her tiny body shielding her daughter while she gently removed Taylor’s hand from the coffin. Unquestioning, Taylor leaned into her mother, letting the petite woman steer her toward the front pew.

At that moment a form blocked the sunlight streaming in the open chapel door, causing a shadow to fall over the entire assemblage and across the coffin, stopping at the base of the altar. An abnormal chill permeated the warmth as the perfunctory mourners shifted and twitched in their pews.

Taylor cinched her elbows close to her body in a self-formed hug.

Sister Maria, formerly Marianne ducLaFevre, formidable in her billowing stark nun’s habit, marched to the coffin, genuflected, and with bowed head bent onto the kneeler. Her beads clicking, she prayed loudly. Our Heavenly Father, render unto my father his just rewards. Send him to the bowels of Hell for the devilment he spewed. Her voice slashed with the wounding of a woodsman’s axe felling a tree.

The harshness of the plea in the hushed sanctuary shattered everyone’s musing and plunged through Taylor’s preoccupation. Marianne publicly vented her hatred against their father. Taylor had known for less than a month that Sister Maria, her mother’s childhood friend, was not François’ younger sister as he had claimed, but was in fact, his first illegitimate daughter and Taylor’s half-sister.

Sister Maria’s voice thundered the Latin fluid and repetitive, the French harsh, and the English condemning. God, punish him for his wickedness that others may not follow his path.

Taylor grabbed her mother’s arm. Oh, Momma, how I hate him, too. And yet, I would seek his approval—my father’s acceptance—were he standing before me. I fear for my children, the blood that runs through their veins. Should I carry out his wishes?

I know what my reply would have been years ago when I agreed to François’s contract, but I have learned much since then. Josie’s eyes remained steady. You must follow your heart as you have in the past, my child, and wherever it leads, you will find peace and your answer.

Taylor sat in silence. Both times she had listened to her heart, she had invited danger into the midst of her little family.

Two

After the service, the cloying scent of hundreds of rose bushes bordering the parkland served as a tonic for the small number of remaining guests—not mourners—that implied grieving. These were financial partners, curious investors, and the dark clad Elders of the Dutch Apostolic community who had accepted François ducLaFevre’s stolen gold.

Inside the manor, Taylor Pickett drifted around François’s mammoth crimson and gold bedroom, picking up and replacing items, touching, unthinking. The lavish room was papered and stuffed with expensive things but void of personal mementos. The unrestrained flamboyance personified the man who had given so generously to her and her needy children.

Less than two years had passed since their arrival here at the impressive château, Taylor mused, and in that time she and her three children had learned to adore François ducLaFevre. He had provided the security and comfort they had needed. He gave freely with the recognition that she had sought, appointing her the keeper of the miscellaneous—until the day he admitted he was her father and betrayed her.

Her long fingers swept the Louis XIV gold secretary, tingled under the springy nub of the velvet drapes, chilled with the cold sleekness of jeweled adornments—and she coveted none of it. What she wanted was François, alive, for answers and to pay for his treachery.

Taylor dawdled on the stairs, irritated by the summons to attend the reading of The Will and the need to face the curious again. She had guessed the contents already. When she entered the opulent library, an oily musk of leather piggy-backing sweet rose assaulted her. Rose was not her favorite scent.

She found her family at first glance. Rod straight back, hands clasped in her lap, Josie Broderick, her beautiful and petite mother, sat as an anchor beside eleven-year-old Lillian. Thirty years apart, the twin-like platinum blondes with the look of heaven and will of brass seemed to be indulging a test of their separate earnestness. Probably Lily’s defending her wish to accompany Josie to the Netherlands. Have I any right to deny her?

Taylor studied her volatile daughter, feeling the guilt of having neglected Lily. In the years after Baxter, their father, had disappeared, the loss had propelled Taylor into a free-wheeling cartwheel fall from grace. She still yearned for her husband, but not with the incessant, debilitating drain of years past.

Her son, not quite ten-year-old James, sat wedged between Josie’s future husband Chess Tuffet and Lily. After all, James seldom left his sister’s side. Amanda, a shy four-and-a-half, smiled brightly, her eyes twinkling, arms outstretched as her mother neared. Their clustered chairs stretched in an arc ending at a window.

Suddenly, Taylor’s gaze met the eye of her approaching half-sister Marianne ducLaFevre. The late-in-life nun who had chosen to be known as Sister Maria hastened her step. Cutting off the advance of the striding white robe with a narrowing of her eyes and an upward thrust of chin, Taylor stopped at her family’s row and claimed the empty chair next to the window.

Others mingled quietly in the half-filled room. The red-jacketed militia type servants stood along the margins of the room, as if propping up the book enriched walls, their grief notable. Captain Dupaune, François’s lifelong aide, appeared to be bearing up stoically.

Outside the window, dregs of the funeral reception scattered across the lawn. Small clusters of neighbors and businessmen lingered on the lush grass. Several workers from nearby estates busily retrieved glasses, cups and plates dropped negligently onto the tables or forgotten napkins blowing listlessly from the spring breeze.

One guest stood apart, staring up at the window where Taylor gazed down at him. His appearance startled her. Tangled, long pale hair and an unkept beard obliterated his features. A patch covered his right eye, a folded sleeve hid the stump of his right arm. As she watched, his weight almost unperceivably shifted to his left side, his right thigh balanced on a peg leg.

May we begin? the attorney-at-law ordered by way of an annoyed question.

Taylor reluctantly drew her gaze from the pitiful onlooker. Even in his sorry state, the stranger presented an eye-catching charisma.

The lawyer read a long list of bequests, including a generous settlement for each of the men who had remained in François’s service for almost a lifetime. A piece of French property and some investments with local Marseille businessmen went to Captain Dupaune—in addition to a generous lifelong annuity. For Josefina Taylor, a jewel. The attending clerk walked to the head of the row and offered a rectangular black box to Josie. She looked away, defiant, then her arm reached up almost as if detached, accepted the leather container and dropped it in her lap. The gift, clad as if in mourning, lay there, unopened.

Barely hesitating, the executor read on with the disbursement of more personal items: a suit of armor that stood outside the library, an Austrian crystal chandelier from one of the guest rooms, several pieces of handcrafted furniture whose gift delighted their recipients, a set of ivory dominoes in a gold case, a jade chess set inlaid with gold, various boxes and collectibles, books written by masters from around the world. An hour of bequeathing.

Then the attorney announced, That concludes the public portion of the reading of the will. The remainder is to be read privately. Sister Maria and Mrs. Pickett, if you would remain?"

Taylor hadn’t given any sign of leaving; she hadn’t budged since taking her seat after entering the somber setting. Her eyes felt dull and dispirited. Her chignon drooped from her unconscious tugging at strands. Amanda napped on her lap. Taylor’s free hand gripped Josie’s arm. My mother must remain.

Sister Maria, standing across the room in her white habit, her back to the others, nodded her acceptance. The satisfied benefactors began to shuffle from the room, disguising their backward glances of curiosity with nods of politeness.

Chess leaned over to Taylor. Let me take the children outdoors? Abel has been patient through the course of these ceremonies all day. He’s still waiting, standing out on the terrace during the entire reading of The Will. He begged me to ask if you would allow him to spend some time with his niece and nephew.

Taylor tensed. Twenty years ago, when Baxter disappeared and she had teetered on the edge of existence with the grief at the loss, her husband’s Will had handed his brother Abel complete power to control her life. That testament to Baxter deeming her incapable to care for their businesses still rankled. Deep in her heart, she wanted to believe the giving away of authority was not from her husband’s lack of confidence in her, but that Abel’s slick lawyer’s talk had convinced Baxter that an educated man could more effectively care for their properties in case of Baxter’s death. Taylor picked at the fingers of her gloved hand, her lips taut.

He is the only relative of the Pickett family that the children remember, Josie said. They should become better acquainted with their father’s family. Just as you left St Louis to come here, and then learned about François, they want to know more about their heritage.

You’re meddling, Momma. Flushing, Taylor grimaced at her cruel retort. Momma had fled with her halfway across the continent to get away from this place, knowing the danger they would face if they ever returned. And again Momma was right, for Taylor the need to know about her roots had driven her to Taylorsville without regard to Momma’s warnings. All right, Chess, take them to Abel. Maybe they’ll find some comfort in learning more about their father and, at minimum, escape this dreary state of affairs. She kissed each of the children. Grandmama and I will be here if you need us. Only Amanda looked back as the raw-boned, scarred Chess Tuffet carried her half-awake body from the library.

OUTDOORS, WHILE LILLIAN and James skipped ahead, Chess held Amanda’s hand as they ambled across the flagstone veranda. He stopped when Abel Pickett stepped away from the pink marble and pointed across the parkway. Would you bring the children and come with me over there? Abel pointed to two men. I have someone I want you to meet. But, you must promise everything you learn will remain between us.

Chess said, How can I do that before I know...?

Abel said, You must swear. For the sake of the children.

Chess didn’t enjoy mysteries, and he was not a fan of Abel Pickett. The man had prohibited Taylor access to her money and properties in Bisbee. In fact, Josie with his support was secretly preparing to enjoin Taylor’s brother-in-law’s authority. Chess looked at Lily, James and Amanda. For the children? He nodded his agreement. His word became a bond, but unreasonable promises could be circumvented.

Lily, James, and Amanda began to play tag nearby. Chess warned them, Stay close now. Your Grandmama would slice off my other ear if you were to get lost. The girls laughed with their full bodies, Lily’s voice high and energetic, Amanda’s gentle, while James pretended to brandish a sword.

When Abel approached one of the men lingering in the parkway, Chess, following behind, slowed his steps. Jacob? Josie’s first love. The man still desires her. I am not liking this. Next to Jacob stood an unappealing man that Chess, at first glimpse, would as soon avoid.

Abel’s cold blue eyes suddenly warmed, his stance eased. He gently laid his hand on the shoulder of the disheveled stranger.

The man slowly lifted a battered face and looked at Chess. From head to wooden peg, the entire right side of the stranger’s body had been mangled at some time.

Chess, his face wreathed with a scar that reached from the corner of his mouth into his hair then broadened into a naked ribbon of scalp—as if his smile covered his whole head—recognized a kindred spirit in a glance. He immediately stuck out his left hand. Chess Tuffet. His mouth widened into a lopsided welcome. I’m not yet a legal part of this assembly, but I’m marrying Josie Taylor Broderick—soon to be Tuffet. Glad to make your acquaintance.

The stranger cupped his shoulder to his face. Making use of the bulky suit fabric, he wiped a tear trickling down his cheek, evident in the narrow space between wild forelocks and mustache. He took a moment, swallowed, then stared at Chess with one brilliantly blue eye.

It’s Baxter Pickett. I’ve missed you, my friend.

Chess’s gut caved as if someone had kicked him; he almost fell to his knees. My God! He could say no more, tears swilled his eyes. His chin trembled.

I couldn’t warn you, Abel explained. Baxter made me promise, and you must swear, too. You cannot mention a word of this. He doesn’t want Taylor to know he’s alive.

Disbelief filled Chess, his mind blurred.

Those are the terms of your being here. Swear! Abel was adamant.

I promise—I swear, not a word, Chess croaked.

It’s out of my hands. Abel stepped aside, allowing the two men to embrace.

How? Where have you been...? Chess choked. He leaned away from Baxter, stared, then hugged him to his chest again. Finally, Chess broke away to dab at his eyes. How...?

Baxter began. A flash flood came down through the Mule Mountains up the canyon toward the Baja mine while I was sleeping. I woke to the roar—without time to escape. I’m guessing a wall of water picked me up, washed me away from the mine. I can only tell you that months, I say six, seven months later, I woke in the camp of a trapper and his Indians. They had healed me the only why they knew—hacked off my festered limbs.

Baxter sighed, arched his neck back and looked at the cloudless blue sky. A year later, well past winter into spring, his voice cracked, the sight of gold poppies and smell of jasmine brought the first thought of Taylor to me. With my head fogged from peyote, my life existed in hallucinations. I couldn’t tell the real from dreams. I couldn’t walk, couldn’t feed myself. They had dressed me in a deerskin thong to make caring after me easier. I saw I was a damned cripple! All I wanted was to die! I stayed with them the following year, drifting further from reality while I debated why I wanted to live. Finally, I decided to learn how to take care of my own needs and get on with my life.

Baxter shifted his weight. Chess motioned, leading the way to a nearby stone bench. After they settled, Baxter continued.

When I felt confident enough to travel alone, I returned to Bisbee. I didn’t clean up, stayed looking like a wild man, better to be left alone. Kept to the back ways. No one noticed me except to shoo me away—until Aiello saw me sitting on the foothill staring down at Pickett House. She knew right out who I was. Well, ’course you know, Taylor had handed all our properties over to the Fuentes when she left the Arizona territory. I think in defiance of my handing everything over to Abel as much as anything else. Baxter shook his head as if to clear out demons. Taylor couldn’t have made a better choice, best friends we ever had. Aiello and Andre’s wedding was the biggest and best shindig I ever saw. The Mexicans really honored Taylor and me. They’ve both done a fine job running Pickett House and keeping up my saw mill. Baxter’s shoulders drooped. After a few days Andre rode to the Baja mine with me. We collected what we could find, nothing much.

When you disappeared, we formed a search party, rode for days, found nothing, Chess said.

I know. Thank you, my friend. The waters must have washed me miles away. The admission choked Baxter. When I learned from Aiello that Taylor and our children had moved to St. Louis, settled in and were living very well, I decided to move on. I felt I had barely a Chinaman’s chance of supporting myself—not even to consider my family. Aiello gave me a bit of money from Pickett House, and with that and more cash Andre brought from the lumberyard, I bought all the hardware, nails, and tools, I could find. I took a steamer to Alaska, cooked for the crew to earn passage. I knew I couldn’t trap or mine, so I opened a store and sold mining supplies. Baxter’s lips smiled, but his eye remained lifeless. Made myself a fortune. Taylor would be proud of me.

So she would. Chess shook his head. What about her, the children—they’re your family? Taylor has never remarried. Lily, James have no man of the house in their lives.

After a few years, I came back—to Chicago. Went to Abel’s office to learn what was happening with my family. Not being married is not the same as not having loved. Abel tells me she had a dandy time with some Italian Count in St. Louis. Came out of it with that dark-haired daughter—although the girl’s got the coloring of Josie. Bet that peeved Taylor, after the fit she threw over Lily and Jimmy’s looks.

Josie and Taylor reconciled, Chess interrupted. The two of them are extremely close now, but getting back a mother and raising children are not enough. Taylor needs you—she needs her husband.

I thought all my money might make up for the man I can’t be. Baxter grunted, leaned forward, then used his arm to wipe his face. Bad timing. Abel let me know Taylor was about to inherit a fortune from the father she had always wanted to find. But, Abel also discovered that no-good Count and her father were in cahoots to manipulate Taylor. How did she fall into their hands? She’s too smart a woman.

Abel scowled. Ran around with him like a common...

Chess butted in. She was alone, barely twenty, mothering two children, no family. Dependent on a Negro couple to help her earn a living and care for Lily and James. What would you expect? She’s very much alive, loving, spirited, beautiful...

I’ve got to see her, Baxter blurted, his excitement heightened. Let me sit here. Bring her out to get the children.

She’s going to be tied up for awhile with François’ Will, Chess hesitated, but, I’ll bring her around later. He squinted his eyes. You’re taking a chance she’ll recognize you. You just admitted how bright she is.

As soon as you can, Baxter said, recklessly ignoring Chess’s warning. And my children. I want some time set aside for me to spend with Lily and Jimmy.

Jacob, who had not offered a word, turned to Chess. I’m going back to Alaska with Baxter whenever he leaves. You know Josie expected me to go gold prospecting. An Alaskan businessman visiting me here wouldn’t encourage their curiosity. He lightly lay his hand on Chess’s arm. You and I could distract the ladies, keep them away from Baxter. Let him stay here as a guest for awhile? My lord, twenty suites, four floors. Baxter could all but disappear again. I will explain that this stranger and I are ironing out details, with Abel’s guidance, over a partnership in Alaska. Would you agree to that?

Chess mused, under the same roof with Jacob—Josie’s pretend husband of fifteen years who still wants her; plus his stepdaughter’s supposedly dead husband; along with Abel whose lust for Taylor has always been obvious. Chess gave a shudder, then a loud cackle. What do we have to lose? I’ll not tell a lie, but neither will I expose it. He turned around, Lily, James, Amanda, come meet our new friend.

Baxter rose, a soft, shallow keening escaping with his breath. As he gazed at the approaching children, his body seemed to take on new life.

LILY STARED AT THE man and wanted to cry, not from fear because of the wild way he appeared, but because, oddly, she already felt close to him, as if she missed this stranger in her life. She warmed at the love directed at her from his one eye. Hello, I’m Lillian Louise Pickett. My mother is Taylor Louise and my grandmother is Josefina Louise, she said, stepping closer. You can call me Lily, everyone else does. I’m going to France with my mother, sister, and brother to see his new castle, and then by myself to the Netherlands with Grandmama Josie and Chess after they’re married. Have you ever crossed the ocean?

Giddiness flooded Baxter. Lily had curtsied prettily, but her blue eyes kept a steady, penetrating stare. Lordy, does she remember me? I’m a relative of your Uncle Abel. We grew up together in West Virginia.

Oh, that’s why I feel I know you. She gazed at Abel, her finger tipping up her chin, then smiled at Baxter. You’re much better looking, even with your parts gone. How did you do that?

Let me greet your brother first, then I’ll tell you both the story. Baxter extended his good arm, his weight precariously swaying from anticipation. Lily pushed James forward ordering the small boy to hold out his arm. Baxter gripped the tiny hand, holding tight, faulting the missing limbs that would not allow him to grab the boy to his chest and ride him on his shoulder for all to see. Well, Jimmy, you seem to have grown some since I last saw you.

James’ blue eyes popped wide. Mother calls me James. I will be Sir James. Do you know me?

Well, we met in St. Louis at Villa Olivia, the hotel, when your mother was working there. Baxter lied with ease.

I don’t remember you. But Mother gave lots of parties, that was why we lived in the hotel. James’ brows puckered. "With Nick, but he tried to steal Amanda from us, so we can’t