by DeVa Gantt
“But I thought Frederic Duvoisin owned and governed Charmantes.”
“He does,” Gwendolyn affirmed. “But according to Father, he also wishes to appease the British. He transports a great deal of sugar to them. He also receives British protection against pirate attacks on the high seas and here on Charmantes. His cargo would not be well received if the English felt it was bought and paid for with slave labor.”
“So, he’s keeping the peace.”
“And not just with the British monarchy. His wife holds slavery as an abomination as well.”
“Really?” Charmaine was surprised. She’d grown up with slavery all around her and accepted it as commonplace.
Gwendolyn delved into a sketchy tale about a Negro named Nicholas and a severe beating. Apparently, Colette Duvoisin had come to the man’s defense, which fed some nasty gossip. Frederic Duvoisin put a stop to it, making an example of two islanders at the heart of the problem by expelling them from Charmantes. There were also rumors of a murder, and Gwendolyn insisted a great taboo still clung to the story, frightening people into silence. Eventually, all the Negroes were liberated.
“If we’re not going to Dulcie’s,” Gwendolyn said, “what about the harbor?”
Charmaine regarded her quizzically. Within the hour, she was being pulled along the boardwalk. As they drew nearer the dock, Charmaine wrenched free, comprehending her friend’s scheme. Gwendolyn intended to spy on Paul Duvoisin. But the capricious girl hurried ahead, closer to the Raven, which was still moored there, her quick step unhampered by her girth.
“Gwendolyn—no!” Charmaine called. “We shouldn’t be here!”
The girl only giggled, stopping to catch her breath. “Don’t be silly! He’ll never see us, I promise. Leastwise he never has before!”
“Before? You’ve done this before?”
Gwendolyn nodded persuasively. Though Charmaine shook her head, she realized the busy wharf offered them a measure of anonymity: the passersby ignored them. They were soon concealed in a small alcove formed by one of the huge warehouses and an empty toolshed, a reasonable distance from the ship and the longshoremen who tarried at loading the packet. Barrels and crates obstructed the men’s view of them more than their view of the men, for they peered through the slats, hungrily searching the ship for some sign of Paul Duvoisin.
“This was foolish,” Charmaine whispered. “What if he does see me?”
“He won’t,” Gwendolyn promised. “Besides, if you watch for a while, you’ll get used to seeing him and won’t be nervous when you start living at the mansion. After all, it will probably be deliciously difficult those first few days in the house.”
A series of loud oaths put the discussion to rest. “Jesus Christ Almighty! Not that way! The other way!”
Standing not fifteen feet away at the foot of a beveled gangplank was a disheveled man, his eyes hardened, his yellow teeth grinding down hard on a wad of tobacco. “Goddamn it! I told you to roll it the other way!” He threw down the rope he’d been attempting to loop around a huge oak cask and motioned to a boy of perhaps twelve. “Stand over here, goddamn it! I’ll push while you slide the parbuckle underneath. Then we can hoist it up.”
The lad, whose shoulder was braced against the horizontal barrel, did not budge, his neck taut and face reddened. “This one’s gotta weigh five-hundred pounds. The wharf ain’t level, I tell ya. I think it’s gonna run away if I let go!”
“I got it!” the dockworker sneered. “Now grab the goddamn rope!”
Reluctantly, the youth obeyed. The barrel instantly broke loose and rolled down the pier. The boy grimaced as it hit three other casks standing on end, his face breaking into a smile when it stopped, undamaged.
“Jesus Christ, boy!” the man cursed lividly. “How could you be so goddamn dumb? Why didn’t you wait until I got me a proper grip?” Cold hatred gleamed in his eyes, but the lad did not take heed and snickered in relief. “You wouldn’t be laughin’ if I kicked your damn ass!”
Charmaine had seen enough. “Let’s go, Gwendolyn. That man reminds me of someone I’d rather forget—”
“What goes on here?”
The older man drew himself up as Paul Duvoisin approached. “This young snip don’t know how to be puttin’ in a day’s work,” he grumbled.
“Is that so?” Paul queried. “What do you have to say for yourself, boy?”
“I’m just learning, sir. Today’s my first day. I need some trainin’ is all.”
“What you be needin’,” the older man hissed, “is a good swift kick in the pants. Maybe that’d wipe that brazen smile off your goddamn face!”
“All right, that’s enough!” Paul commanded. “Since the boy is new, I expect you to be patient with him. If you don’t think you can manage that, I’ll place him with someone else who can instruct him properly.”
“That’s fine by me. No way in hell I need help like that!”
“Good,” Paul said coolly. “What’s your name, lad?”
“Jason, sir. Jason Banner.”
“Well now, Jason, we’ll see if Buck Mathers can use you today.”
“Buck?” the older man expostulated. “Why the hell are you givin’ him to that big nigger? He don’t need no help!”
Paul raised a dubious brow. “If Jason is more of a hindrance than a help, that shouldn’t matter to you, should it, Mr. Rowlan?” Receiving no answer, Paul turned back to Jason. “You’ll find Buck at the bow of the ship. He’s the biggest black man on deck, so you shouldn’t have any trouble spotting him.”
“Yes, sir. I know who he is.”
“Good,” Paul replied, clapping a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Do whatever he tells you to do. Tell him I sent you along, and I’ll speak to him later.”
“Yes, sir! Thank you, sir!” In a moment, he was gone.
Paul faced Jessie Rowlan. “Back to work.”
“You’re gonna find someone else to help me, ain’t ya?”
“You had help, but you turned it aside. Now, finish this job without further incident or collect your wages from the Duvoisin purser. Either way, I don’t want to hear your foul mouth again!”
Rowlan received the ultimatum, but could not contain his outrage. “The Duvoisin purser,” he grumbled under his breath as he shuffled over to the awaiting barrels. “Don’t that sound fancy? We all know it’s ‘Do-voy-sin.’ Leave it to the rich to take an ugly name—”
“It’s ‘Doo-vwah-zan,’ Mr. Rowlan, fancy or not,” Paul responded smoothly. “Pronounce it correctly or don’t bother looking for work here.”
Rowlan’s eyes narrowed, his hatred poorly concealed.
“Was there something else you wanted to say—to my face this time?”
The man didn’t answer, though his manner spoke volumes as once again he readied the cask for hoisting.
Paul rubbed the back of his neck and walked away.
Charmaine watched Paul return to the Raven’s deck, and she imagined a similar confrontation. Her lips curled in delight as she envisioned John Ryan cowering before Paul, and the fear that had stalked her in Richmond was gone.
“Wasn’t he wonderful?” Gwendolyn whispered in adulation.
“Yes,” Charmaine sighed. Paul Duvoisin was suddenly more than just handsome.
Rowlan coaxed another worker into helping him. A length of rope was doubled around the heavy barrel, the ends of which were pulled through a loop to form a sling. Eventually, it was hoisted up the concave plank with a pulley. Once on deck, it was released and rolled across the waist of the ship to the hatch.
The hour lengthened. Men tarried at the same operation fore and aft, but with ease and camaraderie. Quite abruptly, work shifted from loading the vessel to unloading two crates of tea. Charmaine wondered why, but Gwendolyn only shrugged. A buckboard drew alongside the vessel, ready to receive them, but splintering wood rent the air and the pulley let go, one large container plummeting to the pier below. The men on the quay shouted and scattered, stumbling with the shuddering imp
act. The crate hit the wharf just shy of the wagon and split open, spilling tea leaves everywhere. The horses reared, and the driver clutched the reins tightly to keep them from bolting.
Paul appeared at the starboard rail. His scowl was black, his jaw clenched by the time he reached the wharf. “Whose work is this?”
Jake Watson, his harbor foreman, shook his head in disgust. “I don’t know.”
Paul glared into the circle of men who gathered around the damaged goods. “Who’s at fault?” he demanded again, his voice cutting the air like a whip.
A towering Negro stepped forward, Jason Banner at his side. “It was ol’ Jessie Rowlan’s fault, sir. I saw him liftin’ that crate with the wrong pulley.”
Paul gritted his teeth. “Where the hell is he?”
The black man pointed toward the deck, and all eyes followed. Jessie Rowlan was leaning on the railing. Paul strode purposefully up the gangway, his irate regard unwavering.
Jessie Rowlan turned to meet the attack, wearing a vengeful grin. “What can I do for you, Mr. Doo-vwah-zan?” he queried snidely.
“Are you responsible for that mess down there?”
“What do you mean ‘responsible’? The way I sees it, ain’t no one ‘responsible.’ Just a little accident, is all.”
“The way I see it,” Paul growled, “the wrong equipment was used. We have block and tackle for crates and we have block and tackle for casks, something you might have remembered if you weren’t so drunk! But since you were the one working the pulley, I’m holding you directly responsible for the ‘accident’ as you call it. I cannot abide such stupidity, and I certainly can’t afford it. Tomorrow you may collect your wages from Jake Watson, out of which I shall deduct the money not only lost on the damaged goods, but on the equipment as well. After that, I never want to see your sorry face again.”
Renewed loathing welled up in Jessie Rowlan’s eyes. “Well, if it ain’t the high-and-mighty Paul Duvoisin, who thinks he owns the whole goddamn place. Well, sir, I got me some friends, and you’ll be regrettin’ you ever said that. You think you’re better than everybody else. Well, you ain’t. You ain’t even as good as most of the men here. At least we ain’t bastards—rich or otherwise!”
Paul seized him by the throat, lifting him clear off the deck. “Utter that word again and I swear you’re a dead man! Hear me? A dead man!”
“Yes!” Jessie Rowlan choked out.
In an instant, Paul sent him sailing, and he lay sprawled on the deck. He jumped to his feet and dashed off the ship, the dockworkers stepping back as he retreated, all unusually quiet.
“What was that all about?” Charmaine whispered.
“I’ll explain later,” Gwendolyn hushed, straining to hear.
“All right, Jake,” Paul called down to the pier, “let’s see what the men can salvage with a few shovels and a couple of barrels. I should have sent the lot back to John when I realized it was still in the hold.”
“I don’t think it was your brother’s fault, sir,” Jake shouted up. “I should have checked the labeling more carefully. I thought it said—”
“No matter, Jake! It looks like a storm is rolling in, and we’ll have a bigger mess on our hands if it pours before that tea is cleared away. There’s a bonus if the job is finished before the first drops hit!”
Hearing this, the men scrambled to do his bidding. Satisfied, Paul turned back to his work.
“Why did Jessie Rowlan call Paul that nasty name?” Charmaine pressed as she and Gwendolyn rushed home.
“What name?”
“You know the name, Gwendolyn. Mr. Harrington used it during our voyage here and grew uncomfortable when he remembered I was present. I know it’s not a nice word. Why won’t you tell me?”
“There’s nothing to tell,” Gwendolyn said, embarrassed by a subject she was not supposed to know about. “The man was cussing, and Paul became angry.”
“No, it was more than that. Paul didn’t lose his temper until Jessie Rowlan said that word.” Still, Gwendolyn refused to shed light on the subject. “Is it because Paul is adopted—illegitimate?” she pressed.
“How did you know that?”
“Captain Wilkinson mentioned it.”
“Did he also mention what the townspeople whisper?”
“He didn’t gossip, if that’s what you mean.”
Gwendolyn lifted her nose. “And that’s exactly why I won’t repeat it.”
The gleam in Gwendolyn’s eyes told Charmaine the girl was dying to tell all. “It won’t go any further than me, if that’s what you’re afraid of.”
“Well,” Gwendolyn hesitated, looking around. “People say Paul is Frederic Duvoisin’s bastard son,” and she whispered “bastard” as if the wind had ears.
“What does that mean? Isn’t that the same as illegitimate?”
“Yes, but worse! It means his father had an affair with a prostitute, and Paul was born of it. Otherwise, Frederic Duvoisin would have done the gentlemanly thing and married the woman. They say the infant came from abroad, and Frederic adopted the baby because he was certain he was the father.”
Charmaine’s heart swelled in sadness for Paul. He was wealthy, handsome, and from all outward signs, an honorable man, and yet, he had to endure the scandalmongering and rebuke of those around him.
Pelting rain washed her mind clean.
“Come quickly, Charmaine! We’re going to get soaked to the bone!”
They raced through the streets, coming to the residential section of town as swiftly as their legs would carry them. But they weren’t fast enough, for their clothes were drenched before they reached the Brownings’ front porch.
“Goodness me!” Caroline protested as she took in her daughter’s appearance. “Just look at yourself, young lady! Your dress is ruined!”
“I’m sorry, Mother, but Charmaine and I ran as fast as we could.”
“You what?”
“We ran from town.”
“You ran from town? And what will my friends think?”
“Mrs. Browning,” Charmaine placated, “everyone was running for shelter.”
“Well, let me tell you something. Dignified young ladies do not run in public, rainstorm or not! What would Colette Duvoisin say if she saw you?”
Loretta stepped from the sitting room. “She would say, ‘There go two intelligent young women. Unlike the dignified ladies on this island who traipse slowly about town during a rainstorm in wet, clinging clothes, these two run for cover so as not to be struck by lightning.’”
Miffed, Caroline flounced past her sister, but Loretta smiled at the bedraggled girls. “To your room and out of those dresses before you catch cold.”
Caroline remained in a huff until dinner, when her true anxieties were revealed. Though she loved the island, she feared her daughter would never learn the social graces necessary to obtain a respectable husband some day. By the end of the meal, Loretta empathized with her sister and, much to the dismay of Gwendolyn and Charmaine, agreed to take Gwendolyn back to Virginia when she and Joshua departed. Noting her niece’s downcast eyes, she said, “You will come to love Richmond, Gwendolyn. Think of it as an extended holiday, and if you are not happy after a week or two, you can always return home.”
Gwendolyn brightened; however, Charmaine felt empty. She had hoped to have a friend on the island whom she could visit and in whom she could confide. It seemed she was destined to be alone.
Chapter 3
Friday, September 16, 1836
The Duvoisin Mansion
THE open carriage rocked gently from side to side as it turned off the main thoroughfare and proceeded at a leisurely pace through the tree-lined passage that led directly to the Duvoisin mansion. The four occupants soon sampled the tranquility of Charmantes. Very few people traveled the isolated road, and the quiescent forest enveloped them. Heading west, their destination was the opposite side of the nine-mile-wide island, the paradise of Jean Duvoisin II preserved. Although the eastern coast was heavily popu
lated, the western shore remained the sole dominion of one family: the Duvoisins. Not even the far-off sugarcane fields and orchards to the south, nor the lumber mill and pine forests to the north trespassed on the serenity to the west, where the island remained untamed save for the mansion they were swiftly approaching.
“What is the matter, my dear?” Loretta whispered.
Charmaine inhaled. “I’m very nervous. What if they don’t like me?”
“We shall leave.”
“Oh, Mrs. Harrington, you make everything sound so simple.”
“That’s because it is,” she stated with a fortifying smile.
Yesterday, they had received Colette Duvoisin’s reply, written in her own hand, suggesting the interview be held on the sixteenth of September at four in the afternoon. Charmaine had found it exceedingly difficult to sleep last night, smiling weakly when Harold Browning suggested accompanying them. “Less formal,” he had said. She knew he hoped to ease her mind, and she had thanked him, but his presence did not lessen her anxiety.
When it seemed the ride would go on forever, the pine trees began to thin. Charmaine was the first to see it—the magnificent mansion nestled on a lush blanket of rich green, a white pearl set on an emerald carpet. As the carriage closed the distance to the metal fencing that guarded the grounds, it loomed larger than any edifice she had ever seen, grander than any of Virginia’s great estates. Palatial and breathtaking, it required no words of compliment or description; in truth, only the greatest poet would do it justice.
Ten Doric columns rose heavenward from a wide portico, supporting not only a second-floor veranda, but a third story as well. The massive colonnade ended beneath a broad, red-tiled roof with dormer windows. Both porch and balcony ran the length of the main structure and wrapped around either side, disappearing along the wings set at right angles. They boasted evenly spaced French doors, all thrown wide to catch the afternoon breezes. The manor’s main entrance luxuriated in the shade of two towering oak trees that grew on either side of the central drive. The entire edifice was framed by papaya and palm trees, which extended along the side wings of the house from front to back. But the eye was drawn back to the enormous oaks, unusual, yet majestic. Harold told them Frederic’s father had transplanted saplings from Virginia in memory of his deceased wife. Now, some fifty years later, they flourished on Charmantes, a reminder the Duvoisin fortune had its origins in America. The pair accentuated the symmetry of the stately mansion, and not even the small stone structure attached to the south wing could mar the perfect balance and beauty.