by DeVa Gantt
“Charmaine, whatever is the matter?” he asked with great concern. “Is it something I said? What has brought you to tears?” He stood, produced a handkerchief, and moved toward her.
“Don’t come near me!”
Her tone, rather than her command, stilled his advance. With five paces between them, he spoke. “Please, tell me what I’ve said to upset you.”
“You know what you’ve said. I’ll not explain it to you!”
“I fear you misjudge me,” he cajoled, a simple plan germinating. “Surely you don’t think I was suggesting you…” He allowed his shocked query to trail off as if embarrassed. “Charmaine,” he breathed, braving a step closer, “you’ve misconstrued my remarks. Please believe me when I tell you I was only considering the “sleeping” arrangements. There, I’ve said it again!”
She eyed him skeptically, uncertain of herself. He seemed bent upon exonerating himself. If his intention had been to proposition her, why would he bother? She relaxed somewhat, accepting the handkerchief he held out to her.
“Charmaine,” he whispered again, taking another step forward. “I’m sorry, truly I am. I didn’t mean to offend you. We’re blunt on Charmantes. But if you’d indulge me a moment longer, I think I can explain. I’ve been considering your room on the third floor. You’re far too removed from the children there, and with Colette’s poor health, it seems more practical for you to take up quarters next to the nursery. In that way, you’ll be able to comfort them, especially little Pierre, should they awaken in the middle of the night.”
He was winning her over. He could see it in her eyes, in her very being, her body no longer rigid. Inspired, he pressed on. “In fact, if you took the room adjacent to the children’s bedchamber, I could have a door installed between the two, opening your room onto theirs.” He stepped closer still, watching her dab at her eyes. “If that would be agreeable?”
“I don’t know, sir,” she faltered, relying on a formal address for fortification.
“Charmaine, you’re not going to revert to calling me that again, are you?”
“I think ‘sir’ is more appropriate. Perhaps you think I’m naïve, and I suppose I am. However, being naïve does not make me a fool. I know right from wrong, decency from indecency. If I accept your offer, the move will be for the children’s comfort, not yours. I hope my meaning is understood.”
He had misjudged her. By the end of her reproof, he was simmering. Who does she think she is, berating me as if I were a schoolboy? Why did I attempt to placate her? I should have kissed her passionately and been done with it—to hell with her objections. But the moment was lost, and now he said, “Our meanings are the same, Mademoiselle. What is your answer?”
She hesitated. “Yes, but—”
“But what?” he queried snidely.
“The playroom abuts the children’s bedroom on one side, and according to Yvette, your brother’s chambers, the other side. Certainly either room is out of the question.”
“John’s room sits unoccupied. I’ll have George break through the wall and mill a door for the frame.”
“But what if your brother should return? Surely he won’t be happy to find the governess in his room.”
“He won’t.”
“He won’t what?”
“Return. John won’t return.” The declaration was delivered with such conviction that the matter was closed as quickly as it had been opened. “Now,” he proceeded, his temper poorly concealed, “if we’re in agreement, I’ll say good night. The hour grows late, and I have to be at the dock at sunrise. I’m expecting a ship from Europe.”
“Yes,” she replied. “Good night and thank you…”
Her words were directed at his back. He’d already dismissed her, quickly retreating through the gardens and leaving her perturbed.
Paul was glad to reach his room, fulminating over the wretched scene he had generated. He was grateful for only one thing: his brother John hadn’t witnessed the complete ass he’d made of himself; otherwise, he’d never live it down. Well, Miss Ryan, he thought as he stretched out on his bed, tomorrow you can have your fancy room and your fancy airs all to yourself! I want no part of them. There are too many women on the island just clamoring for my attention. I have no need of one lovely governess. But when you grow lonely, when you’re ready to become a woman, then you can come crawling back to me, and perchance, I’ll take you to my bed. Satisfied with that thought, he slept.
Chapter 5
Wednesday, September 28, 1836
CONSTRUCTION on the new door began the next morning. The sound of splintering wood echoed throughout the house, confounding those at the breakfast table. The twins dropped their spoons and ran from the room, ignoring their mother’s admonition to wait. Charmaine and Colette found them in the nursery, wide-eyed over the hole in the wall and the debris littering the floor.
“What is this?” Colette demanded as Rose and Pierre drew up alongside her.
George peeked through the opening from the bedroom beyond. “The new doorway,” he offered.
“Doorway?” Colette queried, clearly irate. “What doorway?”
“The one Paul told me to begin working on today.”
“Why would Paul ask you to break a hole through that wall, George?”
George’s eyes flew to Charmaine, and she cringed. “For the children’s benefit,” he replied. “Paul thinks Miss Ryan should be nearer the nursery, so he’s given her this room—and a door in order to provide easy access should they awaken during the night.”
“That’s John’s room!” Colette fumed. “You’ve no right to desecrate it.”
“Desecrate it? I’d hardly say I was desecrating it. And it’s not my idea, anyway. I’m just following orders.”
“And what if John were to come home?”
“He’s not coming home, Colette. You know that.”
“Someday he will,” she murmured, her anger spent, “and he’ll be hurt to find his chambers have been given to someone else.”
Jeannette grabbed hold of her mother’s hand. “Don’t be upset, Mama. There are so many rooms in our house, I’m sure Johnny won’t mind using another one. Besides, it will be nice to have Mademoiselle Charmaine nearby. Maybe that was Paul’s birthday gift to us.”
Colette smiled down at her daughter. “Perhaps you are right. I just wonder what your father is going to say when he sees this mess.”
George said, “According to Paul, he approved the project.”
Colette rubbed her forehead. “Yes, I suppose he would.” She motioned to the children. “Come, let us step out of George’s way.”
“Oh, please, can’t we watch?” they begged.
Colette relented, advising them to remain seated on the far bed.
For a full hour, they chatted happily away. George, Travis, and Joseph indulged them whilst sawing, banging, and removing the wood and plaster that seemed to be everywhere.
When Pierre tired of the spectacle, Colette and Charmaine withdrew into the adjoining playroom. Realizing she was not needed, Rose excused herself.
Charmaine inhaled. “Colette,” she said, “I’m sorry Paul didn’t speak to you about the room. I didn’t know he was going to start on it immediately. I should have insisted he get your permission first.”
Colette’s brow dipped in consternation. “You knew about this?”
“Paul mentioned it to me last night. He suggested—”
“Last night? Paul arrived home late last night.”
Charmaine was too embarrassed to reply, and Colette deduced the obvious.
“Charmaine,” she began, folding her hands as if in prayer and bringing them to her lips. “I think I should warn you about Paul. Perhaps I should have done so sooner. He’s a ladies’ man.” When Charmaine hung her head, Colette attempted to ease her distress. “I don’t want to see you hurt.”
“Don’t worry, Colette, I won’t bring shame to your home.”
“I’m not speaking about shame, Charmaine. I’d hate
to see you give your heart to someone who has no intention of returning your love.”
Charmaine was stung by the words, though she knew they rang true. Her initial assumption had been correct: Paul had propositioned her. When he’d realized she was not about to be compromised, he’d enacted a grand charade of misunderstanding. Her mother had warned her of such men, and Colette was doing the same. There was only one thing Paul desired from her, and it wasn’t “friendship,” not even love.
“I’ll take heed,” she whispered and added as a dismal afterthought, “If you don’t want me in that room—”
“Nonsense,” Colette countered. “Moving you into John’s room is actually a fine idea, and the damage to the wall is done.”
Charmaine reflected on the Duvoisin son she had yet to meet, the strange reaction his name had evoked that morning. Her thoughts circled to Yvette and the letter she’d written. Best to ask now and get it over with. “Yvette would like to send a letter to her brother in Richmond. I promised if she were good, and you gave your permission, I’d ask Joshua Harrington to deliver it.”
“Let Yvette write her letter,” Colette answered without hesitation. “I’m certain John could use some happy news from home.”
Relief washed over Charmaine. “She already has.”
Colette didn’t seem surprised.
After a time, she called to the girls, insisting they do a bit of reading. Together, they finished a narrative on Eleanor of Aquitaine, the French noblewoman of the twelfth century, who, at the age of fifteen, married the king of France, and later, the king of England. The girls pestered their mother for details, knowing Colette’s family, the Delacroix, hailed from Poitiers, the same village where Eleanor grew up. When Colette spoke of the death of Eleanor’s twenty-seven-year-old mother, Jeannette lamented. “That is so sad, Mama. You will be twenty-seven soon.”
Colette squeezed her, promising to live a long life, then sent them over to Charmaine, who had been preparing a series of spelling lists. The girls were already good readers, but she was showing them the letter patterns in words.
Not five minutes later, Yvette was complaining. “This doesn’t make sense!”
Charmaine looked over her shoulder. “What doesn’t?”
“This stupid list,” she grumbled. “Oil, boil, soil, foil…”
“Yes, what about it?”
“Well, if ‘o-i’ makes the ‘oy’ sound in those words, Du-vwah-zan should be pronounced Du-voy-zan…and Mademoiselle…Madum-oy-zel.”
Charmaine chuckled. “Very good, Yvette,” she praised. When the girl eyed her skeptically, she added, “It shows you’re paying attention and really learning. As for your surname and Mademoiselle, I think the ‘o-i’ is pronounced differently because both words are French.”
Colette looked up from where she was now reading to Pierre. “Mademoiselle Charmaine is correct, Yvette,” she interjected. “In the French language, ‘o-i’ is pronounced ‘wah.’ But you know that. There are quite a few French words that have made their way into the English language: ‘armoire,’ ‘reservoir,’ and ‘repertoire,’ for instance. Your papa’s other island ‘Espoir’ is also pronounced with the ‘wah’ sound.”
“It’s very confusing,” Yvette grumbled.
“That is English,” Charmaine concluded. “Some say it is the most difficult language to learn because it has so many variations.”
“Is that true, Mama?” Jeannette asked.
“Is what true?”
“That English is difficult to learn?”
“Yes, I suppose it is. I learned the rudiments when I was young, but I didn’t become proficient until…until I moved here.”
“Did Papa teach you?”
Colette grew reticent. “A bit,” she whispered. When Jeannette probed further, she said, “It is nearly lunch time. Let us finish up.”
After the meal, the girls rushed to the piano for their daily lesson. An hour later, everyone retreated to Colette’s chambers where it was considerably quieter. The promise of birthday gifts was more enticing than the construction site. Charmaine volunteered to get the presents from their hiding place. She had just reached the end of the corridor when Agatha Ward appeared.
“Miss Ryan,” the matron criticized, “are you being employed to decorate the hallway or were you hired to care for the children?”
The obtrusive statement left Charmaine dumbfounded, for she had had little contact with the woman, passing a friendly “good day” now and then, but nothing more. Agatha avoided the children, and Charmaine only saw her at mealtimes or when she insisted Colette rest. Most days, Colette politely ignored her.
“Well, Miss Ryan?” she pressed.
“I’ve been sent on an errand”—Charmaine stammered—“for Miss Colette.”
“An errand?” Agatha scoffed. “And where are the children?”
“With Miss Colette, in her chambers.”
“Young lady,” she scolded, “Miss Colette is not well. You are the one who should be looking after the children, not she! They continue to contribute to her failing health.”
Charmaine’s ire had been primed. “Miss Colette seems most indisposed after she passes an afternoon with your brother, Mrs. Ward. On the other hand, her health always improves when she spends time with her children.”
Agatha Ward’s eyes widened briefly, then narrowed into slits of animosity. Charmaine realized too late she had just made an enemy. “What are you inferring, Miss Ryan—that my brother is incompetent? Let us hope you are never in need of a physician’s care while on this island. I don’t think Robert would appreciate ministering to someone who eagerly maligns his good name.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“Didn’t you?” the widow hissed. “You had better scurry back to your—”
“What goes on here?”
Startled, Agatha’s hostility faded, her attention focused over Charmaine’s left shoulder. “Why Frederic,” she recovered, “isn’t this a surprise?”
Charmaine pivoted around, stunned to find the splendent Frederic Duvoisin standing before her. He leaned heavily on a polished black cane, his posture crooked. Even so, he radiated a power that negated the rumors she had heard. He was taller than Paul, his attire casual, yet finely tailored, and he was handsome, positively handsome. Liberal touches of gray highlighted a full head of hair, not quite as dark as his son’s. He was clean-shaven, with squared jaw, long, curved nose, and thin lips. His steely eyes were keen and bore through her, scrutinizing her more surely than she did him.
“Are you pleased with your assessment, Miss Ryan?” he asked, irony lacing his deep voice, his speech slightly slurred. He knew who she was! “I asked you a question, Mademoiselle. Does the invalid meet your expectations?”
“You’re not an invalid, sir,” she answered truthfully.
The remark surprised him, but he snorted derisively, then confronted Agatha. “Has Miss Ryan done something to annoy you?”
“She has left the children unattended.”
“Where?”
The dowager lifted her nose a notch. “In Colette’s chambers.”
“And where is my wife?”
“With them.”
“I’d hardly call that unattended, Agatha. Colette is, after all, their mother.”
“Yes, Frederic, but she is not well. That is the only reason Miss Ryan was hired. What is the point of a governess, if she does not tend to her pupils?”
“Miss Ryan?” Frederic queried, giving her the chance to defend herself.
“Your wife asked me to get the twins’ birthday gifts, sir.”
“I see,” he said, focusing on the widow again.
“Had I known,” Agatha lamely objected. “Miss Ryan said nothing of gifts.”
“You didn’t give me a chance,” Charmaine rejoined.
Agatha gritted her teeth. She was losing this debate. Best to swallow her pride, apologize, and quickly excuse herself.
Charmaine watched her hasten down the stairs, then faced Frederi
c again. Suddenly, she understood why Colette might be attracted to a man old enough to be her father. Unlike Paul, who at times possessed a youthful mien, this man was hardened, lordly, and completely disarming. In his younger days, she could only wonder over the women who fell at his feet. Did he know how intriguing he was? Yes, he definitely knew. Even now, in his crippled state, he knew.
Presently, he was awaiting her next move. “Miss Ryan,” he said, breaking the prolonged silence. “I believe you were sent to retrieve something for my wife?”
“Yes,” she said and headed toward the nursery, intimidated when he followed her, acutely aware of his handicap now that he attempted to walk. She knew he would not appreciate her pity, so she kept her gaze averted, rummaging instead inside the armoire for the girls’ presents. When she turned around, he was standing before the broken wall, studying it. According to Paul, he’d agreed to the door’s installation. She wondered what he was thinking now. Work had come to a halt; the men must have gone off for lunch.
As if reading her thoughts, he said, “I heard all the banging and wanted to see for myself the progress. I also wanted to spend time with my daughters.”
He faced her. “My wife is very pleased with you, Miss Ryan.”
“I’m happy to be here, sir. I like your children very much, and Miss Colette is a lovely woman.”
“Yes, she is,” Frederic agreed, his eyes intense. “And with your new room, she shall sleep soundly knowing you are not far from the children.”
“Yes, sir,” she replied, thinking, he had given his permission. Although Frederic Duvoisin might not often leave his chambers, he was fully aware of everything that happened in his home. Most of the gossip was untrue.
“I see you have all your packages. Shall we?” He inclined his head toward the hallway, intending to accompany her.
“Yes. The girls will wonder what has kept me.”
Again, Frederic followed, and she slowed her pace in an effort to diminish his incapacity. The gesture annoyed him. “Hurry up, Miss Ryan, we don’t have all day!” Flustered, she quickly complied.
When they reached Colette’s suite, he asked if she might fetch another three parcels. “There are additional gifts in my dressing room.”