A Silent Ocean Away

by DeVa Gantt

  “Yvette,” her mother remonstrated lightly, “don’t be envious. It’s not becoming. Besides, you received a letter, too. Why don’t you read it to us?”

  The girl wrinkled her nose. “It’s private, Mama. That is the only reason I learned to read and write in the first place, remember? So that Johnny could send me my own private mail.”

  “Very well,” her mother said. “Maybe Jeannette will read her letter to us.”

  The girl was quietly devouring the missive. When she looked up, her eyes twinkled. “Oh no, Mama,” she breathed, “mine is a secret, too!”

  Getting nowhere with the twins, Colette turned back to Paul. “What has John done this time?” she asked.

  He’d begun to eat and didn’t answer. If Charmaine didn’t know better, she would have thought the topic dismissed, but she had learned to read his moods. He remained agitated, his scowl similar to the one he’d worn the day he’d confronted Jessie Rowlan.

  Colette buttered and handed Pierre a piece of toast. He ate it greedily. “Slow down, mon caillou, you have too much in your mouth, and you will choke!” Pierre tried to respond, but with his mouth so full, no one could understand what he said. Colette just shook her head, smiling.

  She regarded Paul again, seemingly unable to let the matter rest. “Well?”

  “John has changed the shipping routes,” he replied curtly, shuffling through the letters again and producing one addressed to Charmaine. “You wanted to know why the mails were delayed,” he said, tapping the envelope on the table before passing it to her. “The ships that usually come directly to us from Virginia have now been redirected. Since November they’ve traveled to Europe first, and gradually make their way to us en route back to Virginia. In short, we have to wait on our post and our supplies.”

  “Why?” Charmaine asked.

  “John loves to interfere.”

  “That is not true,” Colette objected.

  “Isn’t it?” Paul demanded, full-voiced, his temper unleashed.

  Charmaine sat stunned. He had never spoken a harsh word to Colette.

  Colette responded calmly. “If John changed the routes, he had good reason.”

  “Why are you always defending him?” he growled, his query strikingly reminiscent of Frederic’s remark on the twins’ birthday.

  “I’m not defending him,” she argued diplomatically. “I’m merely stating a fact. John will inherit his father’s fortune someday. Why would he jeopardize it by setting up shipping routes that would undermine Duvoisin enterprises?”

  Paul was chafed by her logic. “Clearly you are blind to his maneuverings. Therefore, there is no point in discussing it.”

  “Paul—you and John were close once,” she rejoined, unaffected by the fury in his eyes. “Why are you allowing money to come between you now? When I think of the three of you, George included, I can’t believe what I see and hear.”

  “I said I don’t want to discuss it!”

  Colette sighed, but did not press her point.

  Yvette finished eating quickly and ran from the room, saying she was going straight to the nursery to write another letter.

  “You have lessons!” her mother called.

  They had developed a routine. After breakfast, the children returned to the playroom. For two hours, they read, did arithmetic problems, and studied geography or world history. If Paul or Frederic were available, they would question them about the travels of the newest ship that had put into port. After lunch, Pierre took his nap while the girls had their piano lessons. Most days, Colette would listen to them, happy with their progress. Other days, she would retire to her own room to rest. The late afternoon was left for the outdoors. The rainy season of autumn was behind them, the weather beautiful, a bit cooler than the summer, and quite unlike the Decembers in Virginia. Now that the children had a governess, Nana Rose had more time to herself. Nevertheless, she was available when the weekends arrived and Charmaine chose to take the girls into town or on a picnic. Sometimes it was best if Pierre stayed home, and if Colette was indisposed, Rose stepped in.

  Presently, Charmaine stood from the table. She looked to Paul, who hadn’t said another word to anyone; he was reading a periodical that accompanied the perplexing letters. “Thank you,” she whispered.

  It was a moment before his head lifted and another before he realized she had spoken to him. “Excuse me?” His eyes were grave, but not angry.

  “I said, ‘thank you’—for the letter from my friends in Virginia.”

  “You’re welcome, Charmaine. I hope they are well.”

  “I’ll soon find out,” she said. “How much do I owe you for the postage?”

  “Nothing,” he replied with a debonair smile. “Any charges are taken out of the island account.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  She nodded a second “thank you” and, with heart thumping, called to Jeannette. “Come, sweetheart, it is time we got on with today’s lessons.”

  Jeannette complied, grasping her own letter. But as she passed behind her mother, she stopped as if remembering something and hugged her, capping the capricious gesture with a kiss.

  Stunned, Colette laughed. “What was that for?”

  “It’s a secret, too,” she whispered, turning to Pierre next.

  He struggled against the embrace until Colette said, “Your sister is trying to give you a kiss.”

  Charmaine heard tears in Colette’s voice and realized she was trying not to cry. But the moment passed, and she was lifting Pierre to the ground, speaking to Paul at the same time. “Please don’t upset your father with talk of John.”

  He frowned. “This is all about John, Colette. I can’t pretend he doesn’t exist—leastwise not while he controls the purse strings from Virginia.”

  It was futile to argue, so Colette took Pierre by the hand and followed Charmaine and Jeannette from the room.

  Later, while the girls were busy working, and Pierre was playing with his blocks, Charmaine turned pensive. John Duvoisin. Any time his name was mentioned, emotions ran high. The men of the family spoke of him as if he were an adversary, the women, his proponent. Charmaine began to wonder if she were ever going to meet the man and form her own opinion of him.

  “Mademoiselle Charmaine?” Jeannette queried, cutting across her thoughts. “You haven’t read your letter. Look, it’s under my paper!”

  Charmaine was embarrassed. For the better part of a month she’d complained over the delayed mails. Yet here she was, a letter in hand, daydreaming about someone she’d never met. Chuckling, she broke the seal and began to read, happy to find all was well with the Harrington clan. The letter had been a wonderful birthday present. She’d write to them tonight.

  Paul entered his father’s chambers, nodding to Travis as the man left them alone. Frederic sat in his abominable chair, staring out the French doors, past the gardens and toward the pine forest that ensconced the family’s private lake. Beyond that was the ocean and, farther still, the States—Virginia in particular. His eyes did not waver as he said, “You needed to speak with me?”

  “Yes, sir,” Paul answered, purposefully placing himself between his father and the glass panels. When the man eventually looked up, Paul handed over the documents he carried. “John has changed most of the shipping routes.”

  “Why?”

  Strange question… Paul had expected a furious reaction. “According to his letter, it’s an issue of the trade winds. But that has never been a factor before, not when we were in need of supplies.”

  “How have the routes changed?” Frederic asked, disregarding the papers.

  “He’s established two circuits: a Richmond, Europe, Charmantes course, and a Richmond, New York, Europe course. More often than not, we won’t see half the fleet, and those that do eventually reach us will be hauling staples all the way to Europe first. It’s ludicrous. Furthermore, sugar bound for New York may have to change ships in Richmond.”

  “Is this suc
h an ill-advised decision?”

  “It’s an annoying one, Father!” Paul railed. “John is looking for an excuse to upset the apple cart. It is his way of exacting retribution.”

  Frederic rubbed his brow. “Those are harsh words.”

  “Don’t tell me you are defending him!” Frederic’s eyes narrowed, and Paul cringed. “I’m not trying to stir up trouble, Father. But I am tired of John controlling everything—at his whim, I might add.”

  Silence prevailed, and Paul could see the man’s mind working, a mind unaffected by the stroke that had damaged him in every other way. Paul, in turn, experienced a wave of righteousness, Colette’s assertion surfacing. “To be fair, John may have rerouted the ships for another reason.”

  Frederic showed surprise. “Really? What is it?”

  “For the past two years, the sugar crop has been deplorable. I’ve had difficulty filling the ships’ holds to capacity, sending quite a few back to John with room to spare. In our need to meet the increased demand, we’ve overworked the soil, using fields that should have lain fallow. This season alone, the yield was two-thirds what it was three years ago, and that with more acres harvested. The land is effete and requires a more relaxed rotation if the necessary elements are to be restored. We should either suspend planting for a year or two, or turn the next few tracts over to tobacco.”

  Frederic grunted. “Tobacco is just as taxing on the land, and then we’d have to consider the other adjustments we’d be forced to make: training the bondsmen, equipment, buildings. And even if it were to flourish, we’d be placing all our coins on one bet. I’ll not have the Duvoisin fortune left to the whim of one crop. The Virginia plantation is relegated to tobacco. Charmantes produces sugar.”

  Paul threw up his hands in exasperation. “Tobacco is just a suggestion, a crop the family has experience with, but if some dramatic changes aren’t made, Charmantes will be in deep trouble. She’s bringing in minimal revenue now.”

  “I can see you have something else in mind. What is it?”

  Paul inhaled. “Go back to the other island and finish what you started there four years ago.”

  Frederic’s countenance blackened. “The land is cursed.”

  “That’s ridiculous, Father. What happened on Charmantes had nothing to do with Espoir.”

  “If I had been here—”

  Paul’s own anger flared. “We’re not going to go over this again! What’s done is done! The other island is there. It’s fertile. It’s partially cleared. You’ve built a bondsmen keep—constructed a dock. It’s begging to be developed!”

  “You do it,” Frederic interrupted.

  “What?”

  “You heard me. I give it to you. It’s yours, Paul. Do with it as you will.”

  Paul frowned in disbelief. “You’re serious? You’ll allow me free rein?”

  “I’ll do better than that. I’ll give you enough money to contract the building of three ships—your ships—expressly designed to transport your sugar. You will also need a fourth vessel for the treks between Espoir and Charmantes. Purchase a considerably smaller packet, something ancient. In addition, I’ll supply the funds to acquire an indentured crew. How many men will you need: twenty, thirty?”

  “Twenty will be more than sufficient,” Paul breathed, his jaw slackened in amazement.

  “Very well, then,” Frederic continued, his mind working rigorously now. “Set up a meeting with Stephen Westphal. We’ll need to liquidate some funds, but for the balance, our bank seal and the Duvoisin name should hold some weight in the States and Europe. I suggest you commission the ships in Newportes Newes or Baltimore. Best to check with shipbuilders in New York as well. If the southern costs come in too high, quote the New York estimates to them.”

  “American-built vessels? But the British tariffs—”

  “Construction costs should come in at least twenty percent lower than any bark you could commission in Britain. From what I’ve been reading, European shipbuilders can’t compete with the States’ plentiful lumber. If you contract the building of three vessels, the savings should be considerable. That alone will outweigh any British import tax. The newest clippers have proven advantageous to many shipping magnates, and America seems to be leading the fray in perfecting them. Speed, not imposed tariffs, should be the deciding factor.”

  “What of steam propulsion as opposed to fully rigged sail?” Paul asked in waxing excitement. “They are cutting crossing times in half. I’d like your permission to look into that as well.”

  Frederic nodded, feeding off his son’s exuberance. “By all means. You’ll have to travel to Britain for the bondsmen. While there, contact the Harrison shipping firm. They can vouch for progress with the paddlewheel. Perhaps they could be persuaded to share information concerning the success of their own steam fleet. Now, if you are as excited about this as you appear to be, it is prudent not to delay. I suggest you leave as soon as monies are made available through Stephen.”

  Paul’s mind was reeling. This couldn’t be happening! All these years, he had dreamed of owning a piece of the Duvoisin fortune. To John, the prospect meant nothing. John was the legitimate heir, therefore, the Duvoisin fortune had always been there for the taking. Paul, on the other hand, had labored long and hard for his father, and still, after ten years, remained his loyal son, nothing more. Today, the long journey had come to an end. Somewhere along the way, he had proven himself worthy; he was finally being offered his deepest desire—his rightful share of the Duvoisin holdings. Suddenly, he was smiling broadly, and Frederic was happy to know he had pleased at least one son this day.

  “It will be mine?” he whispered. “Not to be shared with John?”

  “It will be yours, Paul,” his sire avowed, “all yours. No interference from John, no conferring with John, no dependence upon John. I should have done this a long time ago. You’ve been a good son. You deserve more.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Paul said with the utmost respect. “I’ll contact Stephen.”

  Paul’s mood was far different when everyone gathered at the dinner table that evening. The children were equally lighthearted, and Charmaine regarded George, Rose, and Colette, who seemed part of the same merry conspiracy. As the meal progressed, she grew more befuddled and petitioned Jeannette for an answer. “Why is everyone so happy?”

  “You’ll see,” was all the girl would say, and Charmaine caught Colette’s wink. But Pierre was unable to keep silent and blurted out, “Mainie’s birfday!”

  “Pierre!” Yvette scolded. “You’ve gone and spoiled the surprise!”

  “The surprise?” Charmaine asked, her eyes arcing around the table until they rested on Paul, who raised a brow in pretended confusion.

  “Da-tay…da-tay…ta-day is Mainie’s birfday!” Pierre happily repeated.

  The kitchen door swung open, and Fatima barreled into the room carrying a cake. In unison, the children shouted, “Happy Birthday!”

  Charmaine’s hands flew to her mouth. “How did you know?” she asked, missing Agatha’s disdainful scowl.

  Colette smiled. “You mentioned it to Jeannette months ago during your first picnic, and she told me right away. I just hoped she wasn’t mistaken about the date, but I had no way of asking without making you suspicious.”

  “I don’t know what to say,” Charmaine murmured, realizing just how much this family had come to mean to her.

  “You don’t have to say anything,” Jeannette piped in.

  “Yes, she does,” Yvette insisted. “She has to say how old she is!”

  “I’m nineteen. And I hope to share many more birthdays with all of you.”

  Satisfied, the children began begging her to cut the cake.

  Colette helped Pierre down from his chair, and he ran to Charmaine with a small package in his hand. “Happy Birfday!” he said, giving her a kiss.

  “What is this?”

  “A birfday pwesent.”

  Charmaine lifted the lid to find a lovely, and certainly expensiv
e, set of ivory hair combs within. “Wherever did you get them?” she asked Colette.

  “At Maddy’s mercantile. I asked Paul to select them.” Colette indicated her accomplice.

  “And you had better wear them,” he warned drolly. “It took me all morning to decide which ones would suit you.”

  “Thank you,” she said, wondering how she could ever reciprocate their generosity. “Each of you must share your birth date with me. Colette?”

  Yvette answered for her mother. “Mama and Pierre’s birthdays are the same: March thirty-first.”

  “Truly?”

  With Colette’s nod of confirmation, Charmaine looked at Paul.

  “Don’t worry, Charmaine,” he said, cognizant of her motives for asking, “Fatima remembers every birthday in this house.”

  Satisfied, Charmaine began cutting the cake.

  Wednesday, December 21, 1836

  Paul was leaving Charmantes. He was traveling on the Black Star, a ship that had berthed on the island yesterday and would set sail the day after Christmas. He was headed to several Southern ports: Newportes Newes, Richmond, and Baltimore, then up to New York and lastly, Britain. In his three months abroad, he would commission the construction of three ships, purchase a fourth, and hire a new crew of indentured servants to clear and cultivate his new island, “Sacré Espoir,” pronounced “Sock-ray Es-pwahr,” meaning “Sacred Hope.” When finished, he’d travel home and begin developing it. He was very happy.

  Charmaine was melancholy. Though Paul promised to be back before Easter, the coming weeks would be long and empty. She was falling in love with him, a disturbing condition exacerbated by the fact that he’d kept her at arm’s length for nearly three months now. Still, she would miss him, miss his presence in the house each night, miss his easy banter, miss the times when he’d pull out her chair or hold the door open for her, miss his handsome smile that set her heart racing. If only he had kissed her, just once.

  Tonight Stephen Westphal was to visit again. He, Paul, and Frederic would make final arrangements. Frederic would sign vouchers, and Paul would be set for the voyage ahead of him. Mr. Westphal would stay for dinner.