by DeVa Gantt
Agatha Ward seemed pleased and traipsed happily about the house the entire day, leaving Colette and Charmaine to wonder over her uncommon behavior.
In the late afternoon, just after the banker had arrived, Colette and Charmaine shared a glass of chilled tea on the front portico. The weather was pleasant, and the children were playing on the lawn, running here and there. Jeannette took charge of Pierre, mindful of his well-being. They chuckled over their antics.
When the moment seemed right, Charmaine withdrew two envelopes from her apron pocket. Both Jeannette and Yvette had written to their brother this time, and she looked to Colette for advice. “Do you think Paul would mind if I asked him to deliver these letters to John? He mentioned stopping in Richmond.”
“He will not mind,” she answered firmly, aware of Charmaine’s misgivings. “For all their rivalry, they’re still brothers and very close.”
“That is not the way it appears.”
“They’re brothers,” Colette reiterated, “and brothers often quarrel. I know I used to with Pierre.”
“Pierre?”
Colette laughed now. “My brother, Pierre. He and my mother died shortly after the twins were born.”
“I’m sorry,” Charmaine whispered.
Colette suppressed the painful memory. “He was born a cripple and unable to walk. Now he is at peace…in heaven.”
“What of your father?” Charmaine asked cautiously.
“He died when I was very young,” she answered, her voice no longer sorrowful. “I hardly remember him. My mother had a difficult time raising us. We were gentry, so my father lost a great deal of his fortune in the years following the French Revolution. By the time I attended a lady’s school in Paris, my mother’s funds were nearly depleted.”
“Why Paris, then?”
Colette grew distant. “It was near the university and offered an opportunity to meet a rich gentleman…or at least the son of a rich gentleman. You see, my brother was constantly ill, the physicians’ fees mounting. A wealthy husband could resolve my mother’s financial difficulties, perhaps foster Pierre’s cure. Or so I was told.”
“Is that why you married Mr. Duvoisin?”
Colette knew the question was coming, had encouraged it. “That was one of the reasons, but there were others. The situation became complicated.”
“He must have been very handsome,” Charmaine encouraged.
“He still is,” Colette averred, smiling now. “And I was attracted to him from the moment we met. But I was intimidated by him as well.”
The minutes gathered. “Frederic is a good man, Charmaine. He’s instilled in his sons values they don’t even credit to him. And he’s been a good husband to me. I know at times he appears gruff, but his stroke has left deep scars.”
“I realize that,” Charmaine said.
“When we were first married, Frederic restored my mother to a comfortable life. In addition, he took care of my brother and all his medical expenses. Pierre wanted for nothing that last year, receiving the best treatment the Duvoisin money could buy. And of course, he gave me two beautiful daughters…and a handsome son.”
Charmaine breathed deeply. “Did you ever love him?” she probed, sad that this woman had sacrificed herself for the welfare of her family.
“I love him still,” she said, her voice cracking. “But it wasn’t easy for Frederic after the girls were born. I was forbidden to have any more children.”
“It had to be just as difficult for you,” Charmaine reasoned.
“Yes and no,” she replied, turning away. “As I said, it became very complicated.” The subject was closed, and they fell silent.
Colette considered Charmaine and wondered when the younger woman would speak about her own past. She instinctively knew Charmaine’s recollections contained elements of pain as well. If not today, soon. Her musings were interrupted by a most unexpected question.
“What is John like?”
Colette weighed her answer, determined to give an unbiased opinion. “He’s an enigma—a one of a kind.”
“The good kind or the bad kind?”
Colette smiled. “That depends on who’s describing him. There are those who despise him to the core, and there are those who love him until it hurts. With John there is no middle ground. You either hate him or love him, and it’s usually in that order.”
“The men of this family certainly don’t love him.”
Colette hesitated again, as if she were looking for the right words to explain a paradoxical dilemma. “Due to my husband’s stroke, Paul and Frederic think they hate John, and he, in turn thinks he hates them. I’m certain you’ve heard all the rumors, Charmaine. Most of them are true. John and Frederic had a terrible altercation and when it was over, Frederic was left as he is today—crippled, in mind as well as body. Paul was there, and he blames John for what happened. Unfortunately, the wound has yet to heal.”
“Why don’t you blame John?”
Colette sighed forlornly. “He isn’t to blame and was hurt as well. Everyone sided with Frederic, including me. I’m afraid John hates me for it. He harbors the same asperity that eats away at his father. They are alike in so many ways. Yet, each of them would vehemently deny any similarity.”
“Alike?” Charmaine pursued. “How so?”
“Their charisma, their self-assuredness, the manner in which they assess a person. Once John passes judgment, he rarely changes it, and more often than not, his assessment is correct. Heaven forbid if his judgment is damning. There is all hell to pay, and hell is a sight more lenient than John’s sharp tongue. Frederic is the same way—uncompromising to a fault.”
“Do you like him?”
“Who? John?” Colette laughed. “Look at my daughters, Charmaine. They’d have my head if they heard me say otherwise. But when I first met John, I despised him.” She grew thoughtful, her eyes cast beyond her surroundings as if she could see across time. “Someday,” she said softly, “you will meet him and understand what I mean…Just remember, Charmaine, you hate him first.”
The front doors clapped open, and Paul and Stephen strode onto the portico with Agatha tucked comfortably between them. Colette frowned at the trio, but her attention was diverted as the children came bounding across the lawn. Yvette was shouting enthusiastically, reaching the colonnade first. “Mama!” she heaved, completely out of breath. “Chastity is going to have a foal!”
Jeannette and Pierre drew up alongside her. All three had wandered over to the paddock when Gerald, the head groom, had led the chestnut mare into the yard. “That’s right, Mama,” Jeannette added, “Gerald says she’ll have her baby sometime in August. Isn’t that wonderful?”
“That is wonderful,” Colette answered with a smile. “And I can just imagine what’s going to happen when that filly or colt is born. Mademoiselle Charmaine and I won’t be able to get the three of you out of the barn.”
Yvette agreed with a happy nod. “Do you think Martin will have to come when it’s time for her to foal?”
“Perhaps…but only if there is some difficulty,” Colette replied. “Why?”
“He was teaching me how to spit the last time he was here,” Yvette answered proudly. “But I don’t have it down just right.”
“Yvette!” her mother chastised, mumbling something about Martin being a vile man.
Dinner was served at seven. Charmaine brushed out her hair and decided to wear it down. Using the combs she’d received for her birthday, she swept it back from her face and placed a comb high above each ear. The entire mane cascaded down her back. She was a fetching sight when she entered the dining room, and Paul drew a ragged breath, glad to know her birthday gift would encourage her to wear the lovely locks in such a fashion.
Stephen Westphal was astonished when Paul beckoned the governess to sit in the chair Agatha had occupied the last time he had dined at the Duvoisin manor. So the pretty governess has caught Paul’s fancy, he thought. Agatha’s concerns are warranted.
A five-course meal was served, beginning with a delicious pea soup. Fatima Henderson, her wide hips swinging, bustled in and out of the kitchen with more ease than Felicia and Anna, who often dawdled. Since Colette’s reprimand, Felicia found the evening meal less interesting—she was no longer allowed to flirt with Paul—and she dillydallied over her serving chores. Why the maid was kept on at the manor, Charmaine could only wonder.
George appeared minutes later. He’d obviously been apprised of the banker’s visit this time, for he greeted the man cordially and elected to sit near Charmaine. With Jeannette between them, he leaned in and struck up a conversation. Before long, Charmaine and Jeannette were giggling.
Paul preferred having George sit opposite the governess, where he was able to control their repartees, but now their heads were bent overtop his sister, and he experienced an unusually sharp stab of jealousy. It’s time George and I had a little talk, he decided.
Thus resolved, he turned back to Stephen. “I’ll be contacting Thomas and James Harrison when I arrive in Liverpool. Father dealt with their shipping line when he had the Vagabond manufactured. Though I’ll be commissioning the vessels in the States, they’ve become renowned, so I’ll take under advisement any recommendation they can make concerning steam propulsion.”
“Right,” the banker agreed, and so it went for the better part of the dinner.
Agatha chafed at the seating arrangement that placed her far from the financier. She had hoped to participate in Paul’s business discussion. She couldn’t do so from where she sat; there was too much chatter between them.
As dessert was served, the conversation turned to personal matters. “I’ll need an endorsed note for the Bank of Virginia,” Paul said. “I’ll deposit funds there, liquidate half, and then draw from one resource.” He paused for a moment. When he spoke again, his words were hard. “John is not to be involved, Stephen, so I’d prefer you not share this with your daughter.”
“Anne?” he asked in surprise.
“You mentioned some months ago that John was courting her.”
“Yes,” Stephen confirmed. “In fact, I just received a letter from her. She hints an engagement is imminent. A marvelous match, wouldn’t you say?”
“Marvelous,” Paul muttered, thinking of all the money his brother would come into. But John had never cared about such things. How then, had the widow London caught his fancy? She was attractive, most likely in her late twenties, but Paul didn’t think she was John’s type.
As if reading his thoughts, Yvette added her own two cents. “I don’t think Johnny will marry her.”
George chuckled. “Why not, Yvette?” he asked.
“He told me the woman he loved was already married and he’d never marry anyone else.”
“There you have it!” the banker piped up. “All these years he’s harbored the hope that one day Anne would be free to wed. I knew he was enamored of her when I visited Richmond some years ago.”
Paul snorted.
“You don’t believe me?” the man queried, clearly insulted. “Well, then, time will tell the tale.”
Paul’s stormy gaze shifted to Colette, but the woman was whispering to Pierre. “You are right, Stephen,” he said. “But in either case, Anne is in contact with my brother, and I do not want him informed of this undertaking.”
Westphal grunted derisively. “And how do you expect to keep this from him once you’ve initiated transactions with the Virginia bank?”
“I don’t,” Paul answered smugly, savoring the thought of John in the dark for a change. “But by the time he figures it all out, contracts will be signed, monies will be withdrawn, and any unpleasantness will have been avoided.”
“Unpleasantness?”
“Come, Stephen, you know my brother. Is an explanation necessary?”
“What of the legal issues? Richecourt or Larabee is sure to contact him.”
“Visiting their firm is foremost on my agenda once I reach Richmond. John has made an enemy of Edward Richecourt. That being said, Mr. Richecourt will be more than happy to deal with this matter in an expeditious and confidential manner. He is well aware that my father’s business dealings keep his practice solvent. Therefore, he can be trusted to keep quiet about Espoir.”
Colette cringed over Paul’s surreptitious plans. Not that she blamed him. John’s needling was relentless. It was that very type of unpleasantness Paul was trying to avoid. However, this scheme was certain to backfire on him. John always found out, simply because he was far more unscrupulous than Paul. John was the inventor of breaking all the rules.
“That being understood,” Paul continued, “can I count on you to keep this to yourself, Stephen?”
“If that is what you want, Anne won’t be told.”
Satisfied, Paul leaned back in his chair. “So, what else does Anne write? Any Richmond events I need to know about before traveling there?”
“Actually…” the banker said, clearing his throat, his eyes darting down the table, catching Agatha’s raised brow. “She writes about your new governess.”
Intensely interested with this unexpected topic, Paul leaned forward and gave Westphal his complete attention. “Really? What does she write?”
“Well,” he said, clearing his throat again and shifting uneasily in his chair, aware that every eye was on him. “I don’t think I should say—not in front of the children, anyway.”
Charmaine’s heart accelerated. Disaster was about to strike, and she had no way of stopping it.
Paul scratched his head. The man had obviously uncovered something scandalous if he felt it was only fit for adult ears. “How would your daughter know about our governess?” he mused. “Are you saying some sordid information accidentally fell into her lap and she just happened to write to you about it?”
“Actually, Mrs. Ward expressed her concerns a few months ago,” he replied. “She was anxious about Miss Ryan’s background. She came into the bank and asked if Anne might make some inquiries.”
“Agatha?” Paul queried, bemused yet annoyed. He peered down the table and questioned her directly. “On whose request?”
“My own,” she replied haughtily. “I took it upon myself to petition Stephen. I had legitimate misgivings about Miss Ryan, and when no one else seemed concerned, when no references were required other than those Loretta Harrington provided, I was compelled—for the sake of the children—to investigate.” She breathed deeply. “Thank goodness Stephen’s daughter agreed to assist. I fear the children are at grave risk. Not even I was prepared for what she uncovered. It is far worse than any of us could have imagined.”
Colette checked her anger. “I think Mr. Westphal’s allegations, whatever they may be, had best be left for another day. My children have no place in this conversation.”
“Colette is right,” Paul concurred. “Rose, would you take the children to the nursery?”
Charmaine’s reprieve lasted but a moment; Rose quickly jumped to do his bidding, ushering the children from the room, unmindful of Yvette’s protests.
Colette cast turbulent eyes down the table at Paul, her stormy countenance rivaled only by George’s. Paul remained unperturbed. “All right, Stephen,” he breathed. “You now have leave to speak. Tell us, what have you found out?”
Mortified, Charmaine pushed from the table. But Paul foiled her escape, grasping her arm and holding her to the spot. She would be forced to listen to the macabre story, relive it, while those she had come to love sat in judgment over the terrible secrets she had kept. Tonight, they would brand her the offspring of a maniac, a murderer, and she had no defense against the horrific truth. Great shame washed over her, and she bowed her head.
Paul’s grip tightened, the pain igniting her wrath, and she glared at him furiously. But he seemed oblivious, his eyes fixed on the banker. “Out with it man!” he snarled, aggravated by Westphal’s hesitation.
“If I had known sooner,” the man wavered, uncertain if Paul really wanted the truth, “I would have com
e to you with the information immediately. But as you know, the ships were delayed. Anne’s letter is weeks old.”
“Yes, yes, get on with it.”
“Actually,” he faltered again, beads of perspiration dotting his upper lip. “I regret it has fallen to me to reveal the deplorable facts.” He glanced down the table. Colette appeared as irate as Paul. Only Agatha remained smug.
“Tell him, Stephen,” the dowager prompted, her satisfied eyes leveled on Charmaine. “It is best he and Colette know the type of person they have hired and are harboring in their home.”
“Yes, Stephen,” Paul agreed. “You’ve primed us for this terrible tale. Let’s have it out! What has Miss Ryan done that we must know about, lest the children come to harm?”
“It is not what she’s done. It’s her father.”
“And?”
“He is—a murderer.”
The room fell deadly silent, all of Charmaine’s deepest fears realized. Even the sounds from the kitchen ceased, as if ears were pressed against the swinging door. The truth was out, and now Paul, who had allied himself with Agatha during her interview, could gloat. He’d been right about her all along.
Charmaine refused to look his way again. With her disgrace mounting, she renewed her efforts to escape, twisting against his unyielding fist. “Please,” she whimpered, to no avail.
“What exactly are you saying, Stephen?”
“Miss Ryan’s father is a murderer,” he reiterated, “did in fact murder her mother.”
“Have you proof?”
“Most assuredly,” the financier stated, taking courage from Paul’s sudden interest in the facts. “According to Anne, who spoke to one of the Harringtons’ housemaids, John Ryan barged into the Harrington house late one night. When Joshua Harrington sent him on his way, he went home and attacked his own wife. Of course, Anne wanted to make certain the story wasn’t fabricated, so she contacted the sheriff and was shocked to find that not only had John Ryan committed murder, but is still at large, a fugitive. Apparently, the sheriff was relieved to let the case drop once the hullabaloo calmed down, because the Ryans were nothing more than white trash, living in a shanty in the slums of the city.”