A Silent Ocean Away

by DeVa Gantt

  “How did Mr. Ryan kill his wife?”

  “He beat her to death. According to the sheriff, those beatings were a common occurrence. This time it just got out of hand. Miss Ryan”—and the banker nodded across the table toward Charmaine—“came home to find the body near death and cried on the Harringtons’ shoulders once it had grown cold in order to get the sheriff involved. Sheriff Briggs conveyed to Anne his disdain for being pulled into the nasty affair.”

  Charmaine had had enough. She had allowed the man to humiliate her, to expose her deception and label her as riffraff, no better than her father. But she refused to allow him to degrade her mother. With eyes flashing, she shot to her feet. “That ‘body’ as you call it, was my mother, a good and kind woman, whom I loved and lost because of my wretched father!” In spite of her anger, her eyes were flooding with unwanted tears, her anguish painfully apparent in the words she could barely force out. “And yes,” she hissed, “he beat her, beat her often, and there was no one to turn to, no one to stop him! Not even when she lay dying. If it wasn’t for Joshua and Loretta Harrington, no one would have even cared. Mr. Harrington petitioned the sheriff, but little good that did! It’s over a year since my mother’s death, and still, my father walks free. I know he will never pay for his heinous crime. So cringe if you will. I tell you, there is no one who despises John Ryan more than I—no one who seeks justice more than I. But that will never happen, will it?” The rhetorical question echoed about the room.

  Paul sympathized with the young woman who had yet to look his way. This is why she is wary of me. Her father had never given her a reason to love any man, had in fact terrified her. Paul was filled with the desire to comfort her, to hold her in his arms and shield her from all she had suffered.

  “No, I thought not,” she said in answer to her own question. “There is only one reason my father remains at large, and that is owing to people like you, Mr. Westphal, who are more interested in blaming the innocent rather than looking for the guilty.” She turned on Paul. “Punish an easy victim. I’m right here. Now,” she snarled, twisting against his hand, “if you’d release my arm, I’d like to retire. I refuse to be further humiliated!”

  George stood, enraged. The inquisition had gone on too long. “You are too polite, Charmaine,” he growled, his eyes riveted on her manacled wrist. “This room reeks of a different kind of trash, and I, for one, have lost my appetite.” He pushed the chair aside and placed a comforting arm around her shoulder, challenging Paul to hold her one moment longer.

  The threat was acknowledged, and Paul’s hand relaxed. Charmaine pulled free and turned in George’s embrace. When they reached the foyer, she broke down and cried. “You had best go back,” she heaved, “or they’ll be angry with you as well.”

  George snorted. “I don’t care how angry they get.”

  “I was so happy here. I don’t know where I will go now.”

  “What do you mean?” he asked. “You can’t believe Colette would dismiss you on account of a bit of scandalmongery? If you do, you’re not giving her credit for the good and kind woman she is.”

  Charmaine considered him, her tears subsiding.

  “Colette loves you, Charmaine. The children love you. Even Paul…I’ll warrant he is telling them where they can go, if you get my meaning.”

  “Then why did he treat me like that? Holding me like a trapped animal?”

  “He wanted you to face them, with your head held high. Paul has endured years of ridicule because of his illegitimacy and has learned never to allow the accuser the upper hand. Kowtowing, running away—it gives credence to every insinuation, fact or not. I’m just annoyed he allowed them to badger you for as long as they did.”

  Charmaine comprehended his wisdom and prayed he was right. If so, she had sorely misjudged Paul.

  “We all have secrets we’d prefer to keep, Charmaine, something we’re not proud of. My mother ran off with a sailor when I was only a year old, leaving my father a broken man. I was fortunate to have my grandmother here.”

  Charmaine looked tenderly at the man who had just revealed an aspect of his own life that had to be painful. “Thank you, George,” she whispered.

  “Don’t mention it,” he smiled, thinking how lovely she looked tonight. If Paul weren’t so damned possessive, he’d court Charmaine Ryan himself.

  She sighed raggedly. “I think I’ll check on the children.”

  With George’s nod, she turned and climbed the stairs to the nursery.

  The aspersions continued to mount. The contention: John Ryan’s blood ran through his daughter’s veins and would someday manifest itself with mortal consequences.

  “I’ve heard enough!” Paul sneered.

  “As have I,” Colette agreed, throwing down her napkin and standing, her poise long gone. “I’ve neglected my children and would like to give them a kiss before they go to sleep.” She stepped from the table, but abruptly stopped. “I also need to speak with Miss Ryan. Despite your mean-spirited warnings, she will retain her position here.”

  Stephen had risen with Colette and attempted to apologize. “Madame, I only had the children’s best interest—”

  “Mr. Westphal,” she accused, disgusted by his pretentious contrition, “if you had anyone’s best interest at heart, you would have brought this matter to me privately and not to my dinner table. What you forced Miss Ryan to endure tonight was revolting.” Without a backward glance, she left the room.

  Stephen sent imploring eyes to Paul, who only shrugged. “I’m afraid I have to agree with her, Stephen. Charmaine Ryan is an asset to this family and will remain in my father’s employ as long as Colette sees fit. I’ve never held to the belief that the sins of the father are visited upon his children. If that were the case, most men would be damned. Your sentiments smack of European aristocracy.” He paused a moment, allowing his statements to sink in, deploring the classes and labels established by bluebloods and their countless imitators. “I have much to do in the morning,” he concluded. “I don’t want to appear a poor host, Stephen, but I think it is time to call for your carriage.” Not waiting for a reply, he walked to the foyer, pleased when the banker scurried after him.

  Charmaine patted her face dry and opened the nursery door.

  “Mademoiselle!” Jeannette called, running to her. “Are you all right?”

  Yvette did the same, and together, they pulled her into the chamber. “You were crying,” she said, her voice quivering.

  “I’m fine now,” Charmaine answered, sitting on the girl’s bed. She glanced at Rose, who also wore a worried expression.

  “You’re still our governess, aren’t you?” Jeannette pleaded.

  Charmaine’s eyes welled again. “I don’t know,” she whispered.

  “We won’t let anyone send you away!” Yvette expostulated, arms wrapped around her. “We love you!”

  Charmaine returned the embrace, profoundly touched.

  Jeannette noticed her mother standing in the doorway first. “Mama!” she cried, “you’re not going to send Mademoiselle Charmaine away, are you?”

  “Absolutely not,” she replied, her serious face giving way to a smile, then a giggle, and soon they were all laughing.

  Later, Charmaine and Colette strolled along the balcony, their soft whispers melding with the evening breezes. They wound up in Colette’s boudoir, where Charmaine disclosed the details of her home life. Colette was a compassionate confidante. By the time Charmaine returned to her own room, a heavy yoke had been lifted from her shoulders.

  Paul had wanted to speak to Charmaine, but she was not in the nursery, nor in her room. Tomorrow…he would talk with her tomorrow.

  Saturday, December 24, 1836

  Fatima bustled around the kitchen, humming carols as she put the finishing touches on the dozen food baskets she had prepared at Colette’s request. She’d cooked nonstop for two days. Now, she stood back and smiled at the delicious Yuletide delights that would be delivered to the bondsmen’s keep that af
ternoon, an annual tradition, which had commenced nine years ago. Fatima very much approved of Colette’s charity, but her exuberance turned to worry when the mistress of the manor entered the kitchen well before noon.

  “Miss Colette, what are you planning on doing dressed like that?”

  “You know very well what I’m planning,” she answered.

  “But Master Paul told me he was taking care of the victuals this year.”

  “His idea, not mine,” Colette replied, arranging the loaves of crusty bread into one basket. “I’m quite capable of riding out to the fields in a carriage.”

  Fatima sucked in her cheeks. “That ain’t a good idea.”

  “Why not? Why should this Christmas be any different?”

  “’Cause you been feeling poorly, that’s why,” the stern cook replied. When it appeared as if Colette wasn’t listening, Fatima pressed on. “Master Frederic ain’t gonna like it!”

  Colette only laughed. “He didn’t like it the first time, either.”

  “No, he didn’t. That’s why—”

  “And he adjusted his way of thinking, did he not?” Colette interrupted.

  “That was then and this is now. He’s a mite more concerned ’bout your health than the men-folk gnawing on this here food.”

  “He won’t even know I am gone. Unless, of course, you tell him.”

  Fatima shook her head, realizing the folly of further argument. When Colette got her dander up, there was no stopping her. A slow smile broke across Fatima’s face. It had been a long time since she’d seen even a fleck of that dander, a hint of the Colette of old. A spark had flared the night of the banker’s visit, and Fatima was of a mind to see it burn brightly again. Therefore, she set aside her perturbation with one final injunction. “No lifting them baskets. Joseph can go with you to do the carrying.”

  “That is fine, but I am also taking the girls along to help distribute the food.”

  Fatima stopped dead in her tracks. “Why are you gonna do that?”

  “It is time they learn that a life of privilege comes with certain responsibilities. I don’t want them growing up pampered beauties with warm smiles and cold hearts.”

  Even after nine years, Colette’s wisdom and concern, the depth of her heart, amazed Fatima. Nodding her approval, she turned back to her work.

  The preparations were completed and the carriage readied. When the baskets were secured in the landau’s boot, the girls, Colette, and Joseph Thornfield departed the grounds, leaving Charmaine and Pierre to wave their good-byes from the top step of the portico. No one noticed Frederic standing on the second-story veranda, a scowl marking his brow.

  Later that evening, when Colette had retired and Charmaine coaxed the girls into bed, the twins were still whispering about the huge building they had visited and the strange men they had met. Jeannette had thoroughly enjoyed herself, but Yvette wrinkled her nose in disgust. “I don’t understand why we had to go out there,” she complained. “It was horrible: smelly and filthy!”

  “Mama says we wouldn’t be half so rich if those men didn’t work for Papa,” Jeannette offered affably. “She says we should be thankful, and bringing a Christmas feast is just a small way to show our gratitude.”

  “I know what she said,” Yvette replied peevishly.

  Jeannette shrugged and snuggled deep into her covers.

  Charmaine gave them a kiss, pulled a blanket over an already slumbering Pierre, and tiptoed from the room. She knew what Colette had hoped to teach her daughters today, but evidently, only Jeannette embraced the charitable lesson.

  Colette was brushing out her hair when Frederic stepped into her boudoir. Though he had knocked, he hadn’t waited for an answer. She studied him through the looking glass, unnerved as he moved toward her, self-conscious of her state of undress.

  “You went out to the keep today,” he commented.

  “It is Christmas Eve,” she answered.

  “With the twins.”

  “Yes.” She pushed out of her chair and faced him, struggling to maintain her composure. “Should I not teach them to care for those less fortunate than they? Isn’t that what tomorrow is all about—the Christ child born in a lowly manger?”

  His eyes swept her from head to toe, an assessing perusal that took her breath away. “They are criminals, Colette,” he rasped. “I’m concerned for the girls’ safety—your safety. Beyond that, you are not well. I don’t want you leaving the grounds without telling me.”

  Colette stiffened. “Am I a prisoner in my own home? You attempted to make it so once before. I tell you now, it will not happen. I will come and go as I please!”

  Frederic clenched his teeth. “And I told you, I don’t care if you leave. My daughters, on the other hand, are my concern.”

  Colette felt a surge of tears rush to her eyes. She would not allow him to see her anguish, the pain he could so easily inflict. Belting her robe, she pushed past him and marched into her bedroom, slamming the door behind her.

  Frederic stared long and hard at it. Coming to an abrupt decision, he rushed forward. But his lame foot caught the edge of the carpet, and he stumbled. His right hand flew out, grabbing hold of a chair. As his cane clattered to the floor, he swore under his breath. His heart was racing and his limbs shook fiercely. Only when his breathing grew regular did he let go. Beads of perspiration dotted his brow, and he wiped them away with his forearm. Bending over, he retrieved the cane, realizing it marked what he had become. Appalled, he slowly returned to his own quarters.

  Sunday, December 25, 1836

  Christmas morning was greeted with Mass at dawn and a bountiful breakfast, after which Colette gathered her children and took them to their father’s apartments, a rare occurrence, as Frederic generally visited them once a week in the nursery. Charmaine was grateful these encounters occurred in that safer territory, a neutral arena of civility—painful civility.

  Awaiting their return, Charmaine walked into the drawing room and found Paul there. They had not spoken since the night of Stephen Westphal’s visit. He’d been preoccupied with his upcoming trip, poring over documents in preparation of his imminent business negotiations. Tomorrow, he’d be leaving. As she stepped into the room, he stood.

  “I’m sorry,” she apologized. “I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

  “You didn’t. I wanted to speak with you, anyway. Where are the children?”

  “With your father.”

  “Come and join me then,” he invited, indicating the chair opposite him.

  When she had complied, he tossed his papers aside, sat, and studied her at length. “I want to apologize,” he began.

  “For what?”

  “For allowing you to think I wasn’t on your side the other night. When I realized you were going to flee, I was compelled to stop you. I’ve learned it is best never to turn one’s back on the enemy. I feared you were going to do just that.”

  She was astonished. George had been right.

  “If you had looked my way,” he was saying, “I would have conveyed that advice to you, but you were far too determined to lambaste Mr. Westphal. I’m sorry if I bruised your wrist.”

  She had been absentmindedly massaging her arm. “It’s fine,” she whispered self-consciously. “Thank you for defending me—even in light of the truth. I know you did not approve of me at first.”

  “I was wrong,” he replied. “The children are fortunate to have you here.”

  “Still, you could have judged me by the deeds of my father.”

  His eyes were warm on her, and he shifted forward in his chair. “No,” he breathed, “I could never have done that.”

  She was so lovely, and he was going to miss her during his months away. He realized she’d be missing him, too, perhaps more so. He’d been the perfect gentleman over the past few months, true to his word and true to his agreement. It had worked in his favor. He knew she was attracted to him. Right now, she longed to be kissed. Unlike two months ago, she felt at ease in his presence.
Nevertheless, she was distraught that he had made no further advances. Poor Charmaine Ryan; she was positively confused! The woman in her demanded passion, the little girl, safety, and then there was the female her father had wrought, the one who screamed, Every man must be avoided at all costs. How he longed to wash away her fears and show her the way to womanhood.

  Absence…His three-month absence would make her heart grow fonder, and when he returned, he’d read hunger in her eyes. Let her dream of him while he was away. It would make his homecoming that much sweeter. He just needed to give her something to remember him by.

  “Come dawn, I’ll be sailing with the tide,” he murmured. “I shall miss you.”

  Charmaine was reeling. He was going to kiss her; his hands had gripped the arms of her chair, and she was trapped between them. She closed her eyes, but did not lean away. His cheek brushed against hers as he nuzzled her ear. Her heart was pounding so loudly she couldn’t understand what he whispered. To steady her soaring senses, she grabbed hold of his arms.

  “There you are!”

  The moment was shattered as Agatha entered the room. Paul broke away and immediately stood. Charmaine averted her crimson face. Once composed, she retreated to the foyer without a glance in Paul’s direction.

  Chapter 7

  Tuesday, March 7, 1837

  QUICKLY, Robert!” Agatha urged. “She’s having trouble breathing!”

  Charmaine huddled in the archway of the drawing room, the twins drawn tight against her and Pierre clasped to her breast. As the doctor rushed up the stairs, Jeannette began to cry. “Is Mama going to be all right, Mademoiselle?”

  “Of course she is,” Charmaine breathed, attempting to disguise her own anxiety. “Now that Dr. Blackford is here, she’ll be fine.” She carried Pierre back into the room and sat him on the piano bench. “Let us sing together. A few songs might help us feel better.”

  The children brightened, but Charmaine remained worried. Why did I encourage Colette to accompany us on our Sunday outing? Of course, no one could have predicted the storm that had blown in, not from the beautiful skies that morning. By the time they reached the house, they were drenched to the skin and chilled to the bone. Colette fell prey to a fever almost immediately. Pneumonia—that’s what Dr. Blackford called it, explaining she suffered from mucus in the lungs, which made breathing difficult. Agatha’s alarmed mien added to Charmaine’s perturbation; this had to be serious.