by DeVa Gantt
The children spent only a short time with her, presenting the wrapped gift Charmaine remembered to bring. She kissed each of them, savoring those they offered in return. Her eyes remained wistful after they’d left.
Frederic stepped closer and, sitting on the edge of the bed, took her hand in his. In spite of her illness, her pulse quickened and her fingers tingled. Is he aware of the emotion he evokes? His eyes told her, No.
“Thank you,” she whispered again. “They will cure me faster than any of Robert’s tonics.”
Frederic didn’t respond, the weight of his regard unsettling. “If you promise to heed Robert’s advice,” he said, “I will bring the children in to see you whenever you wish. How would that be?”
She weakly squeezed his hand. “That would be wonderful.”
He patted her hand before tucking it beneath the coverlet. With some effort, he pushed off the bed and turned to leave. “I need you, too,” he murmured.
She watched him limp from the room, blinking back tears. Though her strength was waning, his vigor was waxing. It was too late for them, she realized. In resignation, she accepted that as best for everyone concerned.
Sunday, April 2, 1837
Wade Remmen climbed the front steps and stood before the large oak doors of the Duvoisin mansion. He knocked on the door and waited, turning to survey the beautiful lawns from the height of the portico. A mere two years ago, his life had been wretched. He’d certainly come up in the world. But he wanted more. Someday, he’d acquire his own fortune and build a palatial estate such as this; then his future could mock his past. My sister would love to be here right now. Someday…The front door opened, and the butler invited him in.
George was eating heartily. He motioned for Wade to take the seat across from him and asked Fatima to dish up the same fare.
After a good portion of the meal was consumed, Wade was still pondering the reason for his second invitation to the manor. The first had come months ago—a luncheon offered in gratitude for his intervention at the mill the day before.
In all his nineteen years, Wade had never panicked in an emergency. Likewise, he never feared standing up for himself. These attributes, along with his determination to work hard, had earned him Paul Duvoisin’s respect. When the sawmill’s foreman sliced open his arm in early November, exposing the bone and nearly bleeding to death on the spot, Wade had swiftly wrapped a tourniquet on the upper limb and ordered a man to run for the doctor. After he’d sent another man in search of Paul or George, he returned to the labor at hand. The crew began to grumble, but he insisted a bit of blood wasn’t going to shut down production. When their objections grew vehement, he threw himself into the job, ignoring them. In less than five minutes, everyone was back to work. In the end, a life had been saved, and just as much lumber milled. Paul had been pleased.
Today, Wade wondered what feat awaited him, for he knew Paul was away and George had been carrying the workload of two. His intrigue was piqued when Harold Browning entered the room and the same meal was set before him.
“I have a problem,” George finally said. “I must leave Charmantes for a couple of weeks, and I need the two of you to take over while I’m away, or until Paul returns, which I expect will be any day now.”
Harold was befuddled. “May I ask where you are traveling?”
“Virginia,” he replied tersely, closing the topic to further probes. “Now, can I count on you at the mill, Wade? You’ve handled it before. This time you’ll be in complete control for a fortnight, perhaps more.”
“As long as the men know I’m boss, there shouldn’t be a problem.”
“I’ll speak to them first thing in the morning,” George answered, shifting his consideration to Harold. “You’ll have the greater challenge, managing both the sugarcane and tobacco crews. Jake and Buck can take care of the harbor: warehousing the harvests, coordinating the unloading and loading of any ships that make port. With any luck, Paul will be on the first one from Europe. Once he’s home, he can take over.”
“Does Frederic know you are leaving?” Harold asked.
George leaned back in his chair. “He will soon enough,” he replied vaguely, pleased when Charmaine and the children entered the room.
“George,” she greeted with a buoyant smile. She could count on her fingers the number of times she had seen him since Paul’s departure three months ago, and she was truly happy to find him at the table now. “What brings you home?”
Before he could answer, her attention was drawn to the other two men, who’d come to their feet as she stepped closer. She nodded to Harold Browning and then the younger man beside him. She couldn’t remember his name, though he’d dined with them once before in the fall. The hint of a grin tweaked the corners of his mouth, and she was instantly struck by his good looks, recalling Colette’s admiration when he’d departed the house last time. Tall and lanky, he was clean-shaven with a broad nose and full lips. His lazy smile reached his dark eyes. They matched the color of his hair, which was cropped short. Muscular arms and swarthy skin attested to the many hours he’d toiled under the blazing tropical sun. He was young, perhaps her age, yet sure of himself as if he were much older.
“I remember Miss Ryan,” he said as George introduced them.
George didn’t dally. “I’ve a great deal to do today.”
Charmaine watched all three men depart. She would have liked to socialize with George, but instead was left to the company of the children. Jeannette’s crestfallen expression mirrored Charmaine’s mood.
“Is something troubling you, sweetheart?” she asked.
“I wish Mr. Remmen could have stayed awhile longer, that’s all.”
Mr. Remmen and Mr. Richards, Charmaine thought.
Thursday, April 6, 1837
Dark clouds gathered swiftly, blotting out the sun and rumbling with thunder, but the growling masses did not match the lamentations that shook Charmantes’ mansion from within. The entire household was aware of the plight of their frail mistress, who lay near death. The pneumonia had taken a greater hold; any imagined improvement was just that, a delusion, and now Colette was fighting for her life.
Frederic was consumed with despair. He paced his chambers in broken misery, as impotent to fight his wife’s infirmity as he was powerless to heal himself. The heavy thump of one boot, the crisp click of the cane, and the sad scrape of his lame leg, could be heard without, again and again and again…He had left Colette’s bedside only a short while ago, but Robert’s hushed words continued to haunt him: “I fear she is dying, Frederic. All we can do now is pray.”
Dear God, it couldn’t be so! She was too young, too beautiful, so full of life. No, he admitted to himself in sour self-contempt, the last hadn’t been true for a long time, not since the day he had shackled her to him with manacles of guilt. The vivacious wench grew into a reserved lady. Sorrow and defeat had snuffed out laughter and fire, her once brilliantly blue eyes now smoky-gray. He was about to lose her more surely than he had all those years ago, and it was his own fault. She didn’t want to live, for he’d seen to it her life was not worth living. Sadly, there was nothing he could do at this late hour but pace and pray.
The house shook beneath the violent storm. The door banged open and was swiftly slammed shut, a mock echo of the tempest. Drenched, Paul mopped the hair from his eyes, doffed his saturated cape, and handed it to Travis.
“How was your trip, sir?” the manservant asked.
“Fine—fine!” Paul snapped. “What the hell has happened here? I return after three and a half months abroad to find the island in chaos. George is nowhere to be found. Jake Watson and Harold Browning are tight-lipped as to his whereabouts, and only Wade Remmen is man enough to suggest he’s left Charmantes altogether. But that’s insane! To make matters worse, we’re in the middle of a raging thunderstorm with little of the island secured.”
“Certainly it is nothing to fret over, sir,” Travis placated, “after all, it’s not yet hurricane season.”<
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Paul snorted. “Why did I expect things to run smoothly in my absence?”
“The house has been in turmoil over the past two days,” Travis attempted to explain, his voice taut. “Miss Colette is dreadfully ill. Dr. Blackford has been in constant attendance and allows no one to enter her chambers without his authorization. Even Mrs. Ward is beside herself with worry.”
Paul’s irritability vanished. The butler’s manner left little doubt to the gravity of the situation. “My father”—he demanded urgently—“does he know?”
“Everyone knows, sir, and everyone is praying, most especially the children.”
The children, Paul thought. They will be devastated if anything happens to their mother. Unbidden came visions of Charmaine, but he shook off the profane musings. The dampness was seeping in. “I’m in need of a bath and a change of clothing. After I’ve eaten, I’d like to see my father.”
“Yes, sir,” Travis nodded eagerly, glad to be put to work. “I’ll have Joseph draw the water, and I’ll tell Fatima to prepare you a tray of food. Then I’ll let your father know you are home.”
Paul was halfway up the stairs before he remembered the first news that had accosted him when he’d set foot on Charmantes. “Travis, where is George?”
“He left three days ago on the Rogue, sir.”
“What? Why?”
Travis recalled George’s instructions: Tell Paul or Frederic only if they ask, and quickly relayed the message, “Miss Colette asked him to deliver a letter to Virginia—”
“Jesus Christ Almighty! Has he gone mad? Does my father know?”
“No sir, he never asked me.”
“God Almighty,” Paul cursed again as the impending scenario played out before him. George’s absence would create many managerial problems over the course of the next few weeks, especially progress on Espoir; however, thoughts of George’s desertion were far from pertinent in light of the greater disaster awaiting them all. Paul rubbed his throbbing forehead, but the pain only intensified.
He considered Colette. She must be contemplating death if she sent George on such a mission. But why? What would it gain her, save pain and havoc for everyone concerned? Ultimately, it threatened the collapse of this faltering fortress—on their heads. Paul shuddered.
Charmaine attempted to amuse the children, but their minds were far from the game of hide-and-seek she had suggested they play. “Come away from the door, Jeannette,” she pleaded. “Your father will call us when your mother awakens.”
“He said that yesterday, but still we weren’t allowed to see her.”
“And the day before, we saw her for only ten minutes!” Yvette chimed in.
Charmaine sighed, at a loss for encouraging words. “Yes, I know, but still, we must wait. If your mother needs rest, it’s best we don’t disturb her. You want to see her completely well again, don’t you?”
Jeannette nodded in resignation, but Yvette was not so inclined. “We’ve been told that over and over and over again! I’ll wager Father never comes today. He’s so worried, he’s forgotten about us.”
Jeannette’s eyes filled with tears. “Do you think that’s true, Mademoiselle Charmaine? Papa promised we would see Mama today.”
“I wanna see her, too!” Pierre began to cry, crawling from beneath the bed, where he’d been hiding. “I miss Mama. When are we gowin’ to her room?”
Charmaine picked him up and sat on his bed. “Now listen to me,” she said. “I know Dr. Blackford and your father are doing all they can to make your mother better; therefore, we must heed their advice. But, if your mother asks to see you—which I’m certain she will—you’ll not be forgotten, will you?” When they shook their heads “no” and Pierre’s tears subsided, she continued. “We must be patient. All right?” They nodded.
Colette’s chest pulsated with pain, her breathing shallow as if the weight of the world pressed down on it. Hot one moment and cold the next, she quaked beneath dampened bed clothing, changed not an hour ago, yet already saturated with perspiration. Still, she fought valiantly, her eyes snapping open when a cool cloth was placed to her burning brow.
“Ssh…” Rose Richards whispered, “lie still…don’t try to talk.”
Colette sighed. The old woman had been so good to her, more of a mother than her own mother had ever been, and she felt comforted. Time wore on, and Rose continued to apply the compresses.
“Try to sleep, Colette,” Rose encouraged, “a nice, deep sleep.”
The words had the opposite effect; Colette’s eyes opened again. “Nan—”
“Ssh…” she admonished. “Save your strength. There’s no need to talk.”
Colette licked her cracked lips. “Nan,” she pressed weakly. “I need to know…did George…”
“Yes, child,” Rose soothed. “He left Charmantes days ago. He will deliver your letter. Now, lie back and rest. You must close your eyes and rest.”
“It’s important…so important…”
“Yes, yes, I know.”
“No!” she argued, alarmed by the thread of pacification she heard in the old woman’s voice, struggling now to sit up. “I’m not trying to make more trouble.”
“Colette, you’ve never made trouble, and the letter is in George’s hands. It will be delivered. Lie back and sleep.”
Drained, yet satisfied, Colette relaxed into the pillows and closed her eyes.
“What the deuce…?”
Robert Blackford was livid as he took in the French doors thrown wide to the raging storm and the cold compress Rose Richards was applying to the brow of his flushed patient. “I thought I told you the woman is in my care!”
Rose met fire with fire. “My remedies may seem old-fashioned to you, Robert, but they will do Colette more good than this contaminated room.”
“Woman, you are mad! I tell you now, I’ve tried everything, even cupping.”
Rose’s mind raced. “Surely you haven’t bled her!”
“Of course not! She’s too weak to withstand that absurd treatment. But your concoctions are not helping her, either. You’d best take out your rosary beads and visit the chapel. That will be the best home remedy you can practice today.”
Rose paled with the baleful declaration, and Robert’s anger ebbed. “I’m sorry,” he muttered bleakly. “I’m at a loss as to what to do for her.”
Rose had only seen him like this once before—the night his sister had died—and the memory filled her with dread. “Surely she’ll recover.”
“The congestion in her lungs is not the only complication threatening her life. But that is a matter between Colette, Frederic, and the priest.”
“Father Benito?” Rose asked, her alarm multiplying twofold.
Robert nodded solemnly. “She asked for him this morning. He’s come and gone only an hour ago. Perhaps he has left her with some measure of peace.”
Peace? There was no peace in Colette’s contorted face. Her serene smile had been stolen away, her beauty supplanted by hollow eyes and protruding cheekbones that cut harshly into her once angelic visage.
“Come, Rose,” the physician cajoled. “She’s sleeping now. At present, there is nothing you can do for her. Go, say your prayers. This family needs them.”
Rose left the room, a morose nod given to Agatha as they passed on the chamber’s threshold.
“Papa, can we see Mama now?” Jeannette implored.
Frederic limped into the nursery. “She is sleeping, princess, but I will take you to her room once she awakens. I told Dr. Blackford I would be here,” he continued, reading Yvette’s stormy countenance. “When he calls for me, you may come, too, if that pleases you.”
They nodded optimistically.
“What have you been studying today?” he asked, quickly changing the subject. “Perhaps I can help Miss Ryan with your lessons.”
For the first time, Charmaine was pleased Frederic had come to visit.
He must be with Colette, Paul thought when he found his father’s chambers empty
. He knocked on the adjoining door. Agatha opened it.
“Paul,” she exclaimed, stepping forward to hug him, “you’re home!”
He suffered the unexpected greeting as she drew him into the room. “Where is my father?”
“I don’t know. I thought he was in his apartments.”
“How is Colette?”
Her manner turned lugubrious. “Not well, I’m afraid. Not well at all.”
“May I see her?”
“I don’t think that is wise. Robert is with her now—”
“I’d like to see her,” Paul stated.
He crossed the room and opened the bedroom door, ignoring her objections, and reached the foot of the bed just as Robert glanced around. “I must ask you to leave,” the man ordered sharply, “she is not well enough to receive visitors.”
Paul was not listening, his face a mask of horror as he looked down at Colette. Her eyes were closed, and he was grateful for that, fearing what they might tell him if they opened. Then they were open, and he nearly cried as she attempted to smile. “Good God, Colette,” he muttered impulsively.
“Do I look that wretched?” Her lame laugh erupted into a racking cough.
“Out!” Robert commanded. “I want you out of here! You’re upsetting her!”
“No!” she begged. “Please—” Before she could finish, she was coughing again.
“I said, you’re upsetting her!”
Paul was hearing none of Robert’s fulminating nonsense. He rounded the far side of the bed and attempted to help Colette sit up to catch her breath. She burned beneath his touch.
“I’m all right now,” she whispered. “I’d just like a drink.”
“Paul, you must leave!”
“Get her a goddamn drink!” Paul barked.
Agatha scurried to the pitcher and poured a glass of water, bringing it to him. Colette swallowed only a sip before collapsing back into the pillows. Beads of perspiration dotted her brow, and Paul wiped them away.