A Silent Ocean Away

by DeVa Gantt

  “What about you?” Paul asked. “Don’t you want to eat? Get some rest?”

  Frederic shook his head. “I’m fine. I’m going to stay right here.”

  Paul’s brow tipped upward, befuddled. His father should be tired, instead he was cheerful, energized, the aura emanating from him more than relief. Rose must have felt it, too, for as they left the mistress’s quarters, she was humming.

  Paul’s thoughts rapidly turned to the other island. He’d be able to transport the bondsmen there today and get them settled, something he thought would have to wait.

  Charmaine and the children were breakfasting when he delivered the miraculous news. The twins became animated and bubbly, already planning for the wondrous future. Charmaine’s exuberance ebbed, however, when Paul mentioned spending the day and upcoming night on Espoir, insisting he must take advantage of Colette’s recovery and at least establish the new crew on the island. In his three-month absence, doom had reigned supreme. His return had chased it away. But now he was leaving again, and Charmaine feared the consequences of his desertion.

  The arrival of Agatha and Robert in the dining room heightened her anxiety, their somber faces overshadowing the children’s ebullience.

  Paul leaned back in his chair and regarded them. “The fever broke,” he informed them.

  Blackford’s brow rose in surprise. “And shall I commend Rose Richards for her nursing prowess?” he queried sarcastically.

  “Actually, my father cared for Colette throughout the night,” Paul replied. “Apparently, he was all she needed.”

  “I would warn against an early celebration,” Robert rejoined. “We’ve seen her improve before, just to have our hopes dashed.”

  Paul’s face hardened, aware of the children’s interest in the matter. “She will recover completely this time, Robert,” he threatened.

  The doctor snorted. “What is being done for her this morning?”

  “When I left, Gladys and Millie were drawing her a bath, and Fatima is preparing her something to eat.”

  “A bath? They are preparing her a bath? Have they gone mad? Even if the fever has abated, she could easily catch another chill and fall more gravely ill than before.”

  Paul shrugged. “It is what she requested.”

  Robert rubbed his brow before throwing his sister a beseeching look, as if no one in the house, save her, would support him. “The food,” he continued, “I hope it is something light, like soup or broth?”

  “I believe so. But you can check with Fatima.”

  Fatima scurried around the kitchen, preparing not one, but two trays. If the mistress was up to eating, so was the master, she told Rose.

  Rose agreed and helped lay serviettes and utensils on the trays. “She’s better, Robert,” the elderly woman blithely announced as the physician and his sister entered the kitchen, “and ready to eat something.”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  He watched as the broth was ladled out, the toast buttered, and the coffee poured. “I’ll take this one,” he offered as he picked up Colette’s tray of food. Fatima nodded and turned to ring for Anna or Felicia. “That won’t be necessary,” he said. “Agatha is coming with me. She can carry Frederic’s tray.”

  Fatima held open the swinging door as sister and brother headed for the mistress’s chambers.

  Frederic ate most of the food laid before him. But Colette’s tray would have to wait. His wife was in the middle of her bath, he informed Robert and Agatha, and when she was finished, he would make sure she consumed something. Colette wanted to rest, undisturbed.

  Again, Agatha bristled at the intended slight and sauntered toward the door. Robert, on the other hand, warned Frederic of the danger he was courting. “Her condition is fragile, Frederic. You and I both know she has had relapses before. As for this bath, it is sheer folly. Mark my words: her fever will return before day’s end. If you are wise, you will insist she eat and rest, nothing more.”

  Frederic nodded, but refused to speak.

  “I will remain at the house,” Blackford continued, “in case I am needed.”

  Supported on either side by Gladys and Millie, Colette stepped from the tepid tub water and walked the short distance to the armchair, where they helped her dress. Though she shivered, she was glad to be clean.

  Millie began brushing out her hair, clicking her tongue in dismay as many golden strands were pulled free. “I fear this illness has damaged your hair, Miss Colette,” she lamented, gaining her mother’s immediate frown and swift shake of the head. The last thing Gladys needed was her mistress asking for a mirror and fretting over her cadaverous appearance. Colette needed happy words right now.

  They had just finished changing the bed linens when Frederic rejoined his wife. Millie cast nervous eyes to the floor and curtseyed, but Gladys smiled. “I’ll send Joseph in for the tub, sir,” she said as she ushered her daughter from the room. “Will there be anything else, sir?”

  “Would you bring the food tray in?”

  She complied, then quickly departed.

  Frederic turned loving eyes on Colette. “Fatima prepared something for you to eat. Do you think you could manage some broth?”

  She nodded with smiling eyes. Her face was so very drawn, and yet today, it possessed a radiance he’d not seen for years. To Frederic, she was beautiful.

  She took a small bite of toast and found even chewing an effort. When she reached for the spoon, her fingers refused to work. “My hands are numb,” she complained.

  Frederic drew a chair closer and took the utensil from her. “I never thought I’d live to see this day, Colette,” he quipped, “or perhaps you’d have me believe I am the stronger one.”

  “We do make a pair,” she jested with a chuckle. It only served to trigger another convulsive cough, which she struggled to subdue, exhausted by the time it had subsided. “I’m afraid it will be some time before I’m improved.”

  “You’ve improved already,” he countered lightly. “No more talk of illness. We are going to nurse one another back to health.”

  He extended the first spoonful of broth to her lips, but the liquid had grown cold. The tray was sent back to the kitchen with Joseph, who had come in for the tub, with orders the coffee and broth be reheated.

  In the interim, Frederic encouraged Colette to enjoy the fresh air out on the veranda, and a chair was moved into the morning sun. It was there the children found her.

  “Mademoiselle Charmaine was right,” Jeannette laughed, “miracles can happen! I’m going to say extra prayers to thank Jesus and Mary and St. Jude.”

  Frederic smiled at his daughters, happy for their happiness. He regarded Pierre, who sat on a bench next to his mother, content to let her stroke his hair. Today, he did not cry or pull away; today, he recognized the woman who leaned forward and kissed his head. Frederic would also thank God.

  When Colette’s tray of food arrived, Charmaine nudged her charges. “Come children, we have lessons, and it is important your mother eat and rest so she recovers completely.”

  Their father concurred. “You may see your mother again tomorrow.”

  Pacified, they gave Colette one last kiss and scampered happily across the balcony and back to the nursery. Once again, Frederic proceeded to feed his wife. This time, the broth was hot and the coffee, heavenly.

  “Now,” he breathed as she finished the last few drops, surprised by how much she had actually eaten, “it is time you were back in bed, napping. I’ll send Rose in to sit with you while I see to myself.” When her eyes grew alarmed, he added, “I won’t be gone for more than a half hour, and I promise, no pestering from Agatha or Robert today. I told them to stay far away earlier this morning.”

  “Thank you, Frederic.”

  He gently drew her out of the wing chair and into his arms. Her frail body was soft and feminine against him, evoking exquisite, scintillating sensations where the two met. For the first time in years, he kissed her as a man kisses a woman, the tender embrace bloss
oming into passion as his mouth opened hers.

  She grabbed hold of him to steady her reeling senses, intoxicated by the power, the smell, the feel, the very essence of him. Slowly, his lips traveled on, across her cheek and to her neck, where he buried his head in her hair and whispered endearments near her ear.

  “I love you, Colette. I’ve always loved you.”

  Recalling the last time she had heard those words, she turned her face into his shirtfront and whimpered joyfully.

  When she was back in bed, she remembered the letter she had written and wondered if she had done the right thing. A voice from within whispered she had. She closed her eyes and fell into a peaceful sleep.

  Frederic had barely finished dressing when there came a fervid knocking on his dressing room door. Travis opened it, muttering something about patience. His wife stood there, ashen-faced. “It’s Miss Colette—she’s ill again!”

  Robert Blackford was quickly summoned. Frederic was thankful the man had remained in the house, but he cursed himself for ignoring the physician’s advice. Her fever raged anew, and now, she was vomiting with acute stomach cramps. What had happened? He knew: the bath, the food on an empty stomach, and her excursion from the bed.

  Blackford attempted to give her a draught of elixir, but she expelled that right away, doubling over in agony. He stood, shook his head in trepidation, and glared contemptuously at Frederic.

  Frederic was grateful he didn’t say, “I warned you.”

  Rose took up her post at Colette’s bed, mopping her fiery brow with a cool cloth. Agatha demanded Gladys wash the chamber pot, bring fresh linens, and draw cool water.

  Frederic threw himself into the nearest armchair and buried his head in his hands. A relapse…how many times had she had them over the past year? Many, though none this severe. Still, she had had them. Why then, did I tempt fate?

  The day drew on, and Colette remained violently ill, coughing and laboring to breathe. She didn’t have the strength to sit up and needed help to lean forward when overcome with a wave of nausea. She became delirious, soiled the bed, and slipped in and out of a fitful slumber in which she uttered strange words and names.

  Frederic forbade anyone to tell the children, and so, their afternoon passed by happily. But Charmaine began to worry when they took supper alone. No Rose, no Agatha, and no Robert Blackford, though she knew they were all in the house. If only Paul were home…

  As twilight fell, a calm pervaded the infirm room. Colette’s vomiting had subsided. Only the fever remained. Still, the two men and two women kept up their bedside vigil. When the clock tolled nine, Frederic broke the solemnity. “Robert, Agatha, Rose, why don’t you three have supper and retire? Colette has been resting for some time now. If I need you, I will send Travis.”

  They nodded, knowing there was little more anyone could do, except wait and pray. Perhaps this night would be as kind as the last.

  “If there is any change whatsoever—if she deteriorates or improves,” Robert admonished, “I want to be called immediately. I will not abide any more of these old-fashioned remedies. She is my patient. I’m the one who will see her well again, God willing.”

  His heart heavy with guilt, Frederic nodded. “As you say, Robert.”

  When they were alone, he limped to the bed. This morning he’d felt whole; tonight, he was weary, crippled again. “Colette?” he queried softly, the mattress sagging under his weight. “Colette?” he called again, grasping her fiery hand.

  She was awake, the glassy gaze now regarding him, revealing she had heard every word. He was shaken by her scrutiny. It was as if she were trying to see into his heart, to know whether the last hours they had spent together had been real. Suddenly, he wanted her to see every fiber of his agony, and his eyes welled.

  “I love you, too,” she whispered.

  He was astounded, and the ache in his breast ruptured. “Oh God, Colette, for so many years I’ve waited to hear those words. Why now?”

  “I thought I hated you,” she choked out. “Because of my injured pride, I wanted to hate you…I was a fool, Frederic. Later, when I knew, when I longed to tell you, I thought it was too late…I thought you despised me.” She was crying, too, her eyes swimming with tears. “Frederic, I’m sorry. Can you forgive me?”

  She struggled to reach his arm, the fist pressed against mouth, but her hand dropped away. He grabbed hold of it and drew her fingers to his lips. “Only if you can forgive me,” he pleaded hoarsely.

  “I did that a long time ago.”

  She yearned for him to hold her again, yet she knew she must broach the subject that could send him away forever. “John,” she breathed, bravely forging forward, “he needs your love, even more than I do…I’m worried for you both, Frederic. I’m not going to get better. Please promise me—”

  “Ssh,” he said, placing a finger to her lips. “I love him as much as I love you, Colette. The past is over. Let us look to the future—together.”

  The hatred of yesterday was gone. Today, love prevailed, and for the first time in her life, she didn’t fear tomorrow. Closing her eyes, a great calm washed over her. “Hold me tightly like you did last night,” she entreated. “I want your arms around me again.”

  Frederic doffed his clothing and climbed into the bed. Like the night before, she was burning up with fever and shivered as a wave of cool air wafted beneath the blanket. Quickly, she nestled against him, caressing his chest, savoring the warmth of his body stretched full length next to hers, the strong arms that encircled her. He stroked her hair, her shoulders, her back as he kissed the top of her head again and again. She closed her eyes in unsurpassed happiness. Is there any better way to leave this world? she wondered with a prayer of thanksgiving. They fell into a peaceful slumber, one from which Colette never awoke.

  Chapter 8

  Sunday, April 9, 1837

  IN a shower of spring brilliance and crystal-blue skies, Colette Duvoisin was laid to rest. As the sun climbed to its zenith, a throng of mourners left the manor’s chapel and headed north to the estate’s private cemetery, a gnarled, ill-kept plot of land populated with brambles, wild flowers, and stark, jutting headstones that reached heavenward. Here the morbid procession stopped, allowing the pallbearers room to lay down their feather-light burden on the cushioning briars. Then the circle closed around the pine coffin, the mourners drawing solace from one another as they awaited the closing eulogy.

  Finality greater than death gripped them, an overwhelming loss that continued to intensify. Yesterday, they had walked in a daze. But today, the firmament illuminated the unfathomable truth, the mortal truth: Colette Duvoisin was dead, and no one—no private prayers, nor dreams of the past—would bring her back. She was gone from them forever, and many weeks would pass before the pain subsided.

  The twins were unusually silent, their blue eyes spent of tears, their stoic stance belying the torture Charmaine knew ravaged their hearts. Yesterday, those eyes had not been dry for more than a moment at a time, and poor little Pierre, too young to truly comprehend the finite event, was caught up in their acute remorse, sobbing over their distress. Today, Rose had remained behind with him, maintaining the cemetery was no place for a three-year-old and she would visit it soon enough. But Colette’s daughters were determined to join the procession, sitting ramrod straight throughout the entire funeral Mass, standing and following the pallbearers from the chapel without so much as a glance in anyone’s direction, their eyes trained on the coffin that held their beloved mother. Charmaine’s breast ached for their terrible loss, all the more excruciating in her inability to comfort them.

  She remembered Jeannette’s innocent query when they received the devastating news. “What happened to our miracle, Mademoiselle Charmaine?”

  “I know what happened!” Yvette burst out. “God was only pretending to hear our prayers! I’m never going to pray to Him or St. Jude ever again!”

  “You don’t mean that,” Charmaine consoled. “It’s your pain talking.”
>
  “I do mean it!” she shouted, erupting into tears. “I do!”

  Charmaine had searched for words of solace, but they eluded her. She attempted to recall Father Michael Andrews’s eulogy at her own mother’s funeral, to no avail. Either her grief had been too profound to hear the priest’s kind words or his remorse too great to impart them. She embraced Yvette instead and allowed her to cry into her skirts, stroking her hair until she was worn out and heaving. Jeannette wept next, and it was thus they passed that first awful day.

  Today, as Charmaine stood on the knoll, memories of her own mother’s death besieged her. She relived the suffering of those first few days, her feelings of abject hopelessness. She had been older than the girls, an adult really. Yvette and Jeannette, on the other hand, were so young. How would they endure? Suddenly, Charmaine’s prayers changed. She no longer offered them for Colette. The fair woman rested in heaven. Instead, Charmaine prayed for the twin sisters, that the weeks ahead would heal their hearts. Last night, they had cried out in their sleep for her, and that was a good sign. Charmaine would always be there for them, just as she had promised Colette.

  As Father Benito St. Giovanni stepped forward, Charmaine surveyed the assembly that numbered nearly a hundred strong. It seemed the entire town, or at least its workers, had traveled the nine-mile distance to pay their final respects. As for those who lived and worked on the Duvoisin estate, only George and his grandmother were absent.

  Again she puzzled over the man’s whereabouts this past week and remembered Rose’s words. “He’s attending to an errand for Colette.” What did that mean? Charmaine thought it wise not to ask. But just yesterday, she’d been privy to the whispered gossip coming from Felicia and Anna. “He’s traveled to Virginia.” But why? The answers would have to await his return.

  Charmaine’s gaze continued to travel from face to foreign face, alighting on two she recognized: Harold Browning and Wade Remmen. Slowly, warily, her eyes left the arc and settled for one uncomfortable moment upon the two men standing apart from the crowd.