by DeVa Gantt
Frederic shunned the large circle of mourners, leaning heavily on his black cane, dismissing the stalwart son who flanked his left side. Like his daughters, his heart was locked away. He had not emerged from his chambers since leaving his wife’s deathbed, and Charmaine surmised those quarters would once again become his prison. She was mistaken in believing he’d come to console the children yesterday or this morning, for he refused to even look their way, his eyes trained on his wife’s coffin. Charmaine sadly realized his easy dismissal of the girls and Pierre was as much a punishment for himself as it would become for them. Their mutual sorrow and the comfort they could have drawn from one another might have been the start of healing, but such was not to be the case. Why, then, had he labored from chapel to graveyard, this man who wanted to brood alone, who wanted no one to console him, who rarely left his rooms, this effete man whose love of wife Charmaine had often doubted? Why had he taken up his place beside Colette’s casket this morning? Because he loved her…just as Colette had loved him.
As the crowd pressed forward to better hear Father Benito’s final benediction, Frederic held his ground, his eyes barren, the polar opposite of Friday, when they had visited Colette on the balcony. Instantly, Charmaine’s heart was rent by another devastating thought: Colette’s dreadful illness had drawn them together, ending their estrangement. How terribly tragic that love had come too late—that their eleventh hour affection had been laid to waste at the toll of twelve. No wonder Frederic wanted to mourn alone. He was damning the world, damning himself. Charmaine shuddered, though the April sun was quite warm. With growing alarm, she wondered where the mortal event would lead this already embittered man. Instinctively, she knew the days and weeks ahead would be bleak, more so than she had feared at the start of this dreadful day.
Late the next evening, Paul knocked on the nursery door. Charmaine, happy to have a moment alone with him, stepped out into the hallway.
“How are they?” he whispered.
“They’re sleeping now, but I don’t know for how long.”
He studied her face compassionately. “How are you?”
“Better than the girls,” she murmured.
“But you’ve been crying.”
“For them. They’re devastated, Paul. I don’t know who’s more upset, the girls or Pierre.” Her voice grew raspier. “He doesn’t understand why he can’t go to see his mother and—”
Paul was not immune to her tears, and his eyes welled in response, but he hid the unmanly display behind the hand he brought to his brow.
“They refuse to eat,” she finally continued. “I’m at a loss as to what to do.”
“There is nothing you can do, Charmaine. Give them time. They need to be sad for a while.”
“Do you think your father would let them visit his chambers?” she asked hopefully. “I think he would be a comfort to them, and they to him.”
“No,” Paul replied, unsettled by the suggestion. “His grief is too great.”
Though dissatisfied with his answer, she didn’t press him. She needed to draw strength from someone. “At least you’re here for them,” she said instead.
He inhaled. “Actually—I have to leave for Espoir at dawn. I spent today getting the business on Charmantes in order, but I’m needed there. Until George returns, I’m extremely pressed. You do understand, don’t you?”
“Yes, you’re abandoning us again,” she blurted out.
“That’s a harsh statement,” he objected, grimacing inwardly. “The lumber has been delivered, the foundation for the new house laid, and, now, before the rains are upon us, I need to enclose the building. I’ve hired carpenters and contracted an architect, who can only remain in the Caribbean for a month. Aside from that, the men are awaiting work. I have to be there.”
“You’re right,” she tried to agree. “It will be better for you to keep busy.”
Her conciliatory sentiment cut more deeply than her accusatory one, and he found himself torn. “I promise to return by week’s end. We can take the children on an outing together, lift their spirits.”
“They should like that,” she replied, forcing a smile.
“Good. Then it’s a date.”
The weekend came, but Paul never returned. Word was sent that a “catastrophe” prevented him from leaving Espoir. He’d see them sometime during the following week. It was just as well. The girls were still grieving; they’d never have agreed to go anywhere.
Sunday, April 30, 1837
Colette had been dead for three weeks, and conditions in the manor had not improved, leastwise not where the children were concerned. The “date” Paul had planned weeks ago had finally arrived, but the girls refused to participate, their remarks disdainful.
“If they do not want to go, don’t force them,” he rejoined curtly, annoyed he’d suspended his grueling schedule specifically to be with them. A confrontation with his father earlier in the morning had set the mood for an aggravating day, and now he wished he hadn’t returned at all.
Exasperated, Charmaine decided to leave them to lament. She and Pierre would accompany Paul into town, and as they departed the grounds, the girls might possibly change their minds. They didn’t, and only Rose waved goodbye when the landau pulled away, promising to look in on the twins throughout the afternoon.
Unlike his sisters, Pierre was happy, recovered. Innocent of the grave event that had shaken the rest of the house, he showered Charmaine with the love he had once bestowed upon his mother and blew kisses to Nana Rose as he tried to lean farther out the window of the conveyance and shout “bye-bye.”
The closed carriage bobbed down the quiet road, but the silence within was not peaceful. Paul stared pensively out the window, his countenance dour.
Charmaine spoke first. “How is your father?”
He snorted, then rubbed the back of his neck. “Not well, I’m afraid. More despondent than my sisters, in fact. I think I made matters worse this morning.”
“I don’t see how,” she commented derisively. “The children haven’t seen him since the funeral. They’ve not only lost their mother, but their father as well.”
“I’m afraid you’re wrong, Charmaine. Matters can grow worse, much worse. My father has vowed to follow Colette to the grave,” he whispered, fearful Pierre might understand, “and I’m beside myself as to what to do.”
Charmaine shuddered at the thought. “Perhaps he should see the children, see what he’d be leaving behind.”
“Do you really want to subject them to that, Charmaine?”
Again she shuddered, and the remainder of the ride passed in silence.
Charmaine was uncertain if it was Pierre’s exuberance or the bustling town that lightened their moods, but the afternoon turned somewhat pleasant as they strolled along the boardwalks, greeting people they met, mostly Paul’s acquaintances. They arrived at the mercantile where Madeline Thompson welcomed them. “My goodness, Pierre, how you’ve grown in just a month!”
The boy giggled, happily accepting the peppermint stick she offered.
“Where are the girls?”
“I’m afraid they’re still in mourning, Maddy,” Paul explained.
The woman’s eyes filled with tears. “Why don’t you take them two sweets as well?” she said, allowing Pierre to choose.
They browsed a bit. Charmaine kept returning to a bolt of yard goods and finally decided to purchase a length of the pretty fabric. “Jeannette has taken quite an interest in sewing, and Yvette may perk up if I suggest she design a frock.”
Paul smiled down at her, glad his sisters had Charmaine to fret over them. He refused to allow her to pay, telling Maddy to add the cost of the material to his monthly bill. He insisted she select something for herself, but she dismissed the idea, telling Pierre to choose a toy instead.
Shortly afterward, they left the store. They’d been away from the house for little more than two hours, but when Paul asked, “Where to next?” he knew Charmaine had had enough of the town.
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“I really should be getting back to check on the girls.”
“You are a wonder, Miss Ryan,” he said, white teeth flashing for the first time that day. She looked innocently up at him, and he had the impulse to kiss her right there in the middle of the public thoroughfare. But that would surely inhibit the friendship growing between them, a friendship similar to the one he had shared with Colette. His passionate bend was swept away. He scooped up Pierre instead, and together, they crossed the street.
They had just arrived at the livery when Buck Mathers hailed them down, out of breath. “They need you at the dock, Mr. Paul. There’s a big problem.”
Paul shook his head in vexation, but Charmaine soothed the situation. “You go ahead. We have a carriage and a driver. We can find our way home.”
“I’ll be there for dinner,” he promised, setting Pierre to the ground.
Charmaine nodded, encouraging the three-year-old to wave as the two men rushed off.
Thursday, May 11, 1837
Charmaine massaged her throbbing temples and collapsed into the armchair. The evening air was silent, but not peacefully so. Not one sniffle wafted on the breeze, though the French doors were open in the adjoining room. The unknowing ear would assume the children slept, but she knew better, certain that two sets of eyes stared dismally into space.
She hadn’t meant to speak harshly to them, upsetting little Pierre in the process, but Yvette and Jeannette’s depression—their drawn faces—could no longer be borne. They consumed very little food, and the effect was haunting. They’d become miniature replicas of their mother in the days before her death and, from what Charmaine had heard whispered, imitators of their father. Time would heal them, everyone kept insisting, time and limitless love, yet these had yielded little. Even Rose seemed incapable of mitigating their grief.
The blessing of sisterhood was now a liability, and the desolation they read in each other’s faces was beginning to affect Pierre, who already cherished memories of his mother. Just tonight, they cruelly chastised him when he innocently called Charmaine “Mama” instead of “Mainie.” With bottom lip quivering, he ran to her, crying hysterically as he buried his face in her skirts.
It was the last straw. “This sniveling has gone on long enough!” she struck out, furious. “Look what you’ve done, making Pierre feel guilty just because he’s happy again. Why? Do you want to add to your mother’s suffering?”
Yvette retaliated with: “Mama isn’t suffering anymore—only we are!”
“You think not?” Charmaine countered. “You think she’s found peace knowing her children can’t be happy without her? How can she even think about heaven when the two of you hold her bound to earth, imprisoned in this very room with your self-pity?”
The plausible words sent Jeannette into tears. “You—you make it sound as if we shouldn’t miss her—as if—as if we shouldn’t cry for her!”
Charmaine’s face softened, yet her voice remained hard. If a dose of severity were efficacious in getting them to talk to her, she’d lace her words with it. “You’re not crying for your mother. You’re crying for yourselves.”
“What’s wrong with that?” Yvette demanded.
“Not a thing, had it been a month ago or a few times each day. But you have been crying every hour of every day for too many days now. You’re not even trying to accept the Good Lord’s decision to take your Mama to paradise with Him. She should be at peace now, not worrying over you. But you’ve not thought of anyone but yourselves—not your brother, not your father, nor anyone else in this house who grieves as you do. Poor Mrs. Henderson, she’s so upset you won’t touch the special treats she’s prepared just for you, that you’re withering away. And Nana Rose, she’s known your mama longer than the two of you have, and have you hugged her even once? Or your brother Paul, who took time out of his busy schedule to spend the day with you? You cast aside his attempt to console you and hurt him. I’m ashamed of you! And what of me? Do you realize how difficult it’s been for me to watch you like this?”
Charmaine sighed deeply, her voice growing irenic. “I understand your tears, and I know there will be many more over the months to come, but not like this. Right now, they’ve become a terrible burden to all of us. If you really miss your mother, if you truly want to make her happy, you’d best dry those eyes and start living. I’m certain wherever you run, wherever you play, your mother will be watching from heaven. I’m equally certain she’d enjoy seeing you smile a great deal more than she would seeing you cry.”
The room fell silent. Surprisingly, neither offered a rebuttal.
Charmaine walked over to Pierre, pleased to find her lecture had lulled him to sleep. She crossed to the doorway and stopped. “You can’t bring your mother back with tears,” she concluded. “I wish you could, but you can’t. She’s been dead for over a month now, and during that month, you’ve ravaged her soul in much the same way her illness ravaged her body. It is time to show her how much you really love her.”
Now, minutes later, sitting alone in her bedroom, Charmaine wondered if they had listened or shut her out. Had she been too hard on them? Hurt them? Suddenly, she was angry with herself. Returning to the nursery, she was astonished to find them asleep. Maybe they had heard. Maybe God would answer her prayers this night.
Wednesday, May 17, 1837
Disgusted, Agatha Ward lifted the untouched tray of food and left the master’s quarters. Frederic refused to eat, deciding two weeks ago this was the easiest way to follow his wife to the grave. He had not wavered from his insane plan. Nor had he budged from the chair that faced Colette’s bedchamber, as if she still lay on the other side of the connecting portal.
Starvation was an ugly thing, but Agatha would not allow him that final triumph. She’d arrest the situation before it was too late. To that end, she swiftly stepped in for Travis Thornfield, horrified to learn ten days had lapsed. The manservant, beside himself with worry, was only too happy to allow her to take charge.
That had been three days ago, three days of ineffectual empathizing, coaxing, reasoning, entreating, and finally, ranting. Agatha’s thoughts raced to Paul, wishing him home. But even if the younger man were here, what could he do that she hadn’t already tried? Nothing.
Frederic, refusing everything but water, was a wretched sight to behold, with a full fortnight’s beard, disheveled hair, gaunt cheeks, and crazed eyes. His tailored clothing hung limp from his emaciated body. But his weakness was deceptive: cross the line, challenge his suicidal crusade, and his despondency evaporated like a drop of water in a scorching desert, replaced by a rabid fury that shook even his stalwart sister-in-law.
Tonight, Agatha would not be shaken or deterred. Tonight she would win this unholy war. She looked down at the tray once more, then back at the closed door. If Frederic wanted to dwell on his dead wife, she would make him think again. The time had come to remind him exactly what type of woman Colette had been—to make him reconsider his misplaced affections. A drastic measure, perhaps, but dire circumstances called for merciless intervention.
Robert Blackford hastened to the Duvoisin estate and waited patiently in the drawing room as Travis went in search of his sister. He didn’t need to be told why he’d been urgently summoned at so late an hour, though Agatha’s swiftly penned note painted a gruesome picture. He’d heard of Frederic’s “grief” from any number of patients throughout the week; the entire island loved gossip, especially Duvoisin gossip. Apparently, Frederic was not adjusting to his wife’s demise.
If the rumors were as bad as they sounded, present conditions threatened to eclipse those of the distant past. He chuckled with the irony of it. Even the players were the same, save the wives. A score and eight years ago, that role had been played by his younger sister, Elizabeth. Her death had shaken the great Frederic Duvoisin’s sanity as surely as Colette’s death shook it now. There had also been a child involved, an infant—John. Robert shuddered with the memory, and even today, wondered how Frederic had s
urvived intact. He remembered fearing for his own life; Frederic had held him responsible for Elizabeth’s death. But then, Robert blamed himself as well. True, the baby had been breech, a dangerous delivery at best, but he had needed her to live, his own happiness contingent upon her recovery. Yet, she slipped into unconsciousness and never awoke, and Frederic had never forgiven him.
But Elizabeth was not the problem this night, Colette was: A new time, a new event, and for all the mirrored circumstances, a new pain. There was Frederic’s age to consider, as well. He was no longer a man of thirty-three, in the prime of life. He was over sixty and badly beaten by a harsh world. He was also intent upon giving up, bolstering the probability of success. Though the outcome should have pleased Robert, bringing the long and winding road to an end, he feared Frederic’s death would destroy Agatha. This compelled him to intercede. For his twin sister, he would put a stop to the man’s self-destruction.
At the sound of the drawing room door opening, he pivoted around, placing under lock and key the painful decision he had just made. “Miss Ryan,” he acknowledged in surprise, having expected a servant or his sister.
“Dr. Blackford,” she nodded, equally surprised. She had not seen the man since Colette’s death and wondered why he was here now.
“I suppose the children are abed?” he asked.
“Well over an hour ago,” Charmaine answered. “It’s quite late.”
“So it is,” he said, checking his pocket watch. He snapped it shut, replaced it, then considered her speculatively. Agatha held the girl both inadequate and insubordinate. Still, Robert wondered what information he might garner if he drew her out. “How are the children?”
Stunned, Charmaine canted her head. The man had never conversed with her before. “Better,” she replied cautiously. “They’ve accepted their mother’s passing, but as for their grief, it remains. They have not forgotten her.”
“Nor should they. Nevertheless, you are to be congratulated on seeing them through this terrible time,” he praised. “Agatha tells me you have worked wonders. If only I could be that effective when meeting with their father tonight.”