by DeVa Gantt
Mrs. Faraday explained. “Master John returned late last night, and the children are anxious to see him. He is in the dining room, eating as we speak.”
“Master John?” Charmaine queried in feigned ignorance.
“Their elder brother. The girls expect him to shower them with gifts as he did the last time he arrived unexpectedly from Virginia. Apparently, Master Paul was still awake when he came in and has just now told Rose.”
Charmaine felt the blood rush to her cheeks. The telltale blush was not lost on the housekeeper, whose assessing eye rested momentarily on her face. Then she babbled on. “She is the only one in the house truly pleased to have him back, though I cannot, for the life of me, figure out why. She is as bad as the children, rushing off to her room to make herself presentable before seeing him.”
“We’re glad he’s come home!” Yvette countered. “I’ll wager he has a great stack of presents for us! Maybe something bigger than a piano this time!” She stood on her tiptoes and reached as high as she could in indication of the magnitude of wonders that awaited them with the return of her beloved brother.
“And Pierre wants to meet him!” Jeannette added. “Don’t you, Pierre?”
“Uh-huh!” he agreed with an alacritous nod. “I never saw him before.”
Tying back the drapes, Mrs. Faraday shook her head. “He can be a rascal,” she proceeded, eager to impart what she knew of the man, “a bad influence on the children, teaching them disrespect the likes of which I’ve never seen.” She leveled her gaze on Yvette as if to fortify her point, then motioned toward the tray of half-eaten cookies. “What would you have me do with this, miss?”
“I’m finished with it, thank you.”
Yvette eyed the discarded snack. “You did bring them for us! We waited and waited for you, but you never came back last night.”
Charmaine caught the housekeeper’s raised brow. “It took a while to warm the milk. By the time I returned, the two of you were fast asleep.”
“So you ate the cookies yourself?”
“No—I mean—I didn’t eat them all.”
Mrs. Faraday frowned in bewilderment, taking the tray with her as she left.
“Oh Mademoiselle Charmaine, please hurry and get dressed! We want to see Johnny before he’s gone for the day!”
“Very well,” she ceded. Best to get the introduction over with.
The children returned to the nursery, and she began washing up, splashing water in her face, brushing out her hair and securing it in a tight bun. As she pulled a dress from her armoire, she realized her heart was racing. She inhaled deeply. What would Mrs. Harrington do if she were in this predicament? Perhaps the situation wasn’t so dire. If she presented herself with dignity and grace, a warm smile and friendly greeting, they could start afresh. She recalled Joshua Harrington’s opinion of John Duvoisin and grimaced. Somehow, she knew this was wishful thinking. But see the man she must. You owe him nothing, she thought, and then groaned. Nothing but respect.
She was fastening the last button on her plain dress when a pummeling resounded on the door. “All right, all right!” she laughed artificially as she opened it. Three eager bodies spilled into the room, dashing to the hallway door.
“What are you waiting for?” Yvette cried over her shoulder, disappearing into the corridor. “Come quickly!”
Charmaine followed, but by the time she reached the crest of the staircase, the twins were far below, slowed only by Pierre, who was trying to keep pace. Even in her excitement, Jeannette lovingly took his hand and helped him along. Next, they were jumping off the landing and racing out of sight, the patter of feet marking their passage. Charmaine lifted her skirts and hurried her descent, knowing it would be better to enter the dining room with the children. She was too late; their voices echoed in unison, attesting to their boundless joy.
“Johnny!”
The name shook her to the core. He was still present at the table, most probably alone. But even if he wasn’t, she felt certain he’d take pleasure in taunting her. She passed the study and braced herself, sighing in relief when she reached the archway and found his back was turned to her. She could observe him first, inconspicuously.
He lounged in Paul’s seat, his boots propped on George’s chair. The children were clustered around him. Jeannette was sitting in his lap, Pierre leaned against his left leg, wearing the widest of grins he’d ever bestowed upon a stranger, and Yvette, his staunchest ally, stood to his right, fiercely hugging his arm. Charmaine was astounded by the raw emotion betrayed with this reunion. One look at the girls’ adoring faces, and she knew she had seriously underestimated how much they loved him. Even more striking was her impression the man reciprocated the feelings, his attention fixed on the twins, a hand rubbing Pierre’s back.
“Where are our presents?” Yvette asked presumptuously.
“Presents?” John queried. “What presents? I didn’t bring any presents.” His voice was deep and crisp, and quite pleasing to the ear.
“Oh really? Then why did you wink at Jeannette just now?”
“I wasn’t winking,” he insisted, “I had something in my eye.”
Yvette wasn’t fooled. “Well, then, what’s in that large sack under the table?”
“My, haven’t we sharp eyes,” he laughed in that chuckle that was already disturbingly familiar to Charmaine. “See for yourself.”
Yvette clambered under the table to fetch her loot. She was soon forgotten as Pierre tugged on John’s leg. “We hab a gubberness,” he said, smiling up at the man, who leaned forward to lend his full attention.
“Do you?” John asked, and Charmaine could tell he was smiling. “Is she old and ugly like Nana Rose?”
“Oh no,” Pierre pronounced seriously, the cruel remark lost on the innocent child. “She’s boo-tee-full and I love her!” He hugged John’s leg all the harder to emphasize his point, exacting another chuckle from the man.
“There she is!” Yvette pointed as she crawled from beneath the table.
John turned, and Charmaine’s breath caught in her throat. Lifting Jeannette off his lap and setting her on her feet, he stood, and their eyes met, his lazy gaze holding her prisoner as he assessed her in the light of this new day.
So this is John Duvoisin, Charmaine thought. He was tall, though perhaps not as tall as his brother, with broad shoulders and a slender waist. Unlike last night, he appeared distinguished, his attire that of a gentleman. The cut of his face possessed a rugged handsomeness she had missed yesterday. Now there was no mistaking his identity. The resemblance to Frederic was distinct: brown eyes, long curved nose, square jaw, and thin lips. Even had his visage been blank, she would have known he was a Duvoisin, such was his bearing and stance—one that radiated the power wielded by the men of this family.
As if reading her mind, his thick brow tipped upward, touching the light brown locks that covered the whole of his forehead. She wanted to look away, except he seemed to challenge her to do so, his scrutiny supercilious, mocking her fear. She shivered at the thought of her future resting in his hands: she’d never be free of the tormenting fires he had stoked just a few short hours ago when he had come barging into her sheltered life. An inkling of the pain he would bring her caused her to recoil.
“I believe we’ve already met,” he said with a crooked smile, “though we don’t know each other’s name.”
“I know who you are!” she responded heatedly, her anxiety gone.
His brow raised further. “Well, now, for someone who thanked God never to ‘place name to my arrogant face,’ it certainly didn’t take you long to scrape up all the details.”
She gaped at him, nettled by his precise recollection. His respectable appearance was not going to foster polite conversation.
He, in turn, was amused by her blatant outrage. She was playing the lady wronged, though he knew she was no lady. Her self-righteousness would prove interesting indeed. “Come, Mademoiselle—it is Mademoiselle, isn’t it?” With her rigid nod,
he continued, “You act as if I’m still the water rat come in from the rain. Or perhaps in dry attire, I’m just a rat?”
“I never called you a rat!” she replied defensively.
“No?” he queried snidely. “What else but a rat crawls from a filthy hole? But then, considering we’ve only just met, perhaps I’m wrong. Surely you couldn’t have formed a fair opinion of me, unless someone has influenced you. My brother hasn’t been filling your head with nasty stories about me, has he?”
Her silence was answer enough, and he chuckled softly.
His merriment pierced her deeply, yet she could only glare at him, realizing he had manipulated her into betraying Paul.
“Don’t look so chagrined, Mademoiselle,” he commented. “You haven’t told me anything that I didn’t already know.”
“I haven’t told you anything!”
“That’s right, you haven’t, Miss…?” He didn’t know her name, and suddenly feeling at a disadvantage—he never tolerated that; putting others at a disadvantage was his forte—he pressed on. “You do have a name, don’t you?”
Charmaine was intimidated by his directness. She thought of Anne London and grew wary of his motives. According to Stephen Westphal, John was engaged to the widow. He had to know her name—and more! She’d not open herself to further ridicule by answering. Instead, she spoke to the children, who were seated at the table, watching them avidly. “I’m going to ask Mrs. Henderson to prepare a breakfast tray. We can eat—”
“I asked for your name, Mademoiselle,” John cut in curtly.
There was no avoiding it. “Charmaine Ryan,” she threw over her shoulder, praying her assumption was wrong, yet hastening toward the kitchen in case it wasn’t.
“Well, then, Charmaine Ryan,” he replied slowly, testing the sound of it. “You and the children shall breakfast with me. Come now, no need to be afraid.”
Though his gibe halted her step, curiosity turned her about face; his voice betrayed not the slightest indication he knew who she was.
He, in turn, canted his head to study her. Somehow, she seemed familiar, though he was certain he had never met her before. “Charmaine Ryan,” he murmured again as he pulled out the chair he had propped his feet on earlier and gestured for her to sit. “Since you are guardian of the children, I would just like to talk—become better acquainted with you and your moral conduct in my home.”
She stood stunned. How would she ever reclaim her dignity? She considered leaving the room, but that would lend credence to his lewd conclusions. More important, she couldn’t abandon the children; he’d hold that against her as well.
“I’m sorry, John,” Paul called as he entered the room, “but Miss Ryan and the children are breakfasting with me.”
Charmaine sighed in relief.
“How charming!” John chortled, leaning back against the table and crossing his arms and legs. “If it isn’t the knight in shining armor come to rescue the damsel in distress.” The twins giggled. “And I’m not invited?”
“You can join us, Johnny!” Yvette interjected.
Paul grunted. “Come Charmaine,” he said, taking her arm, “we can eat in the kitchen.”
“Don’t bother,” John replied, pushing off from the table. “I know when I’m not wanted.”
“Don’t go, Johnny!” Jeannette implored. “We haven’t visited with you yet.”
“I will come to see you later,” he promised. And then, on an afterthought, he asked, “Why hasn’t your mother joined you this morning? Is she taking breakfast in her chambers?”
The girl froze, her astonishment mirrored by Yvette. He turned befuddled eyes upon Paul, who struggled with a response.
“John—I—”
Then Jeannette was crying, and John’s mounting perturbation was diverted. “What is it? What is the matter, Jeannette?”
“Mama is dead, Johnny,” Yvette whispered unsteadily. “She died in April.”
A tumult ran rampant across John’s face, and suddenly, Charmaine felt sorry for him. He obviously had no idea about Colette’s death.
“When were you planning on telling me this, Paul?” he snarled.
“I didn’t know you hadn’t been told—”
“The hell you didn’t!”
The moment held until John headed toward the foyer in large, angry strides. Paul rushed after him. “Where are you going?”
“To see Father and find out what other secrets he’s been keeping!”
Paul grabbed his arm. “No, John! You hurt him enough last time.”
John ripped free, his face contorted, a feral gleam in his eyes. “I hurt him?” he thundered. “I hurt him?” Then he fell on Paul in volcanic fury, grabbing great fistfuls of his shirtfront and slamming him into the wall.
Charmaine wasn’t sure if the impact or her scream brought Fatima Henderson racing from the kitchen.
“What’s going on in here?” the cook demanded, her voice bringing John to his senses. “Master John, what’s gotten into you?”
John’s grip relaxed, and Paul pushed him away. They glared at one another, refusing to meet the woman’s reprimanding eyes, Paul adjusting his jacket as if he were the conqueror instead of the vanquished.
“Miss Charmaine,” Fatima pressed when neither man would answer her, “what are these two up to, already at each other’s throats and Master John not even home a day yet? Are they fighting over you?”
“No, Fatima,” Paul refuted coldly, his eyes fixed on his brother. “We’re not fighting over Charmaine. John just doesn’t like hearing the truth.”
Reality began to sink in, and John’s wrath caved in to desolation. His face had gone white, and Charmaine read his anguish. He bowed his head and left.
She regarded Paul, silently beseeching an explanation.
“Fatima,” he directed, “please see to the children while I speak with Charmaine.”
Fatima took charge of Pierre’s plate, giving Jeannette a comforting pat on the shoulder. The girl continued to sniffle, her cheeks wet.
Paul looked to Yvette. “When you’re finished, you are to take your brother and sister back to the nursery. Mademoiselle Ryan will meet you there.”
Yvette nodded. It was clear from his tone he’d brook no resistance.
John reached the landing, head down, when his eyes fell upon the bottom of her gown. His gaze lifted, taking in the folded hands, her bust, and finally, her breathtaking face, smiling down at him from the portrait, young and innocent, and suddenly dead. Too late, I’ve arrived too late.
His name echoed from above. He tore his eyes from Colette’s lovely face and looked at his aunt.
“So it is true,” Agatha said as she descended, “you’ve returned.”
“So I have,” John muttered, “and unfortunately, so have you.”
Unperturbed, she smiled triumphantly, eyebrow arching. “Apparently, you haven’t heard all the news. Unlike Colette’s unfortunate passing, there has been a joyous wedding in the manor. I am pleased to tell you your father and I were married in July.”
John thought he would vomit. His aunt’s smug mien fired him anew, and he took a threatening step toward her.
Her smile broadened, unalarmed. “It was inevitable. Frederic and I have been in love for many years now. Had I been widowed sooner, I would have become the second Mrs. Duvoisin, rather than the third. Colette was much too young for your father, really. After all, she could have been his daughter. He needs a woman to love him, not a little girl.”
John would have taken great pleasure in slapping her face if Rose had not called to him from the crest of the north wing staircase.
“John, you are home! I was just coming down to see you.”
He spun around, masking his emotions. “I’m afraid I can’t talk right now, Nan. My father is waiting to see me.”
“John,” Rose admonished gently, warily, “please…be kind.”
“As you say, Nan,” he bit out, before pushing past Agatha.
His mind was a maelstrom of
words and images. What had George said? Colette fears Agatha…fears the hold she may exert over Paul…fears for the children…Clearly, his aunt had been after bigger game and had bagged it.
Agatha’s twisted smile followed him. When he was gone, she threw a knowing look to Rose, then turned and climbed the stairs.
Rose offered a silent prayer. She had hoped to have a moment alone with John, but she was too late and headed to the dining room instead.
Paul closed the study door and leaned back against it.
“What happened out there?” Charmaine asked.
“You needn’t be concerned about it,” he replied with an exasperated sigh.
“Needn’t be concerned? I was terrified! He attacked you!”
“My brother is easily incensed. He imagines slights against him when none exist, and then he carries on as he did just now.”
“But not having been told about Colette is a slight. And although I’m not fond of your brother, surely he was justified in being angry about that!”
“He was informed about her failing health months ago,” Paul stated flatly. “Her death shouldn’t have come as a shock.”
“Then why was he so angry?”
“As I said, he doesn’t like to hear the truth. He’s hurt members of this family with this sort of behavior. Even Colette, as good and kind as she tried to be to him, suffered at his hands.”
Charmaine gaped at him in disbelief. She shuddered to think episodes similar to the one she’d just witnessed had taken place in the past. God forbid, had the man been violent to Colette? She didn’t dare ask. “But why?”
“Ever since I can remember, John has been determined to do things his way, and his way invariably runs afoul of our father’s wishes. My father has good reason to be angry with him on many accounts. Likewise, John hates the fact that our father is still in charge. It is the very thing that fuels his fury.”
She could not speak. The picture Paul painted was all too reminiscent of her parents’ home. Fear was nipping at her heels again, that same gnawing apprehension she had constantly lived with when her father was around.