A Silent Ocean Away

by DeVa Gantt

  When Jeannette promised to read to Pierre, Charmaine took a deep breath and set out in pursuit of the errant twin. She walked quietly along the veranda, stopping just shy of John’s quarters, head cocked, listening. No voices, though the French doors were open. Tiptoeing closer, she peered in at an angle, a small section of the chamber visible. Nothing—nobody. She leaned forward and spied the foot of the bed. A little farther, and boots came into view. She jumped back, stumbling over her own feet and nearly falling, plastering herself against the face of the manor. Someone was reclining there—John! When her heart stopped hammering, she chuckled softly, foolishly, and relaxed. He was alone; she’d been wrong.

  Where to look now? She crossed through her room and began with the second floor of the north wing, next the servant’s staircase to the kitchen, then the kitchen itself. No Yvette. She cracked the door that opened onto the dining room, relieved to find only Anna and Felicia moving around the table, setting down teacups and saucers. She walked casually across the room, ignoring their sidelong glances, and entered the study. It was empty as well. She was growing more frustrated by the minute and feared her original assumption was correct: Yvette had stealthily made her way up to John’s chambers.

  Gritting her teeth, she stepped into the drawing room and circled the piano, the two sofas, the high-back chairs, and the coffee table. She looked behind the curtains. Still, no Yvette. She moved to a table near the French doors. It was covered with a lace cloth that fell to the floor. She had just bent over to peer under it when a crisp, masculine voice resounded behind her.

  “Searching for something, Mademoiselle?”

  Charmaine’s heart leapt into her throat, and she straightened so quickly she nearly toppled the table.

  John leaned placidly against the hallway doorframe, arms and legs crossed, a bemused smile on his lips. The easy portrait ended there: his eyes were bloodshot, his complexion ruddy, and his cheeks covered in stubble. He seemed oblivious of his unsteady state as he persisted in demeaning her.

  “You didn’t have to straighten up so fast. Your derrière is the finest bit of fluff I’ve had the pleasure to see in quite some time, save for the other night.”

  Charmaine reddened, irate more than embarrassed.

  His smile broadened. “What are you searching for so diligently? Perhaps I could help locate it? If not, I’d be happy to assist with anything else that comes to mind.” His eyes, which had scanned the room, now raked her from head to toe, indifferent that she was deeply offended.

  She steeled her emotions and walked briskly toward the archway where he stood. He did not step aside; rather he placed his palm flat against the doorjamb, blocking her path.

  “Once again, Mademoiselle,” he stated in irritation, “you haven’t answered my question. Perhaps you thought the wind had blown a letter under the table, and you felt it your duty to pick it up and read it.”

  He expected an angry response and was unprepared when she ducked under his extended arm and raced into the main foyer. She had reached the steps by the time he’d whirled around, but his chuckle followed her up the stairs.

  Safe in her bedchamber, she cursed herself for running from him like some frightened child, or worse yet, a guilty one. She should have stood up to him, and she stamped her foot. “Oh, that miserable, despicable man!”

  She entered the nursery, praying that by some miracle Yvette had returned.

  “Did you find her?” Jeannette asked, looking up from the book.

  “No,” Charmaine replied in exasperation, only half-aware of Pierre, who had left his sister’s lap to give her a big hug. “Jeannette, do you have any idea where she could be?”

  Jeannette’s negative response set her to pacing. Soon the household would be stirring, and she fretted over the mistress’s severe reprimand should Yvette turn up in some forbidden area. Her heart missed a beat when there was an unexpected rap on the hallway door. Agatha already?

  Charmaine reached it, cringing when Yvette bounded in, leaving her to face not Agatha, but John.

  “I’m returning one missing twin to where she belongs at this hour in the morning,” he said. “She was what you were looking for, yes?”

  “Yes,” Charmaine replied curtly. “Thank you.”

  She pushed the door closed, not caring it would shut in his face. But he braced his hand against it, stopping it midway. “Before you lock me out,” he smirked, “I’d like to have a word with you.”

  “You’ve already had a word with me,” she rejoined audaciously.

  “I’ll have another word with you, then,” he countered sharply, gesturing for her to step into the hallway.

  For all her bravado, his temper was unsettling, and so she complied, counseling herself calm as he closed the door, hands folded primly before her, eyes lowered.

  “Aren’t you the least bit interested in where I found her?”

  “No,” she replied stubbornly.

  “I see,” he mused. “Incompetent and stupid.”

  Charmaine’s eyes widened, both hurt and angry, but she didn’t have the opportunity to defend herself.

  “You would be wise to remember the children are your responsibility, Mademoiselle, at least for now. Yvette has no business eavesdropping on adult conversations, which she undoubtedly will hear if she escapes your eye and takes cover in the drawing room. Yes, that is where I found her.”

  Charmaine burned, his supercilious stance and smug smile giving rise to the words, “May I ask you if you are annoyed with me—or yourself?”

  His brow raised in surprise. “Mademoiselle, Yvette is your responsibility.”

  “And I fail to see how she would have come to harm in the drawing room, unless you are embarrassed by what she overheard: your adult conversation—derrière and all! Furthermore, if you hadn’t interrupted my search, she wouldn’t have remained hidden for long.”

  John found her outburst entertaining, her large eyes just as diverting. But it wouldn’t lead to victory, not even a small one. He’d sparred with intimidating opponents in his day and always won. What else can I say to fire her up and garner more ammunition to use against her?

  “I don’t care what she heard, Miss Ryan, and even less by whom. But I am the exception in this household. I know Mrs. Duvoisin, or even my dear brother wouldn’t take too kindly to Yvette eavesdropping on them. If they find her in some hidden niche, I guarantee there will be all hell to pay, and the bill that hell charges will come directly to you. That will be all, my Charm.”

  It was the last straw. As he walked away, Charmaine pursued him. “No, that won’t be all!” she spat at his back, drawing him round as he reached the crest of the staircase and took one step down. She stepped in front of him, closer to eye level now, her temper out of control. “There is one more thing, Master John. You needn’t remind me of my duties, and I take offense you’ve judged me incompetent. Obviously, you are unaware that I have managed quite well with the children for close to a year now, and not once has their welfare been jeopardized. But you are right about Mrs. Duvoisin: her reaction would have been just like yours. As for Paul, he has always supported me.”

  For the first time, John appeared stymied. Charmaine smiled triumphantly. He didn’t remain mute for long, however. “Miss Ryan, I know you’ve made it well worth my brother’s while to ‘support’ you, but you underestimate me.”

  “Really?” she returned, astounded by the scope of his crude conclusions. “You should know your father has also commended me.”

  John’s eyes hardened. “Miss Ryan, you have no idea how miserable I can make your life if it strikes my fancy. It hasn’t come to that—yet. But, use my father to threaten me, and it will.”

  Charmaine felt the blood drain from her face.

  Mercifully, Agatha emerged from the south wing hallway, an unlikely buffer for her sudden intimidation. “What goes on here?” she demanded.

  “Miss Ryan was just comparing the two of us,” her nephew replied.

  “Comparing us?” she
choked out. “Surely there is no comparison!”

  “Indeed!” John agreed wryly, raising his hand in salute.

  Then he was gone, leaving Charmaine to contend with the confused woman. With a mumbled “good morning,” she quickly retreated to the nursery.

  There she spent the next four hours lamenting her loose tongue. Why had she spoken so brashly, boastfully? Pride goeth before a fall…She’d grown overconfident and had underestimated John’s authority. Should she take the matter up with Paul and tell him about the incident with the letter? She instantly discounted that idea; it would lead to more trouble. Yes, Paul might support her, but he was second in line. And if he went to his father, Frederic would never condone her unscrupulous behavior, no matter how she pleaded her case. Somehow, her future had been placed in John’s hands. He held all the cards, had held them since Saturday morning. And if that wasn’t bad enough, she’d just added more fuel to the fire. He was right—she was stupid!

  The morning wore on, and the children grew bored. Charmaine had repeatedly quelled their requests to leave their sanctuary, but as lunchtime neared, she couldn’t quarantine them any longer. Panic seized hold as they approached the dining room. What if John were there? Thankfully, he wasn’t. Even so, his wraith was present; every little noise made Charmaine jump.

  “Where is Johnny?” Yvette asked.

  “I don’t know,” she replied, then added under her breath, “As long as he’s not here, he can be anywhere he likes.”

  “You don’t like him, do you?” Yvette demanded, canting her head.

  “I never said that!”

  “It doesn’t matter. You’ll change your mind sooner or later.”

  Charmaine nearly choked on her food. The child had never been more wrong in her life. She’d sooner declare her father a “man of God.”

  Lunch was over, but the children refused to return to the playroom. “I’m tired of playing with those silly toys or reading those fairytale books,” Yvette protested. “We haven’t left the nursery for days!”

  She was right. They couldn’t spend the rest of their lives sequestered. “Then let us have our piano lesson,” Charmaine offered.

  Yvette objected again. “Johnny might hear us, and I want to surprise him.”

  Charmaine sighed, but Jeannette’s suggestion met with everyone’s approval. “We wouldn’t be spoiling the surprise if you played for us, Mademoiselle.”

  Minutes later, they clustered around the piano, and Charmaine placed her hands to the keys, performing her usual repertoire of children’s tunes while they sang along. Even Pierre joined in, the serious tremor in his voice spawning contagious giggles. All their woes were forgotten, and gaiety ruled the afternoon.

  John was contemplating the ceiling and the dust motes suspended above him when the strains of a childhood melody floated into his bedchamber. “Damn good whisky,” he mumbled, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. Still, he wasn’t as drunk as he wanted to be. Grabbing the bottle he’d retrieved from the dining room earlier that morning, he uncorked it and poured a brimming glass. As he took a swig, the sound caught his ear again. His eyes went to the French doors where the curtains billowed in the breeze. The tune wasn’t in the bottle, and it wasn’t his besotted imagination, either. Finding the music a welcome reprieve from his dismal abyss, he rose and headed to the balcony.

  He wasn’t prepared for the piercing light and squinted sharply, reaching for the balustrade, holding fast until his world stopped spinning and the throbbing in his head ebbed. The strains were clearer now, and he pictured the twins as they sang along. A feminine soprano rose above their voices, embellishing the melody. How sweet, he mused acrimoniously, the governess plays the piano, too. He looked at the glass he held, then hurled it over the banister, relishing the sound of shattering glass when it struck the cobblestone drive.

  “My, aren’t we happy today!”

  John leaned farther over the railing. An impish George Richards smiled up at him, his smile broadening when they made eye contact.

  “You almost got me in a place I shouldn’t mention.”

  “It would have done you some good, Georgie,” John chortled. “What have you been up to today?”

  “A better question is: what haven’t I been up to? Paul keeps me going.”

  “Poor George,” John cut in with pretended sympathy, “paying the piper for an extended excursion to America. Did he save all the work for you?”

  “Not quite, but we’ve spent the morning going from one operation to the next. He’s made a few changes and wanted to acquaint me with them.”

  “Changes?”

  “He’s put Wade Remmen in charge of the sawmill,” George offered.

  “Wade Remmen?”

  “You don’t know him. He arrived on the island about two years ago: ambition, brawn, and a sharp mind for business. He’ll keep the lumber supply stocked while Paul turns his attention to tobacco. I’m glad Espoir is nearly running itself now. Even with Paul here, it will be a chore preparing the tracts for a new crop.”

  John listened, then snorted. “If Paul is going to be around, I guess we’ll have more time to antagonize one another.”

  “Only if you want to, John,” George stated bluntly, hating his role as middleman and peacemaker.

  “That’s right, George,” John agreed coldly, “and he must want it pretty badly if he’s shelved the building of his royal palace to plant tobacco and duel with me. But I’m up to the challenge, don’t you worry about that!”

  “John,” George chided, “remember when the three of us ran around Charmantes from dawn to dusk? He’s your brother, for God’s sake!”

  Running a hand through his tangled hair, John shook his head, unable to explain his festering misery. “I’m in a foul mood,” he mumbled, suddenly feeling childish. “It’s that blasted piano and the off-key singing.”

  “It’s the liquor,” George corrected.

  “Yes, I suppose it is.”

  “You ought to give it up, John. It isn’t doing you any good. Besides, the twins have been asking for you. They’re anxious to see you.”

  “Yes, yes,” John replied dismissively.

  “Why don’t you join us for dinner tonight?” George suggested. “I’ll be there. So will my grandmother. She wants to see you. She’s worried, you know.”

  John considered the invitation, then nodded. “Perhaps I will.”

  “Good,” George said. “I have to keep moving. There’s plenty to finish between now and then.”

  “Don’t let me stop you,” John quipped. “I wouldn’t want to be blamed if Paul docks your pay for slacking off.”

  George chuckled and climbed the steps to the portico. He’d just ridden back from the harbor with Paul. Best to warn him John might dine with them. Not that he regretted coaxing John out of his isolation. Still, the man was drunk and bitter, a dangerous combination that could add up to fireworks.

  He found Paul in the kitchen wolfing down a chicken leg and a thick slice of bread. “I invited John to join us for supper tonight,” he said, nodding a thank-you to Fatima as she set a glass of cold water in front of him.

  Paul coughed, swallowed, and then glared at him.

  “I thought you should know,” George added.

  “I assume then, he accepted your kind offer?” Paul queried caustically.

  “I think he did.”

  “Thank you, George, for all of us. I’m sure the meal will be as enjoyable as this one.” He waved the bread in George’s face before turning to leave.

  George delayed him. “Paul, have a care, will you? John’s your brother. He’s licking his wounds, and they’re deep. He could do with a bit of compassion.”

  “Those wounds, as you call them, are of his making.”

  “Perhaps, but they are still there.”

  Paul’s eyes traveled to Fatima, who was dabbing her eyes with her apron. Uncomfortable with the converging fronts, he brusquely strode from the room.

  Deep were his thoughts w
hen he heard the piano. His perturbation evaporated as he moved to the drawing room doorway. He had ignored the music only minutes earlier in his rush to eat and get back to work. Now he needed it.

  Charmaine struck the last chord of the long sonata she’d been playing in the hope the children would grow bored and ask to return to the playroom.

  “Well done, Mademoiselle.”

  She cringed for only a second, then regarded her admirer, who stood tall and handsome in the archway. Paul returned her smile, and her heart soared. She rose from the piano bench as he stepped into the room, his gaze unwavering.

  “Children,” he directed, “run along and play outside. I want to speak with Miss Ryan. She will join you in a moment.”

  “Why should we?” Yvette objected, rolling her eyes at her sister. “We aren’t babies anymore!”

  Charmaine was appalled, but Paul was angry. “Yvette, I have told you what to do. Now, you will respect my wishes.”

  One look at his hardened face and Yvette capitulated, marching from the room in a huff, Jeannette and Pierre right behind her.

  “Just like John,” Paul mumbled under his breath.

  “What is it you wanted?” Charmaine asked.

  He stepped closer. Will the children, the servants, and now, John, forever interrupt us? When will I find release from this gnawing desire?

  “Paul?” she queried, summoning him away from his dilemma.

  “I’d like to escort you to dinner tonight,” he said, “if you would permit me. I have reason to believe that, unlike last night or the night before, my brother will be present at the table this evening. He’s been drinking and will do his level best to ruin an excellent meal. If I am at your side, he will think twice before he taunts you, as I suspect he might.”

  “Oh thank you, Paul! I do appreciate your concern.”

  He smiled down at her, impassioned by her ebullient gratitude. “Do you think I’d ever allow you to come to harm?” he murmured huskily.