by DeVa Gantt
Paul’s mouth flew open to protest, but John beat him to the punch. “Are you describing Miss Ryan or yourself, Auntie?”
Agatha gasped loudly, and he savored her outrage before continuing. “I don’t think Miss Ryan is the consummate schemer you say she is. The refined conniver is never caught.”
Fuming, Agatha fell into a stony silence.
Charmaine, on the other hand, shuddered at the man’s tacit reference to Colette’s letter, amazed at how effortlessly he discredited two people at the same time. Had she not been included in his double-edged remark, she would have appreciated the fact the mistress of the manor had met her match.
“Now, Miss Ryan,” he proceeded, “what prompted you to leave your home and family, even your friends, to apply for a position so far away?”
For a second time, Paul attempted to answer, but John held up a hand. “Miss Ryan has a tongue, has she not? Allow her to answer the question, Paul. I fear that when you tell a story, I have to keep digging and digging until I get down to the truth of the matter.”
The ensuing silence sent Charmaine’s mind into a spiraling frenzy. Spontaneously, Paul winked at her, a gesture that drew a callous grunt from John. But it imbued her with valor; she could answer as concisely as he had. “My home was in Richmond,” she said. “When my mother died, I needed to make a new life for myself. Friends in Richmond—the people I worked for—informed me of the opening for a governess here. They have family on the island.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really! When I heard of the position and showed an interest in seeking an interview, they accompanied me.”
The inevitable question followed. “And what of your father?”
Here it comes, Charmaine thought, Anne London’s nasty allegations. She’d been right: John knew all about her past and had bided his time, carefully choosing the moment to defame her, and in front of the children, no less! She thought to flee. I’ve learned never to turn my back on the enemy.
“My father disappeared one day,” she replied boldly, catching sight of Agatha’s smug smile, “never to return.”
“He just disappeared?” John scoffed. “Never to return? People don’t just disappear, Miss Ryan. There must have been a reason why he deserted you. What type of man does such a thing?”
Rose’s sympathetic eyes rested on the dedicated governess. Charmaine was undeserving of this insensitive inquisition. “John,” she chided, “will you please stop talking and start eating? Your potatoes are getting cold.”
“They’re already cold,” he stated flatly, not backing down as he had before, his eyes unwavering, “and my question has yet to be answered. I find your story hard to believe, Miss Ryan. Did your father really do that?”
“Yes,” she whispered.
“Why?”
Charmaine clenched her jaw. Anger and humiliation collided, their union tantamount only to her loathing of this man. He played the game so well, pretending not to know the answers he probably had memorized, while insinuating she was the liar. “My father was responsible for my mother’s death,” she hissed. “He disappeared in order to escape punishment for his crime.”
John regarded her skeptically. Her acting was superb—a hint of tears welling in her doe-like eyes—and for that she deserved credit. But murder? Was she suggesting her father was guilty of murder? One look at Paul’s stark face and the macabre revelation was verified. “A great man,” he commented mordantly.
“Are you satisfied?” she demanded. “Do you derive pleasure by demeaning me in front of the children, or are you out to prove me unfit to care for them?”
“I don’t hold you responsible for your father’s actions, if that is what you’re implying, Miss Ryan, only your own. The man should have been horsewhipped and then hung at dawn for his evil deed. In future, when I ask a question, you should speak the truth, immediately. I’m an honest man, and I respect those who are honest with me. Perhaps we will get along if you heed my words.”
Charmaine was both stunned and revolted by his condescending tirade. An honest man? Bah! “I fear you contradict yourself, sir, for when I dared to speak the truth to you on Saturday morning, you refused to believe a word I said!”
She immediately regretted bringing up the topic; Paul’s puzzled regard was upon her. Even so, she could sense his applause.
John was not so easily captivated and laughed outright. He stood and walked over to the liquor cabinet, where he selected a bottle of wine. He uncorked it and poured himself another glass. “Don’t play me for the fool, Miss Ryan,” he sneered, turning back to her. “Poor innocent Charmaine Ryan just happened to venture into my chambers in search of her charges, when a gale force wind came along, opening a drawer and scattering papers on the floor. And just as she was doing her first good deed of the day by picking them up and reading them, that nasty ogre of a man, John Duvoisin, came storming into the room to persecute and defile her wholesome kindness with his blackhearted evilness—”
Paul shot to his feet, slamming his fists down on either side of his plate and sending the china clattering across the table. “You insist on making everyone here miserable, don’t you?” he exploded. “Don’t you?”
George jumped to his feet as well, shaking his head at a seething Paul before moving to John, whose eyes were dark with hatred. “John, just sit down and eat,” he ordered, prodding him back to the table.
Surprisingly, John did not resist, and Paul, who awaited his brother’s retreat, slowly sat as well. An implacable silence enveloped the room, leaving Charmaine to ponder this latest outburst. Surreptitiously, she glanced from Paul to John. The former blindly contemplated some object on the table, while the latter studied the crystal wineglass he rotated in his hand.
Minutes lapsed and the main course was eventually finished. Only dessert remained. Felicia returned with a generous tray of assorted cakes and turnovers. Charmaine declined, having lost her appetite long ago. Paul did the same, contenting himself with a cup of black coffee. John chose to nurse the wine in front of him. George, however, took three.
“You glutton,” John commented, eyeing the stack.
Charmaine’s anger flared. There wasn’t a civil bone in the man’s body.
“Why waste?” George shrugged, taking a large bite of the tart on top. “Besides,” he continued with his mouth full, “tomorrow, they’ll be stale.”
“Yuk!”
All eyes turned to Jeannette, who had pushed her pastry away. “I hate nuts!”
Standing, she reached across the table for another, but Agatha swiftly confiscated the tray, slapping her hand away. “You’ve already chosen your dessert, young lady. You must be satisfied with it.”
“But—”
“No buts!” Agatha reprimanded. “Nuts or no, you must eat the one you selected. A girl of your age and class should know it is uncultured to call attention to your plate and then attempt to snatch a second helping.” The woman turned her accusatory eyes upon Charmaine, and the remonstration took on a twofold purpose. “It seems the children haven’t received any lessons in table manners. First you”—and she flicked her hand at Yvette—“raising your glass like a common seaman at a tavern, and you”—she wrinkled her nose at Jeannette—“grabbing at the desserts like a starving beast. A proper young lady would be appalled!”
Charmaine bowed her head and silently sympathized with Jeannette.
“Furthermore, it is sinful to waste food,” Agatha concluded.
John rose and walked to the foot of the table. His aunt cringed as he lifted the pastry tray. “Jeannette, if Auntie here is a paragon of propriety, then God help us. Personally, I think you are a fine young lady.”
Enraged, Agatha’s mouth flew open. “I will not tolerate your insolence!”
“Nor I yours. You’ve made it abundantly clear you fancy yourself ‘Duchess-Countess-Empress-Your Royal Majesty, the Queen,’ and I, for one, care not to have it shoved down my throat for dinner!”
“I am mistress of this house and
demand your respect!”
“Ah, but one day I will be in charge here,” John countered. “Take heed, Auntie. It is wise to stay in my good graces, for once my father passes from this world to the next, I won’t hesitate to expel those who irritate me, relative or no.”
Holding her breath, Charmaine glanced at Paul, surprised to see him smiling. One sweep around the room told her he was not the only one enjoying the duel. Anna and Felicia had stepped out of the kitchen, and Charmaine could vividly imagine Fatima Henderson from within, an ear pressed to the door.
“Your father will hear of this insult!” Agatha screeched, her face ruby red. “He shall hold you directly responsible for what you have said. Your drunken daze will not excuse you come the morrow!”
“I need no excuse,” he replied, menacingly, “for drunk or no, I mean what I say. So take your little complaint to Papa as fast as your spindly legs will carry you. However, you will never receive an ounce of respect from me.”
Though Agatha trembled with rage, John appeared insouciant, dismissing her as quickly as he presented the tray of pastries to Jeannette. “Which one would you like, Jeannie?”
“I wanted crème,” she said softly, “but stepmother took the last one.”
“Crème it shall be,” John agreed before turning toward the kitchen and calling an unfamiliar name. “Cookie!”
Fatima hobbled into the room. “You want something, Master John?”
How clever, Charmaine thought wryly, he nicknamed the cook “Cookie.”
He requested a crème pastry for Jeannette, and Yvette immediately jumped in, asking for another one, too. “And what about you, Pierre?” he inquired, looking to the boy who immediately turned around, a good portion of his half-eaten dessert smeared across his face. “I suppose not. Make that two crème pastries, Cookie, and next time, leave out the nuts. Jeannette doesn’t like them.”
“I like them!” George protested, plate miraculously clean, eyeing the one Jeannette had rejected.
“George, you would eat anything,” John commented dryly. “If you were Gummy, we wouldn’t have had a story to laugh over tonight.”
He picked up the discarded tart, but instead of giving it to George, he placed it in front of Agatha. “Here you go, Auntie, you finish it. It’s sinful to waste.”
George laughed loudly, gladly forfeiting the pastry for Agatha’s dressing down. Everyone else gaped. John’s impudence was boundless, leaving Charmaine to wonder if he ever left well enough alone. Agatha continued to seethe, but said not a word as John returned to his seat.
Charmaine stole sidelong glances at the head of the table, studying him curiously. He had certainly fallen into his role of master of the house. How much power would Agatha wield with him countering her every move? A storm was brewing to be sure, and most exciting would be the final showdown, when the battle, as Agatha threatened, would be brought before Frederic. Who would the man stand by: his prodigal son or his witch of a wife?
Dessert was finished, and Paul stood. “Ladies, George,” he suggested invidiously, “why don’t we retire to the drawing room for the remainder of the evening?” He motioned toward the hall, then assisted Charmaine with her chair.
“I quite agree,” Agatha added as if nothing untoward had happened, standing regally and running a hand over her costly gown. “Perhaps we could enjoy a glass of port. Yes, port would do me a world of good.”
“I doubt anything would do her a world of good,” John mumbled to George, rising as well, “excluding, of course, a stampede of wild boars.”
George chortled again. “Why don’t you join us?” he invited, leaving the table and patting John jovially across the back. “I need your advice on a land deal I’ve heard about near Richmond.”
When John agreed, Charmaine’s plans for the evening immediately changed. She moved around the foot of the table and lifted Pierre into her arms, placing a tender kiss on his chubby cheek.
“Mainie,” he said, laying his head on her shoulder.
John’s attention was drawn to the spectacle, and he frowned.
“This little one is ready for a bath and bedtime story,” Rose commented as she stood and squeezed Pierre’s pudgy leg. “Let me settle him in for the night.”
“You’ve minded him for the entire dinner,” Charmaine said, anxious to return to the nursery. “I’ll take him.”
Yvette stomped her foot. “I don’t want to go to bed! It’s too early. I want to go to the drawing room with everybody else.”
“I didn’t say you had to—”
“She is right, my Charm,” John interrupted pleasantly. “It is much too early for the girls to retire.”
Charmaine tensed; Paul was rankled by John’s endearment of her name. “If you would have allowed me to finish,” she replied stiffly, “I was about to say Yvette and Jeannette may stay.”
“How noble of you,” John taunted. “You relieve Nana Rose of caring for a small three-year-old, then ask her to mind two eight-year-olds.”
“John,” Rose admonished gently, “I love the children.”
His face softened, and he considered Pierre, who snuggled contentedly in Charmaine’s embrace. “I never doubted that. I know he’s safe in your hands.”
Insulted, Charmaine’s arms quickened around the boy, but Rose was already coaxing him away.
“Allow Rose to see to Pierre tonight,” Paul interjected. “We rarely have the pleasure of your company.”
Defeated, she smiled across the table at him. Then her eyes traveled to John who was moving toward her, his raised brow and crooked grin unsettling.
“Let me,” he said, reaching for Pierre. “I’ll carry him upstairs for Rose.”
The boy buried his head deeper into Charmaine’s shoulder and refused to be cajoled into his brother’s outstretched arms.
“I’ll take him,” Paul said, coming around the table.
This time Pierre lifted his head and smiled. Charmaine passed him over to Paul perturbed by the anger that smoldered in John’s eyes.
“He knows me, John,” Paul placated before leaving the room with Rose.
“Shall we?” George interrupted, defusing the vexing moment.
When they reached the front parlor, Jeannette crossed to John and clutched his hand. “Johnny? Is it true what Auntie Agatha said?”
“About what?” he asked.
“Are you really drunk?”
John seemed taken aback by her frank question. “Not quite yet,” he said, bowing his head. “But a glass or two should see me to that end.”
“Why haven’t you visited us?” Yvette demanded, drawing up alongside her sister. “We waited in that boring playroom all weekend!”
“I was preoccupied with other matters, Yvette. I’m afraid I would not have been entertaining company.”
He settled into a sofa, and the twins situated themselves on either side of him, a safe distance from Agatha, who took up the needlepoint she never seemed to finish. Paul returned, and he and George started discussing work priorities for the next day. As Charmaine suspected, the next unpleasant episode began.
“Wielding the whip again, Paul?” John observed dryly, joining them.
“That’s right. After all, that is how we keep the business running, is it not?”
“Or how you keep George running,” John retaliated, straddling the chair he’d pulled out and placed directly across from his brother. He folded his arms over the back and leaned forward. “You don’t waste much of his time, do you?”
“No,” Paul replied, “unlike you, I don’t waste much of George’s time.”
“I thought you could run Charmantes with your hands tied behind your back.”
“Once again, you are mistaken,” Paul replied, his patience wearing thin. “I’m the first to admit my limitations, which happen to be far greater when George is not around to pull his weight.”
George’s chest inflated.
“But you did manage without him,” John countered.
“Yes, I did.
I’m not completely without resources.”
George’s chest deflated.
Pretending great interest, John continued his assiduous pestering. “You never cease to amaze me, Paulie, turning to virgin resources so the construction of your palace would not be delayed.”
Paul was dumbfounded. “How did you know—?” He threw George a scowl and shook his head. “Never mind. It’s a house, John, not a mausoleum.”
“Well, then”—John proceeded with a chuckle—“if it’s only a house, no wonder you were able to manage without George. And no, George didn’t tell me. I already knew. So, how did you manage without him?”
“By relying on more dependable help,” Paul answered, casting another emphasized glare at George. “In fact, the only real complication I had to confront and then rectify was of your making, dear brother.”
Charmaine shuddered with the appellation, knowing it portended trouble. She watched John’s lips curl amusedly, the devil dancing in his eyes.
“Complication?” he inquired innocently. “What complication?”
Paul resisted the urge to launch into the subject of missing invoices.
“Is there something wrong?” John asked, his tone all courtesy and concern. “No? Then may I ask a question?”
“Ask away,” Paul ceded impatiently.
“You mentioned resources. Would it be too impertinent to ask who managed my inheritance when you went gallivanting across the seas to New York and Europe or your soon not-to-be-deserted island?”
“Father—he handled everything.”
“Then he’s only an invalid when he wants to be? I can’t imagine him mounting his mighty steed and riding out to the fields each day. So, who was in charge while you were away? Or is that why the sugar crop has been so bad?”
Paul’s temper flared. “You cannot be serious! I work my hands raw for the likes of you, while you sit back and wait for Father’s fortune to fall squarely into your lap. Don’t talk to me about gallivanting when it’s you who’ve gallivanted on the mainland for these past ten years, choosing to do as little as possible!” When he received nothing more than John’s crooked smile, he was needled into reproving his brother further. “In the words of Socrates: ‘Let him that would move the world, first move himself.’”