by DeVa Gantt
The study was occupied. John sat at the desk with his head buried in his hands, so deep in thought he was unaware of her presence.
“Sir?” she queried.
He came up immediately from his contemplation, but quickly averted his gaze, wiping a forearm across his eyes. They appeared glassy, red even, undoubtedly the result of his restless night. She wondered whether the strange events were still on his mind.
“Sir, are you all right?”
“Sir?” he mimicked, finally looking at her. “I thought we’d dispensed with that formality last night. I prefer John.”
“Very well,” she replied guardedly, recalling Paul’s warning.
“I returned from town two hours ago,” he said, “but I’ve yet to see our resident ghost, Joseph Thornfield. Does he only come out at night?”
“Why do you want to see him?”
“I visited the bank on his behalf this morning, and I want to give him this account voucher before he complains I stole his money.”
“A bank voucher?” Charmaine asked in astonishment. “Have you placed his dollar in the bank for him?”
His expression turned cross. “For safe keeping.”
“Of course,” she nodded, smiling buoyantly now.
“You think I’m being too lenient with the lad, don’t you?”
“Oh, no, sir. I mean, John.”
She was laughing at him, and he didn’t like it. “Are you here for a reason, Miss Ryan?”
She considered the book she held and sobered. “I’m glad you were lenient with Joseph. Yvette is a different matter.”
His frown deepened. “Yvette? Why?”
“You may think she’s clever, but her escapades are getting out of hand. After her mother’s death, I indulged her. Her precocity was preferable to lethargy, and her antics had a positive effect on Jeannette. They were smiling again. But lately, she’s lost all sense of decorum.”
John snorted. “I’d be more concerned about Jeannette.”
“Jeannette?”
“Yes, Jeannette. She’s far too good, far too kind. Unlike Yvette, who’s learned to stand up for herself, who will never be manipulated, Jeannette is a sweet innocent who might easily be destroyed one day.”
Charmaine’s bewildered expression gave him pause; he hadn’t meant to say so much. “Yvette was born into money,” he quickly added. “She is playing the part of a little rich girl.”
The final remark chafed Charmaine. “A spoiled little rich girl,” she corrected defensively. “Her mother would not approve. Colette demanded good manners of all three children, grace and charity taking precedence over wealth. Yvette respected that, responded to her mildest of reprimands.”
John’s eyes turned dark. “Each to his own opinion, Miss Ryan. But I hold it is wiser to be bold than meek.”
Monday, September 4, 1837
John sat slumped in one of the study’s large leather chairs and fiddled with one of Pierre’s blocks, lacing it through his lean fingers, waiting for Paul, who held his position behind the huge secretary, to finish speaking. His brother had requested this meeting last night, but John had brushed it off until the morning, saying he was too tired and would be up before seven. Thus he sat, the early riser, if not the serious businessman Paul expected him to be.
“That is the state of our financial affairs. Any comments?” Paul looked up from his ledger, instantly losing his patience. “What are you snickering at now?”
“You, Paulie. You take this all so seriously.”
“You’re damned right I do—”
“I don’t know where Father and I would be without you,” John interrupted blithely. “In the militia, perhaps.”
“You sit there and laugh, but this is not some trivial game to be scoffed at. You’re in for a rude awakening someday. By then, it may be too late. Don’t come crying to me when you find a fortune has slipped through your fingers.”
“Whose fortune, Paul? Father’s or mine?”
“You know when Father dies it’s all yours.”
“The only fortune I’m worried about is mine, the one I acquired on my own.”
“On your own?” Paul scoffed. “Beyond your salary, I think you’re overlooking all the other conveniences Father’s shipping, plantation, and good name have afforded you in making your own fortune.”
“I’d have been a fool not to take advantage of them,” John replied in kind, “but Father’s enterprises benefit from my charity as well.”
“Charity?”
“Let’s start with the staples I ship to the island on a regular basis at no charge: feed, flour, corn, tobacco—”
“Grown on Duvoisin land, John, land that has belonged to the family for three generations—”
“And farmed by workers whom I pay out of my own pocket. I haven’t been reimbursed for that.”
“That is your own folly!” Paul bit back. “You weren’t forced to free your slaves. The land could be farmed for a pittance of what you pay your tenants!”
“Yes, Paul, my folly and my conscience.”
“Conscience?” Paul snorted in derision. “Since when has conscience concerned you? They’re only slaves.”
“Yes, Paul, they’re only slaves. And Cookie is only our cook, and Buck only your foreman. You’ve never been to a slave auction. If you had, you’d be revolted, and you certainly wouldn’t abide such degradation, free labor or no.”
Paul exhaled. The argument was moot. He’d learned long ago, starting with Colette: the abolitionist could never be persuaded to think logically.
“Never mind, John. I’ve not called this meeting to debate with you. Obviously, we view things differently. You, of course, know that and have led me far from the point.”
“I didn’t know there was a point to all this rambling.”
Paul ignored the remark. “The island is short of supplies. For all your so-called charity, we haven’t received a shipment of staples for months now.”
“You must be mistaken. Before I left for New York, I left instructions at the Richmond warehouse that your last order be shipped no later than mid-April. I couldn’t have spelled it more clearly—”
“Well, no such packet arrived.”
“—if I had drawn a picture for them.”
Paul’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t tell me that was the vessel with the missing invoices!”
“Missing invoices? I don’t handle the paperwork.”
“No—you only draw on it!”
John chuckled. “Now, Paul, don’t lose your temper over a harmless joke—”
“A harmless joke? Is that what you call it?”
“When did you lose your sense of humor, Paul? You’re no fun anymore. Anyway, you received the supplies, so why the scolding?”
“Because, dear brother,” Paul snarled between clenched teeth, “I sent the vessel back to you!”
“Back to me? In God’s name, why?”
“It was your confounded mess. I don’t pay my crews to dig through holds, break open casks, and take inventories!”
“What are you talking about?”
“The ship arrived here, all right, via Liverpool, with a cargo for Richmond. Your incompetent captain insisted that—under your orders—he stacked our supplies at the very back of the hold, instead of off to one side. Once he took on the European wares, our casks were buried!”
“I don’t give loading instructions,” John replied. “Stuart does, and he knows what he’s doing, so the mix-up must have occurred in Britain.”
The response was sincere, and Paul surmised the new captain had been pressed to weigh anchor and leave port, so to save time he’d cut corners and ordered the European goods loaded haphazardly.
“The British invoices were legitimate,” John continued, scratching the back of his head, “and the casks for the island were marked with the Duvoisin crest. So between the European invoices, your original order, and the crest on the barrels, how difficult could it have been to locate your cargo?” John’s deep chuckle e
rupted into a hearty guffaw. “And you sent it all back!”
“It isn’t funny, John!”
“Yes, it is!” he averred, wiping a tear from his eye. “Tell me, Paul, were you wearing trousers or a skirt the day you made that decision?”
Paul’s face blackened. “Laugh all you like, John, but you couldn’t have been happy when the ship returned to Richmond. In the end, it was your loss.”
“What loss? I wasn’t in Virginia to receive the ship. I was in New York.”
“Jesus Christ!” Paul exploded. “Do you realize what that means?”
“Yes,” John snickered, “either the cargo is sitting in my warehouse losing market value—which doesn’t affect me, since I wasn’t selling it, anyway—or, Stuart figured you didn’t need it, and put it up for auction. That brings in money I hadn’t counted on. If I were you, Paul, I’d pray it’s stored in the warehouse, but I wouldn’t bank on it.”
“Damn it, John, your bright idea for these new shipping routes is just not working! Now, you’re going to set this matter right before the day is out!”
“And how do you suggest I do that?”
“You are going to write to Edward Richecourt and have him arrange another shipment of the staples we need, straightaway. No stops in New York or Baltimore, no stops in Europe. It’s leaving Richmond and coming here directly, within the month, with accurate invoices. And from now on, I want a dedicated packet running a Charmantes to U.S. circuit at least once a month.”
“Edward Richecourt? That stiff ass wouldn’t know the first thing about handling this,” John replied. “I’ll take care of it my own way. But since I’ll have to pull a ship off its normal route, I’m going to charge all the associated expenses to the island’s account, not mine. And if you want a dedicated bark running half-empty between here and the States, weighted down with blocks my crew will have to load and unload for ballast, why not use one of your new ships? That way the family business can benefit from your charity, too.”
“Just be about it, John. I’ll see to it you’re paid.”
John stood to leave, but Paul stopped him. “I’m not finished yet.”
“No? What more could you possibly have to say?”
Paul ignored the gibe. “I’d appreciate your help while I’m on Espoir, looking in on operations, especially the tobacco. We’re new at it.”
“Why in the hell did you plant that?” his brother continued in the same vein.
“I don’t know. Now that I’ve seen all the additional work it has caused me, I wish I’d gone with cocoa instead. But that’s neither here nor there. Harold, Wade, and George handle day-to-day production well enough, but Charmantes requires capable—practiced—hands. Things always run smoother when I’m around.”
“Then can you really afford to place her in my incapable hands?”
“I never said you were incapable, John, just bent on irritating me. You have more authority than George if a crisis erupts, which always seems to happen when I’m away.”
“Don’t worry, Charmantes will be shipshape when you return.”
“Good,” Paul nodded, feeling at ease for the first time that morning.
Then he remembered something else. Despite Charmaine’s request he leave well enough alone, he forged forward. “There’s one more thing, John. I’d like to talk to you about the children.”
John’s expression turned stern. “What of them?”
“I don’t want you annoying them.”
“Annoying them?”
“You know what I mean, distracting them from their lessons, seeking them out in the afternoon, playing nursemaid.”
“I didn’t realize you had such a sharp eye,” John replied curtly, “especially when you’re away from the house all day. So how would you know what’s going on? Unless, of course, you have an informant.”
“I have no informant. I see for myself what’s happening. You know Father wouldn’t approve. He doesn’t want you around them.”
“Approve?” John queried derisively. “I don’t give a damn what he wants, and I certainly don’t care if he approves. I will seek out the children whenever and wherever I like, and you can tell him that.”
“Damn it, John! When will you desist from this need to hurt him?”
“Hurt him? What about me? There was a time when you were sympathetic to me.” Disgusted, he added, “Just remember, Paul, he started it all.”
“And he’s paid.”
“Has he? Well, then, so have I.”
Chapter 3
Sunday, September 10, 1837
AN hour before Sunday Mass, Yvette announced she was not going. “The benches are too hard, and Father Benito talks gibberish. If Johnny doesn’t go, why should I?” Charmaine had reasoned, cajoled, and threatened to take the matter to Frederic—all to no avail.
John! She simmered. This is all his doing! He hadn’t set foot in the mansion’s chapel since he’d arrived. Plainly, Yvette was utilizing Paul’s absence to pit her governess’s authority against John’s. Well, Charmaine fumed as she headed toward Frederic’s chambers, we’ll just see about that!
She didn’t get far. Agatha emerged from the south wing corridor, blocking her path. Few words had passed between them since Pierre’s spanking, and Charmaine wasn’t about to strike up a conversation now. With a cursory nod, she changed direction and scooted down the stairs.
As her initial fury ebbed, common sense took hold. To whom could she turn to convince the headstrong eight-year-old attending Mass was essential for her moral welfare? Rose? Possibly. John? She almost laughed aloud at the thought; he was the root of the problem. Still, he didn’t know a thing about it. Perhaps if he did, he’d accompany them to the chapel, and Yvette would abandon her protests. Hadn’t he lent a hand before?
She found him in the dining room, alone, eating a large breakfast, even though the rest of the household observed the Church’s decree of a strict fast before Communion. She had seen less of him this week. With Paul gone, he’d assumed the reins of responsibility. Nevertheless, he had managed to spend time with the children before he left the house or directly after dinner. It was becoming less difficult to speak to him. Even so, she stepped forward gingerly.
“Excuse me, sir.”
John’s eyes left his newspaper. “Miss Ryan,” he returned, irritated by her persistent formality. “Is there something I can do for you?”
“Yes, there is,” she jumped in, mustering a radiant smile.
She was rewarded for her efforts, for he smiled in return, apparently disarmed by her ebullience, and she braced herself for a suggestive remark.
“What would that be?” he asked instead.
“I’d like to invite you to attend Mass with us this morning,” she said, carefully choosing her words. “I know the children would enjoy your company.”
His smile vanished. Still, he hadn’t refused.
She took courage and pressed on, hoping to fan his enthusiasm again. “And then there’s Pierre. He can be quite fidgety in church, but I thought if you were there—well, you’re so good with him and—”
“Really?” he interrupted, fixing steely eyes upon her. “You know, Miss Ryan, your tactics are duplicitous, yet rather transparent. You play the helpless heroine to a fault, seeking out my aid when it suits you, then complain to my brother afterward.”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
“Don’t you? Well, no matter.”
The seconds gathered into an uncomfortable silence.
“Was there something else, Miss Ryan?”
“Something else?”
“Yes. I’d like to return to my meal.”
Dumbfounded, she dropped her hands to her sides and blurted out, “Won’t you even consider accompanying us to the family service?”
“Miss Ryan,” he replied slowly, “as a boy, I heard enough of Father Benito’s fire-and-brimstone sermons to last me well into eternity. I had no choice then. I do now and have no intention of suffering through even one more.
I need no pretentious priest to measure my pain. I do that well enough on my own. Does that answer your question?”
“Surely you can’t mean that!”
“Haven’t you learned by now I always mean what I say? Apparently not. So, let me spell it out for you: I will not accompany you or the children to Mass. Not today, nor next week—not ever.”
“But you must!” she objected, anger eclipsing her dismay. This man was wreaking havoc in the household with his heathen ways, and it was time someone told him so. “You may not care a farthing about your own soul, but it is unforgivable you’ve neglected the children’s!”
Bemused now, his brow arched. “What have they to do with it?”
“Everything and more! You ought to consider the effect your bad example has on them. What do you think crosses their impressionable minds when week after week, they see you reject God by refusing to partake of His son’s holy celebration? How do you propose I explain it to them?”
“So,” he scoffed, “this has nothing to do with an invitation to join you after all. And here I thought you worried over my sooted soul.”
“Have no fear about that!” she rejoined pointedly. “I’d be a fool to think I could ever sway the likes of you!”
“A very Christian attitude,” he replied mordantly.
“How dare you mock my values?”
“Your values, my dear, are not, by my estimation, worth holding.”
“Oh, you—you—”
“Scoundrel? Infidel?” he offered. “No, I think demon would be more to your liking.”
“Yes, demon is perfect!” she exclaimed furiously, but instantly repented the words. “I’m sorry. I didn’t come here to call names.”
“No? A lecture in morality then?” he pressed, annoyed she felt at liberty to confront him this way. Wasn’t she the hired help and he the family? When she refused to answer, he continued. “Miss Ryan, let me clear something up right now. I don’t take kindly to people—especially righteous women—who nurture a bit of good will with me and then assume I can be manipulated into doing their bidding. For the moment, I’d like to think you and I have come to a truce of sorts; however, I guarantee I will put an end to that truce within the hour if you persist in attempting to bend me to your will.”