by DeVa Gantt
His deadly tone left no doubt she had pushed him too far. Even so, she felt unjustly accused. She had approached the situation from the wrong angle and had to find a way to salvage her self-respect and regain the ground of civility they had cultivated over the past fortnight. “Sir, that was not my intention.”
“Then what is this all about?”
“I’ve told you—the children, specifically Yvette. She refuses to attend Mass because, as she puts it, ‘If Johnny doesn’t go, why should I?’ I thought if you accompanied us, she would forsake this stubborn nonsense.”
He did not immediately respond, though Charmaine could tell a barrage of retorts raced through his quick mind. When he did speak, she was aghast.
“Leave her behind with me, then. The Mass is, after all, a ritual for which the soul is supposed to yearn, is it not?” Sarcasm laced his query. “If Father Benito’s preaching leaves her empty, what is the point in forcing her?”
“The point? The point is we are speaking of a child’s soul, a soul that will not reach its Maker if it does not partake of the sacred ceremony you ridicule! I cannot believe you’re suggesting she is old enough to decide this for herself!”
He remained calm in the face of her resurrected rage. “And what need does an innocent eight-year-old have of that damned doctrine? Perhaps your comprehension would not be so limited, so obtuse, if you answered that question without prejudice, Miss Ryan. What terrible sin has she committed, is capable of committing, that would damn her to your godforsaken hell for all eternity? What morality need she learn that her own family cannot teach her?”
“What morality, indeed!” she rejoined contemptuously. “If her mother were still alive, I might agree with you. But even the mistress Colette did not limit her Christian example to good deeds alone. She marched the children to the chapel each and every Sunday. Can’t you see? It is what she wanted.”
“By God, woman!” he exploded, slamming a fist into the table.
“What makes you think I give a damn about what the mistress Colette wanted?”
“Because—” Charmaine stammered, wide-eyed and trembling “—because she was a kind and decent woman who lived her faith, a faith she wanted her children to embrace.” Foolishly, inexplicably, she babbled on, even though her mind screamed: flee. “Besides, she was your father’s wife and mother to your siblings. Surely, as such, you should respect her wishes!”
“Miss Ryan,” he snarled, “the mistress Colette was a very different woman than the one you have painted, and my feelings toward her were far from noble. She should never have become ‘Mrs. Frederic Duvoisin.’ In fact, I approved of her less in that role than I do the third Mrs. Duvoisin. So keep your angelic apparitions to yourself. I cannot stomach such a large dose of piety and virtue this early in the day!”
With his last words, Charmaine did indeed flee, her dignity in tatters.
Colette, dear sweet Colette! How could the man degrade her so? Charmaine couldn’t understand it! Paul’s assertions echoed in her ears: Even Colette, as good and kind as she tried to be to him, suffered at his hands. It was true! True! How could she have allowed her guard to slip these past weeks? How could she have thought there was anything more to the man than her initial impression of turpitude? What a fool she had been! Paul had warned her, and still, she had discounted his wise judgment and allowed John to ingratiate himself to the children. No wonder Paul was wary! John was depraved! Thank God she had seen him for what he was before it was too late!
Yvette faltered when she entered the nursery. “Did you speak with Father?”
“No, I did not. I spoke to your brother instead.”
“Johnny?”
“I’d hoped he’d reason with you, but he refused. In fact, he scorned your mother’s beliefs. What a shame you’ve chosen his bitterness over her goodness.”
Jeannette stood from her bed. “Yvette is hurting Mama by not going to Mass, isn’t she, Mademoiselle?”
“Yes, I’m afraid she is,” Charmaine whispered.
“See, Yvette, I told you so. You mustn’t hurt Mama anymore. She won’t rest in peace unless she’s pleased with everything we do.”
Rose walked in. “What is this?” she asked, taking in their somber faces. “I’ve seen happier people at a funeral.”
It was too much; Jeannette erupted into tears, and Yvette’s frown deepened.
“Whatever is the matter?” Rose clucked. “There now, child, don’t cry.”
“Yvette won’t go to Mass!” she sobbed. “She doesn’t care Mama—”
“I didn’t say that!” Yvette countered. “And I’ve changed my mind. I’ll go, Jeannette—only please stop crying!”
The night was black. An open carriage swayed as it gained momentum. The dark, dusty road was barely negotiable, treacherous to the inexperienced hand, and fear suddenly gripped the driver. She pulled back on the reins and the horse shied and whinnied, then slowed to a steady prance. Although the buggy’s lamp would help illuminate the way, it was wiser to leave it unlit. The deserted road leveled off, and a dim light appeared through the trees off to the right. The driver yanked on the reins, and the horse all but stopped. Locating the turn, the animal proceeded gingerly, and the conveyance moved toward the beacon, squeaking to a halt before a solitary structure nestled in the dark forest. Still, the real journey had yet to begin, and she steeled herself against the impending trial, descending the coupe, her black skirts cascading to her ankles as she reached the ground. Although she stepped stealthily, gravel crunched underfoot, signaling her trek. As she mounted the steps, the door cracked open.
“You are late,” a deep voice accused from within. “Six hours late.”
She crossed the threshold, and the door closed behind her. With an air of indifference, she ripped off her gloves, pushed back the hood of her cloak, and faced the enemy. “I told you I would come, and I have.”
She was angry. He could see it in her set jaw and piercing eyes, but she was worried too, her discomfiture poorly concealed beneath a mask of cool contempt.
“You seem to believe you can keep me waiting,” he stated coldly, “and I have never tolerated waiting for anyone, least of all the likes of you.”
“How dare you—”
“Mrs. Duvoisin,” he admonished, irritated by her outrage.
“Don’t play games with me. You are here for an unseemly reason, one that you hope will go away if you just ignore it, a supposition you thought to test by arriving late today. So let me spell it out for you. I never forget, and I am not a tolerant man. Next time, don’t be tardy, or my patience will reach its limit before the first hour has passed.”
“Next time? I assure you, there will be no next time,” she hissed.
“You are mad if you think this will continue!”
“On the contrary. Not only will you continue to pay me, but as of today, my silence costs twice as much.”
“You have been paid enough already!”
“If that were the case, you would not be here tonight, would you?” He paused, letting his remark sink in. “Let me decide when I have been paid enough. Even at double the price, my fee is not at all unreasonable for the wife of Frederic Duvoisin. After all, look at the heights you have scaled thus far. And isn’t that what this is all about—how you’ve benefited from plotting and planning? So why not share the wealth with someone who understands you?”
“I’ve no idea what you are talking about!”
“No? Your husband might be interested in learning of the duplicitous life you’ve been leading. And then there’s a theory I’ve been toying with. Frederic might find a visit from me most…‘revealing,’ shall I say?”
“There are ways to deal with you!”
His eyes turned evil. “Do you take me for a fool, Madame? I hope not. Because if you try to get rid of me, the truth will come out.”
He watched her fear deepen and nodded. “Yes, I have taken precautionary measures. Now, let me relieve you of this.”
He stepped forw
ard and slipped the reticule from her fingers. Loosening the cinches, he fingered the cold cash within. Satisfied, he pulled the strings closed. “Very good. Very good indeed. From today forward, we will meet every other Saturday at three o’clock sharp. I do so enjoy your visits. Goodnight, Mrs. Duvoisin.”
“Saturday? Why Saturday?”
“Surely you can see the wisdom of a Saturday rendezvous. If you fail to keep that appointment, I can kill two birds with one stone come Sunday morning.” He chuckled wickedly, pleased with his pun. “At any rate, I doubt your husband will be pleased to see me. Our last private meeting was disastrous enough. Another could prove fatal.” His keen eyes rested pointedly on her, and for the moment, she ceded defeat.
Monday, September 18, 1837
The children were asleep, and Charmaine climbed into bed, exhausted. Last week had been difficult, and this one was off to a bad start. It had rained every day, and they had been housebound. To make matters worse, John hadn’t come near them, his absence feeding the children’s boredom and restlessness. Of course, they begged for his company, but he used Paul’s trip to Espoir as an excuse: he was busy with work, a justification that acquitted him while branding Paul the despot. Nevertheless, Charmaine hid behind the same white lie when they complained to her, and wondered what fib she would use when Paul returned. She didn’t have to worry about that yet. Paul had sent word he’d be detained on Espoir a week longer. If the rain persisted, it meant another seven days cooped up in the house, another week that would consume John’s time. She suspected he was avoiding them out of spite to prove some enigmatic point. For all his preoccupation with “work,” she was certain those responsibilities wouldn’t have prevented him from setting time aside for the children if he had been so inclined.
Once John passes judgment on somebody, he rarely changes it. Obviously, his unfavorable opinion of her hadn’t changed, despite his conciliatory comportment in the days leading up to last Sunday. What had he called it? A truce? A truce was a suspension of fighting between enemies. So, John still viewed her as an enemy. But why should that matter to her, anyway?
She’d considered forgiving his unholy remarks—words spawned in the heat of the argument—but abandoned that idea yesterday when they crossed paths with him on their way to the chapel. “So, Miss Ryan,” he’d observed wryly, his eyes on Yvette, “I see you have risen from the battle victorious.” It was too much! She seethed throughout Mass. The man was incorrigible, no, worse, barbaric, without principle, unable to communicate on a level shared by the whole of civil society. He didn’t deserve her clemency.
Still, he dominated her thoughts, and her mind lingered on something Millie Thornfield had said earlier when she had drawn her bath. “My Mum likes him. She claims that any man who loves children the way Master John loves his sisters and brother has to have a kind heart.” Charmaine wondered. Was his affection for the children genuine, or were his motives perfidious? Did he cultivate the work of the angels or of the devil? She fluffed her pillow, resolved to travel the path of caution.
Thursday, September 21, 1837
Pierre trained his weary legs on the portico steps, teetering when he reached the summit. He hardly appeared the youngest lord of the island, rather a guttersnipe without family or home: his face smudged black, his fine clothes soiled, and his shoes muddied beyond repair. Yet, he drew a triumphant breath and trudged along the wide colonnade, dragging a fishing pole twice his height behind him.
The day turned black. Suddenly, the sky ripped apart, sending torrents of rain soaring toward the anxious earth. Certain her worst possible fears had come to fruition, Charmaine recommenced her pacing. A commotion in the foyer drew her out of the drawing room.
“Oh, Miss Ryan,” Travis Thornfield lamented as he ushered the little ragamuffin toward her, “look what the wind has blown in! I’m afraid he is in dire need of your tender care.”
“I’ll see to him immediately,” she replied, her eyes never leaving Pierre. She was shaking all over, a palpitating surge of relief that surpassed her receding distress. “And just where have you been, young man? Do you know how upset I’ve been?” The boy’s eyes welled with tears. “Oh, Pierre!” she sobbed, instantly regretting the trenchant reprimand and hugging him close, unmindful of his soggy state or that his clothes reeked of dead fish. “I should spank you for frightening me so.” She did not notice John, who towered over her.
“If you must scold somebody, Miss Ryan, it ought to be me.”
She straightened up. “How dare you take him away without my knowledge?”
“Miss Ryan,” John attempted to placate, appreciating her concern, if not the tone of voice, “didn’t Rose tell you he was in safe hands?”
“Yes, she told me!” Charmaine snapped. “But you had no right to take him anywhere without my permission!”
“Permission?”
“Yes, permission! The boy is my responsibility, not yours! He was out of my care the entire day. God only knows what harm could have befallen him!”
“Miss Ryan,” John snarled with set jaw. “I am not a pestiferous beast. I have feelings just like you, I am capable of—” He shook his head and forced himself calm. “I apologize for your distress, but I didn’t think you would worry over Pierre’s welfare.”
“Then why did you go behind my back to abduct him?”
“I didn’t abduct him,” John answered in exasperation. “I went to Rose in the hopes of avoiding the nasty dispute we’re having now.”
“And how would I have explained Pierre’s whereabouts if your father had visited the nursery today?” Charmaine retaliated. “I’m certain he would be displeased with my lax guardianship—that someone was able to take his son from the house without my knowledge.”
John clenched his fists, and it was a moment before he trusted his response. “He didn’t ‘visit the nursery,’ did he?” When Charmaine held silent, he relaxed. “I hope you’ve learned a lesson today. Maybe now you will admit I can be trusted with the children. For all of your worry—fed undoubtedly by my brother—I have returned Pierre safely. Yes, he’s filthy, but happy. At least he was until you dampened his gaiety.” John looked down at the boy, who stood mute at Charmaine’s side, eyes wide as saucers.
“Don’ be angwee, Mainie,” Pierre sniffled. “Johnny took me fishin’. We had fun. We didn’t do nothin’ bad.”
His beseeching voice mollified her. “I’m not angry with you, Pierre,” she whispered, clasping his hand and throwing John one last meaningful glare as she turned toward the stairs.
Pierre pulled away. “I don’ wanna go to the nulswee. I wanna see my fishes.”
“Your fish?” Charmaine asked, noticing for the first time the discarded fishing pole and the repugnant odor.
“Yes, my fishes I caught in my fishin’ boat,” he explained.
“Your fishing boat?” Charmaine looked to John, who was smiling now.
“Johnny bought it for my birfday, and we went fishin’ today.”
“How very generous,” she replied tightly. “Only it’s not your birthday.”
“I know,” Pierre agreed, “but the boat didn’t, so we be-tended it was.”
Charmaine read the approving twinkle in John’s eyes, then Pierre’s pure joy. His innocent charm vanquished her ire. “And where are these fish you caught?”
“Right here,” John said, dangling a variety of dead specimens from a hook.
“I wanna put ’em in some water and see ’em swim,” Pierre insisted.
“Oh no,” John chuckled, holding them out of the boy’s reach.
“We’re giving these to Cookie so she can fix them for dinner.”
“You mean eat ’em?” Pierre asked apprehensively. “I don’ wanna eat ’em. I wanna see ’em swim.”
“But they can’t—” John began, and then “—come with me.”
Minutes later, they were in the kitchen, staring into the large tub of water John had placed on the wooden table. Pierre poked a finger at one of the floating fish, pe
rturbed when it did not dart away like the others in the lake.
“Why ain’t he swimmin’?” Pierre asked.
“Why isn’t he swimming,” John corrected.
“Why isn’t he swimmin’?” Pierre repeated, his eyes fixed on John.
“Because he’s dead,” John replied levelly.
“Did it hurt?”
“I don’t think so. Anyway, he’s mighty happy to know he’s going to be a delicacy dinner tonight, cooked by the world’s greatest chef—”
“Oh go on with ya, Master John,” Fatima exclaimed bashfully.
“—and devoured by the likes of George, a man renowned for his discriminating taste in fine cuisine—and anything else that’s edible.”
As if on cue, George stepped into the kitchen, eliciting Pierre’s giggle. “What is he laughing at?” George asked, looking from a smiling Charmaine, to an embarrassed Fatima, and a mischievous John.
“Dead fish, George,” his friend answered. “Only some dead fish.”
Sunday, September 24, 1837
When Frederic appeared at the nursery door at noon, Charmaine wondered if the outing she had planned would be spoiled. But he only nodded when the girls told him they were going into town for the remainder of the day.
“I’ll only visit with you for a short while,” he said.
Charmaine retreated to her room, allowing them some private time together.
John had slept late and it was early afternoon when he left his chambers. Assuming the children would be in the nursery, he headed there, but as he lifted his fist to knock on their door, his father’s voice stopped him. He quickly lost his desire to see them and changed course. Lunch…
He was halfway down the stairs when he noticed the tall stranger standing in the foyer. Though dressed in Sunday attire, his clothes were threadbare. Yet, his stance was confident, arrogant even, as he studied the portrait of Colette. John bristled at his perusal, the seeming right he had of being there.