Decision and Destiny

by DeVa Gantt

“I’m sorry, but I’ve seen them together. You can’t deny there’s little love lost there. Surely you can understand my reservations.”

  George put his teacup down. “There has always been a rivalry between them. It goes back a long way, even to when we were boys.”

  “Yes, and John never misses an opportunity to make Paul angry.”

  “It works both ways,” he replied gruffly.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Paul does his share of provoking, only it’s harder to see.”

  “Don’t tell me John has won you over to his side?” she rejoined.

  “There are no sides, Charmaine. I’ve known them for as long as I can remember. They are brothers to me. I also know what motivates them.” He read the confusion on her face, and expounded.

  “When we were growing up, they vied for their father’s approval, but that approval always weighed in on Paul’s side.”

  Charmaine was not swayed. “And I can understand why a father would favor a son who is well behaved over one who is bad mannered.”

  George shook his head. “Frederic was downright mean to John. So, imagine how John felt when he watched his father’s adopted son claim that man’s love, while day after day, week after week, year after year, he, the legitimate son, came up empty-handed. Perhaps then you can understand his cynicism.”

  Perturbed by the revelation, Charmaine had no rebuttal.

  “Even so, I know John does not hate Paul for it, and I know he would come to Paul’s aid if Paul were in jeopardy. And Paul would do the same for John. You might not believe this, but there was a time when they were close, all three of us, we were very close.”

  “So why the fighting now?”

  “Most of it is not as serious as you think. You’ve seen enough of John to know he’s a mischief-maker, and Paul is his favorite target because he takes everything so seriously, always rising to the bait. Most of their quibbling doesn’t go any deeper than that.”

  The late afternoon wore on, and the family gathered in the dimly lit drawing room. Suddenly, there was a commotion in the foyer, a whistling whoosh and the heavy thud of the main door slamming shut against the elements. Charmaine and the twins raced to the archway, followed closely by George. There stood a badly beaten, but laughing, John, who was saturated from head to toe in an exact replica of the night he arrived home. The only thing missing was his cap.

  “What happened?” Yvette demanded.

  “Where is Paul?” Charmaine added.

  The door banged open again, and Paul stumbled in, fighting to secure it behind him. He was equally battered, but was laughing as well.

  “What happened?” Yvette echoed.

  “Johnny tried to moor a dinghy on his own and took a little dive in the harbor instead!” Paul chortled. “Why you didn’t wait for me, I’ll never know.”

  “I did,” John replied, his guffaws louder than his brother’s, “in the water. It was worth staying under just to get you to jump in after me.”

  Paul grunted jovially. “I should have left you there, but I care too much.”

  “If you had really cared, you would have retrieved my cap,” John objected facetiously. “I’ve lost it because of my tomfoolery.”

  “Well worth the swim, dear brother,” Paul snickered, slapping John across the back, “well worth the swim.”

  “The second one I’ve had today, only this time I was fully clothed.”

  Paul stopped laughing, and the smile froze on his lips. “Funny, but I didn’t know you were so fastidious about bathing, John. I always thought your tastes ran toward the tainted and soiled.”

  “Tastes can change,” John quipped.

  Paul didn’t respond, his clenched jaw twitching, his hardened eyes on Charmaine. He stalked off, taking the stairs two at a time.

  The assembly stood in awkward silence, flinching with the slamming of his chamber door.

  John shrugged. “I suppose all good things must come to an end.”

  “Especially when you ruin them!” Charmaine blurted out. “You said that on purpose!”

  “Actually, it was quite spontaneous, my Charm.”

  Furious now, she took a threatening step forward. “Oh! If you call me that—that—stupid name one more time, I’ll—I’ll—”

  “You will what, my Charm?” John pressed, stressing the endearment as he, too, advanced.

  “Oh, just leave me alone!” she cried, whirling on her heel and sidestepping George, who eagerly retreated, and the twins who stood their ground, snickering.

  John pursued her up the stairs, entertained by her fiery temper. “You should be glad I call you ‘my Charm,’” he proceeded to explain. “It’s very individual, you see. Not at all like the standard ‘y’ or ‘ie’ endings I usually employ. Nothing so common as Paulie, or Auntie, or even Cookie.”

  Charmaine bit her tongue, determined to say nothing as she reached the crest of the staircase. Raising a hand, she purposefully pushed him aside. With her path cleared, she strode briskly toward her bedchamber door.

  Still, he trekked after her. “I had considered an ‘ie’ ending,” he mused, “but, I didn’t think ‘Charmainie’ had quite the right ring to it. For Pierre, ‘Charmainie’ might be fine, but for me, well, it just wouldn’t do. What do you think?”

  She turned on him to deliver one last retort when their eyes locked. He stood there, soaked to the skin, yet he was smiling, his hands folded behind his back, as if he were the most respectable gentleman come to call on his lady. Unmindful of where her anger had fled, she only knew the absurdity of the situation and the ridiculous dilemma he wished to resolve.

  “Well?” he asked. “Will it be ‘my Charm’ or ‘Charmainie’?”

  She answered with a genuine giggle.

  “There now,” he nodded, “you’re not so angry after all.”

  He stepped closer, the flickering lamplight of the wall sconces dancing in his amber-brown eyes. His fingers raised to her cheek and brushed aside a stray lock of hair. Her stomach lurched at the contact and she broke away. His hand remained suspended momentarily, as if to lure her back.

  “I—have to check Pierre,” she said and headed toward the nursery.

  Again John followed her. “He’s all right, isn’t he?”

  “Yes,” she whispered as she opened the door and tiptoed in. “He has been napping for nearly two hours now.”

  At the sound of her voice, Pierre sat up in bed and rubbed his bleary eyes.

  “So, you’re not asleep,” she greeted affectionately, sitting beside him and giving him a hug. He yawned and shook his head. Charmaine looked up at John and found his admiring regard fixed on the boy.

  The moment was broken by Yvette’s loud entrance. “Cookie told me to inform you dinner will be served at the usual hour of seven.”

  Pots and dishes clattered in the kitchen, but for all the ruckus, dinner had yet to be served. Agatha pursed her lips and reserved comment, raising a winged brow in a show of impatience. Two chairs remained unoccupied. John was always late, but Charmaine fretted over Paul’s unprecedented tardiness. Would he hold his brother’s knavish remark about swimming against her?

  “So, Miss Ryan,” Agatha commented. “I’ve been told you took the children on a picnic today.”

  Charmaine regarded her warily. Though the query seemed benign, the woman never addressed her without a hidden agenda.

  “Did you have a pleasant day?” she pursued.

  “Yes, we did,” Charmaine answered simply, hoping to end the discourse.

  “And my nephew, John—he accompanied you?”

  “He purchased ponies for the girls’ birthday. The picnic was his idea.”

  “I see,” Agatha replied. “So, how did you spend all those hours alone?”

  “We weren’t alone,” Charmaine responded sharply, the insinuation clear. “We were minding three children.”

  “I’d hardly term them qualified chaperones, Miss Ryan. For all we know, you could have deposited them anywhere on the is
land and then…” She artfully let her words drop off.

  Seething, Charmaine retaliated impetuously. “Oh dear, you’ve found us out. We dumped the children in the woods and passed the afternoon in one another’s embrace. Does that clarify the day’s events to your liking, Mrs. Duvoisin?”

  The mistress gasped, her slackened jaw falling farther open in unadulterated revulsion. But the rest of the diners chortled, their glee led foremost by George.

  Charmaine instantly regretted the sullied remark. What was I thinking? Dear God, the ramifications! She blushed profusely and quickly bowed her head. When the merriment subsided, she took courage to look at George, whose eyes applauded her. Just as she smiled in return, John entered the room, humming.

  Though informally dressed, his attire was respectable once again, with finely tailored shirt and trousers that highlighted each masculine angle. His hair was wet, but neatly combed, curling deviously over his sideburns and collar. He threw Jeannette a wink as he took his seat.

  Footsteps resounded in the hallway, and Paul walked into the room. Her heart skipped a beat with the handsome figure he cut. Like John, his hair was still wet and combed in place, save one glossy black lock that fell on his forehead. His jaw remained set, his brow creased. As he stepped up to the table, Charmaine admired the crisp dinner jacket, white shirt and black trousers he wore, the fabric catching against the well-toned muscles in his legs. She averted her gaze to John, certain he watched her, but he was staring up at Paul.

  “Take your feet off my chair,” Paul growled.

  John abruptly sat up, snickering.

  When Paul was seated, Agatha addressed her nephew. “I have been informed you spent the day with Miss Ryan.”

  “Informed?” John asked lightly. “To be informed, one must have an informant. Who would that be, Auntie dear?”

  “Rose.”

  “Ah…” John nodded. “And I’m sure Rose also told you I was spending the day with the children, and their governess accompanied us to assist in their care. So, why are you insinuating I spent the day only with Miss Ryan?”

  George’s chuckle snagged his attention. “Did I say something funny?” he asked, receiving from his friend a shake of the head.

  “I know why he’s laughing,” Yvette spoke up, her smug smile fading when she caught Charmaine’s harsh glare.

  George opened his mouth, but a bellowed “Ouch!” was all that came out. He reached under the table and rubbed the shin Charmaine had kicked.

  John regarded her next. But she wore the same innocent expression he so often employed when making mischief. Something was definitely brewing here.

  Pierre’s small voice came from out of nowhere. “We went on a picnic, and Mainie said you dumped us in the woods—”

  “—and then you spent the afternoon in each other’s embrace,” Yvette piped in, eager to be the one to divulge the juicy information.

  John’s eyes shot to his sister. “Mademoiselle Ryan said that?”

  When he looked to Charmaine for confirmation, he caught Paul’s steely eyes on him. The topic was too hot to drop, and he couldn’t restrain himself. He leaned across the table and, to Charmaine’s utter shame, clasped her hand much as a lover might. “I fancied our little tryst a secret, my Charm,” he murmured, “something just between the two of us, a—”

  “Steady, John,” George interceded, ending the amorous pledge; Paul could be pushed just so far. “Charmaine was only engaging in a bit of humor. Surely she’s allowed an innocent gibe now and then?”

  “I’ll gibe with her whenever she likes,” John responded with a wicked chuckle, his eyes never leaving Charmaine’s bowed head.

  “And guess what Jawj?”

  Pierre, having enjoyed his moment’s attention, spoke enthusiastically. Grateful for the distraction, George regarded the boy. “What is it, Pierre?”

  “Johnny has a big penis! And mine’s gonna be that big someday, too!”

  “Good Lord!” Agatha squawked. “Of all the scurrilous comments!”

  Charmaine hid her face behind a trembling hand, wishing there were a hole nearby. Crawling into it would have been preferable to enduring Agatha’s gasps of outrage, Paul’s fists striking the table beside her, George’s uproarious laughter, or Yvette’s declaration: “So that’s what Mademoiselle Charmaine told you not to talk about!” John’s merry: “There’s no substitute for a positive outlook,” didn’t help matters. There was nothing to do but remain mute and allow the humiliating hullabaloo to die down.

  Dinner was served, but it was consumed in relative silence. Paul did not speak at all, and Charmaine dared not look his way. She prayed when he calmed down, he’d accept her remark as nothing more than a joke. As for Pierre, surely Paul could comprehend what had happened there. Still, his rigid form bespoke a man who was beyond angry. So, tonight, he, and not John, perpetrated a quiet misery.

  As dessert was served, he pushed away from the table, declining the cup of coffee Felicia offered him. Charmaine’s stomach twisted as she looked up at him, chilled by his curt manner. “I would have a word with you privately, Miss Ryan.” When she moved to stand, he halted her. “Later.”

  She felt like a scolded child and lowered her gaze, avoiding eye contact with everyone, especially John.

  Paul had been gone all of a minute when Fatima presented a huge cake to the twins. “Happy birthday Miss Yvette and Miss Jeannette. I made your favorite just for you.” She placed it in front of the girls and began slicing it. “Oh no, you don’t, Miss Yvette,” she scolded, “Master John gets the first piece.”

  “John gets the first piece?” Charmaine reiterated in annoyance.

  John leaned forward. “I have to taste everything that leaves Cookie’s kitchen. Poison, you see.”

  The twins giggled, but Charmaine was not amused. “A clever excuse, but the girls should be served before you. It’s their birthday.” The twins giggled again, and she grew befuddled.

  “Tomorrow is Johnny’s birthday,” Jeannette explained. “Whenever he comes home, we celebrate the two days together. Didn’t you know that?”

  “No, I didn’t know,” she replied, looking back to John. “Is tomorrow really your birthday?”

  “Yes, tomorrow is really my birthday.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me? We spent this whole day together, and you never said a thing.”

  “Why should I have?”

  “Because, I would have wanted to know.”

  “Why? Were you planning on giving me a gift?” he quipped. “I know how eager you’d be to choose something special.”

  “I would have at least liked to wish you well,” she answered feebly.

  He didn’t believe her, his visible skepticism aggravating the awkward moment. Self-conscious now, she babbled on. “I can’t believe no one mentioned it in preparation for tomorrow.”

  “Preparation?” John asked. “What preparation?”

  “To celebrate—as we do with everyone else in this household.”

  “Jeannette has already told you we combine the two days. I’m a big boy now, Miss Ryan, further celebration is not necessary.”

  For the first time that evening, he seemed disturbed, heightening her confusion. Unwisely, she did not let the matter rest. Had she looked to Rose or George, she would have bitten her tongue. “But a piece of cake is hardly a celebration.”

  “My birth is not a celebrated event in this house,” he said in a low voice. “More important than marking the day I entered this world, it marks the date my mother passed from it. Therefore, my father has never permitted any type of festivity, birthday or no.”

  “But that’s—that’s ridiculous,” Charmaine sputtered, stunned by his stolid declaration. “Your birthday was never celebrated?”

  “No,” he replied coldly. “To commemorate such a day would have been nothing less than blasphemy. You see, my father holds her memory sacred.”

  She was incredulous, her heart tied in a painful knot. She took in Rose’s bowed head and George’s g
rim face. Only Agatha remained indifferent, her shoulders thrown back, chin jutting in the air.

  As everyone began to eat, Charmaine studied John again. He seemed to have dismissed the conversation. Or was he concealing his anguish behind a mask of apathy?

  Charmaine preceded Paul into the study. He closed the door, crossed his arms and legs, and leaned one shoulder into the panel as if guarding against possible escape. She had dreaded this confrontation as she waited in the children’s nursery after dinner. Now she silently cursed John. He could have denied the fabricated encounter, doused the fire, but no, everything was a joke to him, and pushing the sticky situation to the limit had been so wickedly pleasant, he’d banked it instead.

  Paul’s face remained stern, like a father about to discipline a disobedient child. Apprehension was now a tangible thing, a demon that somersaulted inside her belly and made her ill. The lengthening silence told her she was already condemned. Then he spoke. “I never thought I’d be forced to this, but your conduct, the example you’ve set for the children, leaves me no other choice.”

  She was cut to the quick and could not summon the anger needed to refute his claim. Would he dismiss her? At this moment, she didn’t care, for nothing, not even the loss of her position, could cause her greater distress than the censor in his eyes and the rebuke in his voice.

  “Have you nothing to say?” he demanded as he pushed away from the door. “Have you no defense?”

  “You leave me none!” she choked out.

  “I leave you none? You blame me? I wasn’t the one who acted improperly today, traipsing about the island with a man renowned for his debauchery. Your behavior was at best depraved!”

  “Depraved? It was an innocent birthday picnic!”

  “Come, Mademoiselle,” he snorted in vexation, “don’t pretend you don’t understand. You continue to ignore my warnings and allow John to use you, in front of the children—and—by every indication, have very much enjoyed it.”

  “How can you say that?” she objected. “You know I’ve tried to avoid him!”

  “Forgive me if I no longer believe it. I’m not a fool. I’ve seen many a woman play your little game. But your slip of the tongue? That was a major blunder.”