by DeVa Gantt
Paul embraced the clever proposal, reveling in the excitement of making his first business deal, the delectable fruits of years of labor.
“These men will indeed be invited, including Mr. Gimble!” Agatha chimed in, her face alight in voracious anticipation, as if the strategies being discussed couldn’t be executed quickly enough.
Paul concurred. “But once I’ve finalized this list, we’ll need to meet again and discuss these men in greater detail. Some of the names I know well, but the ones you’ve just mentioned I’ve only heard in passing.”
“They’re all cotton farmers.”
Paul faced his brother, who had spoken from the settee where he now reclined. “You say that as if it’s a problem, John.”
“In the short run, no. Potentially, yes.”
Paul weighed the remark. “Do you care to expound, or must I pay you, like you do Yvette, for more information?”
“You’re paying Stephen,” John returned glibly. “Perhaps he can tell you.”
Stephen bristled in unmasked aggravation, his hand going to his waist. “If you’re trying to trivialize my knowledge, John, I am the first to admit I am not an expert in farming. I am a banker, however, and common sense dictates the men with the largest bank accounts know the most about commerce.”
John considered Westphal’s monologue for a moment, head cocked, legs extended and crossed, one hand clasped over the other in his lap. “No wonder you doubt my observation. I don’t bank with your establishment.”
“This conversation is ridiculous!” Agatha expostulated. “Why do you listen to him, Paul? He’s trying to distract you. No, worse—undermine you! I don’t trust him! You should make him leave!”
Paul ignored her. Much as he hated to admit it, he was curious. “What is your point, John?”
Agatha jumped up. “Paul!”
“Auntie,” John cut in coolly, “sit!”
Paul did not intercede. Furious, Agatha bit her tongue and sank back into her chair. Then, realizing she was obeying the command much as a dog would its master, she straightened, pretending at grooming her skirts.
“I concede all the men you mentioned are well-established cotton farmers,” John proceeded. “But is cotton the only product you want to ship? Cotton isn’t in demand this year. In fact, prices are quite low. Next year, that might change. But the risk always remains high when you place all your coins on one bet.”
Westphal took further offense. “Cotton is more than fifty percent of the market. In addition, Williamson, Brockton, Carroll, and Farley afford cargo contacts from regions other than Virginia. Should blight damage the tobacco harvest—or a hurricane, even—Paul would have a second crop to fall back on. Even so, he wouldn’t be dealing in cotton alone. The other farmers on that list harvest tobacco, and his Caribbean contacts would be supplying sugar.”
The man smiled smugly, and John knew he had devised his reasoning as he spoke. “Ingenious.”
Paul frowned. “What else, John? There’s something else.”
“There are rumblings of a war. It may not happen next year, it may not happen in ten years. But do you really want to take that chance? Throw all your money and hard work into Southern commodities alone?”
“Don’t tell me you’re preoccupied with this war talk, too? I can’t believe this explosion is just around the corner as so many claim.”
John shrugged derisively. “I’m surprised you’re so indifferent about it. Now, I know all of this speculation is coming from nasty-no-good John, but isn’t it just common sense to have all the facts before making a decision? This slave business will not go on forever. The Negroes have had enough of it. Nat Turner proved that in ’31. Perhaps invention will beat confrontation to the finish line, but a war almost happened last year. What are you going to do if all of your ports of call are blockaded? Remember, you’ll be labeled the Southern sympathizer, so your standard won’t be welcome in New York or Boston. Then what are you going to ship, and to where are you going to ship it?” He sighed and shrugged again. “Just a little insight from someone who’s been on the mainland for ten years now and knows what the talk is from day to day, in the North as well as the South.”
Paul settled into the desk chair, eyes trained on his brother. John’s rationale made a great deal of sense, but could he trust the source? John would enjoy seeing him fail at this costly undertaking. “If what you say is true, surely it doesn’t bode well for you, either. After all, you’re a tobacco farmer and a Southern shipper. So, what are you doing about it, John?”
“Come now, Paul, you’ve bucked and complained over the changes I’ve instituted over the last few years. Anything else shall remain unspoken, all in the spirit of fair play.”
“What are you driving at, John?”
“I was not privy to any of the plans you were making here and on Espoir before I came home in August. In fact, there was a concerted effort to keep it all a secret from me.”
John looked pointedly at Stephen Westphal, who squirmed in his seat for the second time that evening. “What I did find out, I had to coerce out of father’s solicitous solicitor, Mr. Richecourt. What I don’t understand is: why? But, since you felt it necessary to leave me out of the equation, two can play at that game. I’ve been quite generous in giving you this bit of advice.”
Paul rolled his eyes, unmoved. “You know very well why I prefer to leave you out. You’ve alienated all of influential Richmond with your sharp tongue, and when it’s not that, it’s your rebellious behavior. You released all of your slaves, without Father’s permission, when the rest of the South has been struggling to preserve its right to keep them. And you’re telling me about good business decisions? Does it make sense to throw away free labor? And don’t sermonize about slave degradation. They can be treated civilly and still be slaves. And what about the people you associate with? They’re barely fit to walk the face of the earth, let alone move in the circles of proper society. Edgar Allan Poe. Really! Then you wonder why I don’t want you involved in this?”
John leaned forward, placed his empty glass on the table, and smiled. “Nevermore.” He stood and strode to the open doorway, turning back as he reached it. “Go ahead and listen to Mr. Westphal, Paul. I’m sure he knows much more about all this than I do. I’ll see if dinner is ready.”
Paul stared at the vacant archway, then faced the banker. “I’m sorry for that disruption. If you don’t mind my asking, Stephen, what did my brother say to you before I arrived? I hope he wasn’t insulting.”
“It was nothing,” Stephen countered with a gracious wave of his hand.
“Nothing?” Paul probed, unconvinced. “Was there some sort of dispute?”
“It was my own fault. Let us not speak of it.”
“No, Stephen. You should tell me,” Paul insisted, determined to get the details of a discussion that could have serious repercussions on his interests. “I’ll take the matter up with my father, if need be. John has no right to insult a guest.”
“No need to upset your father, Paul. For some reason John assumed Frederic had invited me to the house. He sarcastically lamented my daughter wouldn’t be interested in him once his name was removed from the will.”
Agatha jumped in. “You must take these remarks from whence they come, Stephen. I’ve learned to ignore anything my nephew has to say. But speaking of Anne, you must supply her address. She must attend our affair this winter. After all, what will the event be without a sophisticated, cultured young woman to grace its festivities?”
Stephen lit up with the suggestion.
Paul, in turn, considered the invitation, appreciating the prospect of Anne London’s presence on Charmantes. For all of his brother’s assertions to the contrary, John must have encouraged the Richmond widow at some point, thus fanning her forwardness. He pondered the panorama ahead. If John had succumbed to Anne’s charms once, he could be vulnerable again, and how would the naïve Miss Ryan feel about him then? It was just the insurance Paul needed, should John remain on
Charmantes.
“What about John?” Stephen questioned worriedly, as if reading Paul’s thoughts. “I don’t think he’ll be pleased—”
“It is not his invitation,” Paul cut in smugly, “it’s mine.”
Stephen brightened again. No doubt his daughter would be pleased to meet Frederic’s other handsome, soon-to-be-wealthy, bachelor son.
Sunday, October 1, 1837
Charmaine finished changing out of her Sunday dress and into her everyday apparel. The girls shouted to her from the other side of the closed door. “We’re done! Now may we go down to the stable to see our ponies and the kittens?”
“Yes, but be careful!” Charmaine called to them. “And don’t go near any other horses except Angel and Spook!”
“We won’t,” came the reply.
“And be back in a half-hour for breakfast!”
No answer…they were already gone. Charmaine shook her head, grateful they remained happy amid the undercurrents of pain that plagued the house.
Just this morning John had convinced them to move the kittens to a more sensible home: the barn. “You can make a nice bed for them there, and they will keep your ponies calm and happy.” When Yvette appeared unconvinced, John insisted she ask Paul and George if she didn’t believe him. “Cats are good animals to have around horses. And I’ll get a better night’s sleep,” he added. Apparently, three nights of kitten paws across his face was enough. Now the girls had three reasons to visit the stable: the foal, their ponies, and the felines.
Charmaine entered the nursery moments later and found John reclining on the floor alongside Pierre. They were sailing the boy’s model ships across the floor. She paused in the doorway, enjoying the endearing scene. “Are you hungry, Pierre?” she asked. “Time for breakfast.”
John looked up. “Hungry?” he queried, noting the late hour. “I’d be famished. I hope Holy Mass was worth the fast.”
“It was,” Charmaine declared, offended by the irreverent tone of his voice.
John chuckled. “Have Benito’s homilies become inspirational?”
She refused to answer, to lie. The priest’s fire and brimstone sermons had grown worse, making Sunday Mass nothing more than an obligation.
John’s chuckle intensified sagaciously. “I guess some things never change. How can you abide his sanctimonious airs?”
“He is a priest!” Charmaine objected.
“Not by my estimation. Do the words compassion and kindness ever enter into his vocabulary? Better yet, has he ever exemplified them?”
Charmaine bit her tongue. Though John’s words rang true, she felt he ridiculed her religious beliefs more than he mocked the island priest.
“I can see you are angry with me,” he said. “I’m not faulting all priests. A good friend of mine is a priest, a kind and compassionate man, who could teach our Father Benito a thing or two. Though, I daresay, he is beyond redemption.”
“Who?” she retaliated, “Father Benito or your friend?”
Before he could respond, Paul entered the nursery. He took in John’s prone form and the deep frown that creased Charmaine’s brow.
“Is he annoying you, Charmaine?”
“No,” she answered, throwing John one last disdainful look, “not really.”
“We were just discussing Father Benito,” John supplied mildly. “What would you call him, Paul: good priest or bad?”
Paul grunted, refusing to side with his brother. “I don’t have time for this, John. I need to discuss something with you.”
“And what would that be?”
“Privately,” Paul replied. “I’d like to speak with you privately.”
John mumbled something under his breath, but stood and followed his brother into the hallway.
When they were closeted in the study, John flopped into the sofa.
“We will be leaving first thing in the morning,” Paul began.
“We?” John puzzled aloud.
“Father, Agatha, and I, as well as a number of the servants.”
“What are you talking about?” John asked, completely baffled now.
“We discussed it at the table the other night. Father wants to see my progress on Espoir. We shall be gone for the week.”
John’s brow gathered, his mind working. “I don’t remember that.”
Paul rubbed the back of his neck. “Maybe we talked about it before you came in. At any rate, we’ll be traveling there first thing tomorrow, and I’d like to know Charmantes is running smoothly while I’m gone. My biggest concern is the sugarcane. Two fields were salvaged from the storm, but the pressing will take all the manpower we’ve got if we’re to minimize the loss. George said he’d over-see all that, but he could use a hand loading the Raven once the casks are filled.”
“The Raven?” John queried, his interest further piqued. “She should have been on her way to Richmond by now.”
“She would have been, if not for the storm. Now I need her to transport the sugar extract.” Paul paused a moment, but when John did not respond, he asked, “Can I count on your help?”
An eerie silence pervaded the room. John’s gaze was fixed on the book-lined wall far across the study, and Paul knew his brother had dismissed the query. He wondered if John had heard him at all.
Paul changed the subject. “There is another thing. I’d like your word, as a gentleman, that you’ll not bother Charmaine while I’m away.” Again, his brother didn’t answer. “John,” Paul snapped impatiently, “are you listening to me?”
John’s eyes focused on him. “Don’t worry, Paul, don’t worry about a thing.”
Chapter 6
Monday, October 2, 1837
CHAOTIC commotion gripped the front lawns. A throng of servants, house staff and grooms alike, ran helter-skelter between manor and paddock. Frederic Duvoisin intended to travel abroad this day, and his employees zealously embraced this extraordinary event. Two horses were led from the stable and harnessed to the spanking new brougham, manufactured in Britain, ordered by Paul during his visit there last winter, and shipped to Charmantes only a month ago. The meticulously groomed animals pranced nervously against the bit as the final straps were secured. It took not one, but two footmen to hold them steady when they pulled up to the portico. Still, their skittishness did not deter Travis Thornfield; he hoisted another trunk into the carriage.
Standing out of harm’s way, Charmaine and the children watched in wonder. Then the moment was upon them, and the front doors opened for the last time.
Frederic limped out of the house, his ebony cane striking sharply against the stone terrace. He stumbled only once, misjudging the first step, but he quickly righted himself, shooing away his fawning wife when she rushed forward to assist him. “Leave me some pride!” he snarled, the scolding nearly inaudible.
As Agatha backed away, Frederic’s stormy gaze followed. Realizing his attention had been arrested, she turned to find the children and their governess loitering at the drawing room casement. “Have you nothing better to do, Miss Ryan, than to gawk at my husband? Surely, the girls have lessons. Or is this frivolous wasting of time a prelude of the week to come when I shan’t be here to monitor your shabby supervision of them?”
“That is enough, Agatha,” Frederic reprimanded, his words tight. “Miss Ryan is diligent in her care of the children.”
“I fear you have been misinformed,” Agatha protested, attempting to save face among the many servants who stared at her.
Frederic’s ire was rising, but he concealed it beneath honey-coated words. “Have I? By whom? At least Miss Ryan loves my children.”
Insulted, Agatha lifted her chin, descended the three steps of the porch, and ensconced herself in the carriage.
Charmaine cheered inwardly, grateful her utter shock forestalled a chuckle. The man was moving toward her, and she quickly composed herself. “Miss Ryan, I would like to say goodbye to my children. Do you have a kiss for me, Pierre?”
“What for?” the boy asked.
Frederic stooped over, and the lad kissed his cheek, but before Pierre could pull away, the man’s unencumbered arm wrapped around his shoulders and squeezed him fiercely. After a prolonged moment, Frederic straightened up, aware of Charmaine’s eyes on him. “One never knows when the last day might be,” he offered.
“The last day? But you mustn’t say—”
“Yes, I must,” he corrected. “I’m pleased with your service to this family, Miss Ryan. My wife, Colette, was correct about you. You have been a wonderful mother to our children. Therefore, remember, I’ll not hold you responsible for any circumstances beyond your control.”
“Sir?”
“Just remember, Charmaine Ryan. When you become upset, remember.” He nodded rigidly, stifling her reply, then turned away, never once requesting a kiss from either of his daughters.
As the brougham passed through the front gates, Charmaine noticed John standing in the shadows of the maimed oak. She couldn’t read his expression, but his hand raked agitatedly through his tousled hair. Then he abruptly marched off.
Exhaling, she ushered the children into the house and, allowing for the favorable occasion, permitted them to run off and explore the unguarded homestead. Few had remained behind. The Thornfields boarded a smaller carriage and followed the family coupe to town. Felicia and Anna were already there. Charmaine could only wonder over Paul’s whereabouts. He’d left very early, and she doubted she would see him before the ship departed.
So consuming were her thoughts, she walked headlong into George, who was charging across the foyer. Excusing herself, she looked down at the baggage he carried and was horrified to learn he was deserting her as well.
“It was all discussed last night at dinner,” he said. “We have to press every stalk of cane we can. Time is of the essence, and I can get a lot more accomplished if I just camp out with the men. Frederic has promised me a bonus if the entire crop is processed before he returns.”