by DeVa Gantt
She digested the sardonic statement. “Still, it means a lot for a parent to show an interest in an offspring’s undertakings. I know how it feels to be unappreciated, to be scorned.”
“You were scorned?”
“Yes, by my father I was.”
“Well, then, my Charm, it seems we have something in common.” He was quiet for a while and then asked, “What happened to your mother?”
Charmaine inhaled. Even after two years, the memory was painful. Strangely, she didn’t feel she had to hide the truth from him any longer. She could tell him about it, and he would understand.
“My father, he was drunk and angry. He brutally beat my mother, and she died of the injuries he inflicted. He disappeared, and nobody has seen him since.” Tears sprang to her eyes without warning. “It was my fault,” she choked out, turning her face aside.
“Your fault?”
“I was hiding my wages from him. He was a lazy good-for-nothing, who rarely worked. When he did, the money was spent on spirits. Most times he relied on my mother to tarry. When I found employment with the Harringtons, he felt he was entitled to my earnings as well. Then one night, when he was good and drunk, he came to their house hoping to collect my wages. When he didn’t find me there, he went after my mother instead, assuming we were conspiring to hide my salary. He’d never have touched her if I had given him the money.”
“No, Charmaine, it wasn’t your fault,” he refuted in disgust. “There is no excuse for a man to beat a woman. I’ve known men like him. If it weren’t about money, it would have been about something else. You shouldn’t blame yourself.”
She was comforted by his sincerity. She’d never told anyone she held herself responsible for her mother’s death. She wondered why it had been so easy to tell John, why his reaction relieved her burden of guilt.
“What is your father’s name?”
“His name? Why do you ask?”
John shrugged. “Just curious, I guess.”
“John Ryan.”
A sudden, perspicacious grin broke across his lips. “John, eh?”
Uncomfortable that he’d be examining her soul next, Charmaine redirected the conversation. “Your father has scorned you as well, hasn’t he?”
The smile vanished. “You were at dinner the other night, Charmaine. You tell me? It is just another reason why Paul and I don’t get along.”
Understanding dawned. “So that is why you’re not interested in Duvoisin business. Without your father’s love and acceptance, you have little desire to promote his enterprises.” When he didn’t respond, she continued. “Paul has your father’s love but longs for legitimacy, while you long for your father’s love and care little about your legitimacy.”
“No,” John bit out, amazed, yet annoyed with her astute assessment. “Paul longs for it all, but he won’t get it! You see, my father enjoys having him dangle as well.”
“Dangle?”
“You wouldn’t understand, Charmaine. Frederic Duvoisin is the master of manipulation, the consummate puppeteer.”
She was saddened by his summation. “I’ve found your father to be forthright.”
“That proves how very naïve you are,” he scoffed sourly. She bristled at the insult, but John was just as vexed. “I don’t want to ruin my day with talk of my father. If we’re going to continue our little heart-to-heart, let’s restrict it to Paul. Anything you’d like to know about him?”
He was right; Paul was a far more interesting topic. But she was also wary of the insights John might offer. There was one question that seemed benign. “Who is older, you or Paul?”
John’s brow lifted, and his eyes darted around, mischievous again. He leaned in close and whispered as if the mansion had ears. “Well, now, my Charm, that’s the big family secret. No one knows for sure. Some say the baby—that would be Paul—was brought to my father in the middle of the night before I was born, from origins unknown.” He straightened up and answered directly. “I don’t put credence in that, though. I’ve often wondered how my mother accepted Paul’s arrival, if she had to accept it at all. It seems more logical Paul was born after she died, then my father’s philandering wouldn’t have mattered. Either way, he was a busy man, sowing his wild oats, so to speak.”
“And Paul’s mother?”
John shrugged. “Dead, according to my father. But my father never doubted Paul is his son, bastard though he be.”
Charmaine winced, stung by the harsh words.
“Come now, my Charm,” he cajoled, “Paul has accepted what he is. There’s no need to pity him. There’s many a man who would gladly trade places and take the title of bastard if it would secure him a share of the Duvoisin fortune. I know George would.” He chuckled softly, ignoring her frown.
Pierre bounded over to them. “This time I go very high!” he declared, tugging on John’s hand and coaxing him up and out of the chair.
Charmaine stood as well and meandered across the lawns to the girls. They were at the paddock now, petting the two-month-old colt, Sultan.
“May we bring the ponies out?” they called.
Thursday, October 5, 1837
“Again, I do not approve,” Charmaine feebly protested from where she sat in the swaying brougham. The twins had petitioned to ride atop the conveyance on either side of the driver, and their governess found herself closeted in the plush carriage with John and Pierre.
“There’s no reason to be dismayed, my Charm,” John replied.
“Why couldn’t she have been satisfied with a day similar to the one we passed yesterday? The ride was lovely, the picnic pleasant, even the rain didn’t spoil our time, and—”
“—Yvette will never be content in the shadow of repetition,” he finished for her. “She’s not Jeannette, and the only similarity that will ever exist between them is their looks. You should know that by now, Charmaine. Besides, I find her choice a singular idea.”
“Singular, indeed,” she mumbled. “And what will your father say when he finds you’ve escorted your sisters to Dulcie’s? I know—” she held up a hand to ward off his answer “—you don’t care!”
“I wasn’t going to say it quite like that, but in a manner of speaking, yes.”
“You can afford to be incorrigible, but what about me? I’m responsible for their welfare. I’ll rue the day I compromised my morals for this little escapade.”
“And what morals could possibly be in the balance if we visit a saloon? I guarantee only Dulcie will accost us.”
“A saloon?” Charmaine scoffed. “Aren’t you being a bit generous? It’s a gambling establishment, not to mention—”
“Yes?” he probed with brow raised.
She could not speak what thundered in her mind. She recalled Felicia’s tales of the barmaids who cavorted with the seamen in the bedrooms above the common room.
“Don’t fret, Charmaine,” John proceeded knavishly, “Dulcie’s can’t be completely condemned if my brother patronizes it.”
“Paul is a grown man! Not a child!”
“Exactly! And as such, is more susceptible to the evils of a brothel than any child could ever fear to be.”
Charmaine’s cheeks flamed red with the declaration. “You think you have all the answers, don’t you?” she squeaked out.
“As a rule,” he replied proudly, “and if you pay close attention, you may recall them should anyone confront you on the matter.”
Her eyes narrowed, bolstering his lighthearted mood. “Don’t be angry with me. We’ve enjoyed two splendid days with the children. Today can be just as wonderful if only you’d make it so. And, if anything should go wrong at Dulcie’s, I promise to intervene and assume full blame. Isn’t that right, Pierre?”
“Yep,” the lad chirped.
“I still don’t approve,” Charmaine reiterated.
Remember, I’ll not hold you responsible for any circumstances beyond your control. When you become upset, just remember.
Charmaine sighed. She certainly coul
dn’t issue orders to Frederic’s son, Yvette’s excursion was definitely beyond her control, and she was quite upset. Did this then annul her responsibility? She hoped so. With that thought, she leaned back into the cushions and attempted to enjoy the scenery.
John was correct; there was nothing to fear. When they left the bright boardwalk and slipped into the saloon, Dulcie was expecting them. She ushered them to a prepared table where she set lemonade before them, followed by a delicious meal. They were treated regally and, to Yvette’s chagrin, did not behold the true workings of the quiet tavern. Few were about, and not a single gaming table was being used.
John explained the rules of one card game he called “poker,” informing them George had concocted it from a few European games they had played at university. The twins remained skeptical, certain their brother was telling another tall tale. But he maintained that every Friday night was “poker” night at Dulcie’s, and for their benefit, suggested they play a hand. Demonstrating the stakes usually bid, he threw an imaginary coin into the center of the table and dealt them each five cards. Uncharacteristically, Jeannette caught on more quickly than Yvette and pretended to rake in the kitty four out of five times, but since the pot was imaginary, even she grew bored.
“I wonder what is upstairs,” the kind-hearted twin sweetly mused. “I would really like to see.”
John’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “What game is this—Yvette?” he inquired pointedly of Jeannette.
She shrugged.
“Have you done this before?” he demanded, no longer duped.
“Done what before?” came the innocent question.
Charmaine was baffled, her eyes drawn to Yvette who now stepped forward, an unusual expression on her face.
“I’m Jeannette, Johnny,” she said, leaving her accomplice, who’d given one of her braids a fierce yank, scowling. “And only a couple of times.”
Charmaine stood amazed and vexed by the clever deception.
The real Yvette stomped her foot, annoyed nothing was going as planned, unmoved by her governess’s look of disapproval. “I still want to see upstairs,” she insisted. Her petition ended there, however. John’s scowl had deepened, his refusal firm and nonnegotiable. She’d have to devise another scheme to satisfy her curiosity.
They departed the saloon to amble along the boardwalk, which took them directly to the harbor and the Raven. Pierre and the girls begged to go aboard, and Charmaine was happy to comply. She wondered if she’d see Captain Wilkinson. What would he think when he found her walking the ship’s deck on John’s arm? Maybe he wouldn’t remember her at all.
It was an odd feeling ascending the gangway. Not since the day the Harringtons had embarked for Virginia had she done so—a full year ago! She marveled over all that had happened in that time, how she herself had changed.
The vessel sat dormant. According to John, she awaited the salvaged sugarcane harvest before setting sail for New York. With little to do, Jonah Wilkinson had abandoned her, leaving an abbreviated crew to holystone and caulk the decks, tar the masts, and mend the frayed canvases.
Yvette and Jeannette sidestepped them, scurrying across the ship’s waist, leaning over the starboard wall, attempting to swat the shrouds or catch a swooping seagull. They climbed atop the forecastle deck, surveying their surroundings from that lofty summit.
John and Charmaine meandered leisurely, starting at the prow, stopping when they spotted something of interest to point out to Pierre, John a wealth of information, the sailors nodding respectfully to him, he reciprocating. When they reached the quarterdeck, he dragged an empty crate over to the helm and stood the lad behind the huge wooden wheel. Charmaine leaned back against the rail and watched as he demonstrated how to grip the wooden spikes and steer the vessel, his eyes alive, indicating that, for all his repudiation of his heritage, he was proud to be a Duvoisin.
“My turn!” the boy demanded, instantly immersed in the imaginary task, supplying the sounds of lapping water against the hull as he guided the bark out of the harbor.
John patted his back, then stepped away and joined Charmaine. She smiled up at him, charmed by his attachment to the lad. “What are you laughing at?”
“You,” she answered. “I think you’ll make a good husband someday.”
It was his turn to smile. “Why do you say that?”
Embarrassed, she quickly backtracked. “What I meant to say was ‘father.’ You’ll make a good father.”
His expression sobered. “I fear that avenue is closed to me.”
“But you’re so good with children,” she countered mindlessly, unnerved by his abrupt change of mood. “You should have many of your own.”
“Have you forgotten I’m a bad influence?”
“I was wrong about that. You’ve showered Pierre and the girls with more love and affection than I thought possible of any man.”
He forced a smile, but didn’t answer.
“I’m sorry…” she murmured. “I’ve offended you.”
“No, my Charm. I appreciate your accolades, but you are mistaken. I’d be a poor substitute for a father.” When she opened her mouth to object, he rushed on. “Fortunately, I do have Pierre and my sisters.”
“They will miss you when you leave,” she said, startled by her sudden heaviness of heart.
“They won’t have to,” he replied, turning away from her and gazing out across the peninsula. “I plan on staying around for a while. I didn’t realize how lonely my homes in Virginia and New York were until I ventured back here.”
“Really?”
“Unless my father permits me to take the children to Richmond for a visit.”
“Do you plan to ask him?”
He faced her, his eyes intense. “Would you come with us if I did? If my father gave his consent? They would need to have you there, especially Pierre. And you’d be able to visit your friends.”
His voice held a note of expectancy—excitement—as if his happiness depended on the case he now set before her. Then, like quicksilver, he chuckled disparagingly, brushing the fanciful thought aside. “Not to worry, Charmaine. We won’t be traveling anywhere together. I know what my father’s answer would be, so why bother to ask?”
Charmaine held silent. Sadly, she knew he was right.
They left the Raven shortly thereafter and strolled along the town’s main thoroughfare. Charmaine felt many eyes upon them and was proud to have John as her escort. Not so long ago, she would have recoiled from such attention, scorned any conclusions drawn by the islanders. But today was different. John was not the man she had so sharply misjudged him to be, and for the first time, she acknowledged her gladness for having come to know him.
Friday, October 6, 1837
Children’s laughter wafted off the lake, much like the afternoon breeze that caught at Charmaine’s hair and loosed strands from the bun tucked beneath her bonnet. They settled as stray ringlets, framing her pretty face. Still, she was unaware of the picture she painted, sitting on the blanket John had chivalrously spread for her. Her eyes were on the man who, with his back to her, sat some hundred feet away in the small dinghy he had purchased for Pierre a few weeks ago. With the lad in his lap and his sisters seated across from him, he continued to paddle out to the lake’s center, pretending all the while Pierre was propelling the vessel. Charmaine’s smile widened as they glided to a stop and John bent over, retrieving the fishing rods he had carelessly thrown in the bottom of the small craft. Few complete sentences reached her ears, but the manner in which he worked at the rods led her to believe the worst: the lines were dreadfully tangled. Well, she had warned him, but the children had been so excited he hadn’t listened. Now he was paying the piper, for already Yvette was tugging at her pole and Pierre, his. A lighthearted laugh escaped her lips. It was swallowed when the fishing boat swayed precariously. John stilled the motion with outstretched arms and shook a finger at Yvette. Charmaine smiled again, glad she had had the good sense not to further encumber the crowded b
oat. She was safe where she sat. At last, the lines were cast. As their activity lulled, she studied her surroundings once again.
They were nestled within a forest, an idyllic clearing that ran along the perimeter of a central reservoir, which, according to John, was dug from a small pond by his grandfather and fifty laborers over seventy years ago. She had been astonished when they had walked not fifty yards, entered the line of thick pine trees from the grounds at the rear of the manor and, in less than ten minutes, practically stumbled upon the pristine freshwater lake. Only a small bungalow and dock marred nature’s untamed beauty. All else remained unspoiled.
Charmaine breathed deeply, contented. Presently, a pair of flamingos meandered to the water’s edge and waded along the bank. This beautiful glade, just beyond the mansion…She thought of the twins’ birthday picnic on the beach and that first picnic on the bluffs. Because of John, she’d experienced firsthand the majesty of Charmantes. John. Again, her eyes were drawn to the man. How many times during their week together had this happened? It was an unsettling question, and she marveled at the great distance they had traveled in two short months. She could not know the journey had just begun.
It was late, yet a brilliant half-moon illuminated Charmantes’ cove. The Falcon reduced sail and drifted into the harbor. As she was moored, Frederic stood stoically at the rail. The Raven was gone, and a foreign ship was berthed in her place, a fact that should have pleased him. His torment would haunt him for the rest of his days. However, what was done was done, and what he had set out to accomplish this week had been accomplished. Downtrodden, he wondered if he’d ever see his son again. He swallowed against the thick lump lodged in his throat, impeding speech.
“Father, we’ll be going ashore now.”
Frederic averted his gaze. “By all means,” he coughed, “lead the way.”
A half-hour passed before a conveyance was obtained from the livery and the luggage hoisted into it. In that time, Frederic surveyed the new merchantman.
“The Wanderlust,” Paul breathed with pride, slapping her hull. “The first of the new fleet. One-hundred-fifty feet of the finest white oak the States have to offer. I shall meet with her captain in the morning. Would you like to accompany me—look her over?”