by DeVa Gantt
“Your last visit? Why? You haven’t run out of resources, have you?”
Agatha looked around the room, noticing the bottle of expensive wine on the table, the well-stocked pantry, and the silk curtains adorning the windows. The man was living well at her expense. “My resources are of no concern to you. I’m through providing your finances.”
He was surprised. “What are you saying, Mrs. Duvoisin?”
“I’ve informed my husband of the small matter over which you’ve been extorting money,” she replied triumphantly. “He knows all the details and has been most forgiving. Your threats are inconsequential now.”
A low, deliberate laugh erupted from his unctuous smile. “Mrs. Duvoisin,” he started magnanimously, “I’ve grown quite accustomed to my stipend. It has helped offset my humble circumstance. Do you really think I would place it in jeopardy without insurance?”
Her eyes narrowed. She was not following him, so he hurried to explain. “I reflected for hours on your little lie, pondered your motives, puzzled over the role your brother played in it all. Robert’s situation has dramatically improved as well: his new house, lavishly furnished. Has his medical practice really grown that much? Or was he rewarded for assisting you?”
Agatha’s pulse throbbed, apprehensive yet irate over what was coming.
The man chuckled at her tight-lipped demeanor. “Yes, I’ve done some investigating, gleaned a bit of evidence that would be of great interest to your husband.”
“I don’t believe you!” she expostulated furiously. “You are bluffing.”
“Ah, but do you really want to take that chance, Mrs. Duvoisin?”
She stood before him in stony silence.
“I thought not. So, since you arrived empty-handed today, shall I see you next week at the appointed time? Oh, and by the way, my silence has become more expensive. Let us make your visits weekly ones from now on. So, do come prepared. Good day, Mrs. Duvoisin.”
After dinner, Yvette and Frederic disappeared into the study. Charmaine had been told all about their wondrous day. “Wondrous” was how they’d described it. Thanks to their father, their healing had commenced, and Charmaine was grateful. Her own heart was another matter.
An hour later, Yvette looked up at her father, who was reading over her shoulder. “This is not so difficult, Papa. I can cipher the rest tomorrow afternoon when lessons are over, and you can check my work in the evening.”
“I have a better idea,” Frederic said. “I think I can persuade Miss Ryan to substitute your arithmetic problems with this bookkeeping. After all, what is the purpose of education if not to benefit from its application?”
“You’re absolutely right, Papa.”
“I thought you’d agree,” he chuckled. “Shall we finish tomorrow, then?”
“Yes, Papa, I’m quite tired.” She rose, stretched, and placed a mild kiss on his cheek, but as she reached the hallway door, he called her name. “Yes, Papa?”
“You are quite a young lady—so very much like your mother.”
“Mama?” she asked in astonishment. “But Jeannette is much more—”
He didn’t allow her to finish. “No, Yvette, you are like your mother.”
She rushed across the study and gave him a fierce hug. Then, embarrassed, she raced from the room. With a heavy heart, Frederic watched her go. Not so long ago, Colette had sat at this desk doing the very same job.
The warm days of October turned unusually cool and blustery, heralding the onset of the Caribbean winter. Charmaine marveled at Frederic’s transformation. Most days, he ventured out with George to monitor work on the docks, at the mill, or in the sugarcane fields, master of his empire once again. When he was at the house, he was usually working in the study. He was hardier, his weak side growing stronger. Though he still favored a cane, his limp had also improved.
True to his word, he spent every Saturday with his daughters, and though it was a challenge at first, he managed quite well. In fact, Charmaine was impressed with the things he taught them, the engaging outings he embarked upon, all of which revolved around Duvoisin business. Although he and Jeannette had always been close, Yvette flourished under his guidance. Both girls looked forward to Saturday now, often speculating as to what the next excursion might be.
Charmaine remained uncomfortable in his presence, preferring to keep her distance. Though she tried to suppress them, she could not forget the revelations of that bleak October morning. Sadly, she could not regard Frederic with the same respect, despite his titanic effort to begin anew. She often contemplated the ugly word uttered only by John, though not denied by his father: rape. Had Frederic raped Colette or was it as he claimed—a seduction? Instinctively, Charmaine knew the latter had to be closer to the truth. She recalled Colette’s remarks: I was attracted to him from the moment we met … He’s handsome still … I love him still … No woman would use such words to describe a man who had raped her; there had to be more to the story. Nevertheless, pardoning Frederic of rape did not acquit him of stealing Colette from John.
The frenzied pace Paul had previously kept abated when Frederic reassumed control of Charmantes. Espoir’s development was suddenly unimpeded, and he spent most weekdays there. But every Friday night, he ventured home. She commanded his Saturdays now. A stroll on the lawns, afternoon tea, even lunch at Dulcie’s became a ritual. She was amazed he chose her companionship over his fledgling enterprise. Their discourse was direct, free of the previous games and guile, and they chatted and laughed together as never before. His attentiveness was comforting, a welcome distraction from the grief over Pierre, a piercing emptiness that often gripped her unexpectedly.
Agatha was not pleased. Charmaine often caught her disapproving glare. The woman continued to ingratiate herself with Paul, mindful of her future and the comfortable lifestyle to which she’d grown accustomed as Mrs. Duvoisin. Clearly, she hadn’t forgotten her disdainful nephew’s threats to cast her out, so she curried Paul’s respect in an effort to secure her future in the manor. She certainly didn’t want Charmaine around to interfere.
To Agatha’s chagrin, Frederic postponed the christening of Espoir. She objected, but he would not be swayed, maintaining such a celebration was inappropriate so soon after Pierre’s death. Paul agreed, and so the affair was set for early April, before Easter, when the weather warmed. Better accommodations could be arranged, and travel to the islands would be easier.
There had been no word from John. The twins missed him fiercely and were downtrodden when ships arrived from Richmond carrying no letters. But Charmaine understood; the wounds were still fresh, the happy memories too painful. She often reminisced about that winsome time, especially the two weeks before Pierre’s death. They had been a family then, a loving family. She had lost more than Pierre in October; she had lost John as well. But even if he returned today, those carefree days could never be recaptured.
Pierre was gone forever. Far better to cherish her recollections than dwell upon what wasn’t meant to be.
In mid-November, a young physician arrived in town. Recently graduated from medical school, he’d jumped at the prospect of opening up a practice where there would be little competition. Charmaine had unexpectedly encountered Caroline Browning one day, who lost no time in asking whether John had made the arrangements. It was rumored he distrusted his uncle’s competency and was subsidizing the new doctor until a clientele of patients could be established. Charmaine didn’t doubt the assertions, the traumatic hours before Pierre’s death foremost in her mind, but she cut the conversation short when Caroline inquired about the accident, asking why Pierre had been left in John’s care.
Saturday, November 25, 1837
Paul turned an admiring eye on Charmaine. She was seated confidently on the dappling mare, handling the steed competently, unaware of his regard from astride his own mount.
The Saturdays they spent together were the one silver lining in the cloud of disasters that had befallen his family over the past months. He
wanted Charmaine more than ever. Those bleak days in October had served to make her more alluring: the quiet dignity with which she bore her grief, her warmth in comforting his sisters, her forbearance to move on. He longed to take her in his arms and teach her about the pleasures of the flesh, yet he did not press her. Although there was a candor between them now, her passion lay dormant. She was still grieving Pierre, he reasoned, desire would return in time.
“How is Espoir coming along?” she asked, glancing his way.
“It’s nearly finished,” he replied, pleased with her interest. “The light will be installed in the lighthouse next week. I intend to launch some limited shipping. It’s impractical to delay until April. Some early runs will also allow the crews to become acquainted with navigating the port.” Impulsively, he asked, “Would you like to see it?”
Her eyes left the road altogether, taking in his broadening smile, white teeth flashing against bronzed skin. He was serious! “Yes, I would!” she exclaimed.
“Why not next week? We can take the girls and spend a few days there.”
He noted her fading enthusiasm, signaling her concern over an unchaperoned voyage. “I’ll ask Rose to join us and give you all an extended tour.”
Mentioning Rose did the trick; her face brightened again. “I think it’s a wonderful idea!” she said.
For the first time in weeks, she was looking forward to something.
Monday, December 4, 1837
The twins welcomed their first excursion on a Duvoisin vessel, their alacrity unrestrained. With Paul in close attendance, they took turns at the helm, though he did the work. Most of the time they were at the bow, arms extended, flaxen hair and skirts dancing in the headwind. Occasionally, the ship cut into deep waves, hurling sea-spray over her sides, startling them into squeals of delight.
They arrived by late afternoon and headed straight to the new house. Aside from Frederic and Agatha, they were the first to take up temporary residence there. The house was magnificent, constructed with the highest quality materials. Paul noted that though the main floor was sparsely furnished, many of the bedchambers were fully appointed in anticipation of the guests who would be visiting in the spring. He showed them to their rooms; the twins would share one, but Charmaine and Rose had their own. He also brought them to the master chamber suite, which was larger than Charmaine’s childhood home. She imagined the life of the mistress of this manor and, fleetingly, fancied herself in that role. But she quickly brushed those thoughts aside. Even as the governess to the Duvoisin children, she enjoyed comforts and privileges she could never have fathomed. Could she ever go back to her humble beginnings? Someday she might have to, so it was wise to stay anchored in reality.
Millie set up the kitchen, serving them a simple meal by late evening. Afterward, they retired to the drawing room, where Rose took up her knitting and Charmaine, Paul, and the twins played a game of cards, which, along with chess and checkers, they had brought for evening entertainment. Jeannette tired of the game and went to Rose, asking for a knitting lesson. With an extra pair of needles and spare yarn, Rose set up a basic stitch. Jeannette caught on quickly. After completing a few rows, she brought her handiwork to Charmaine.
“Very good!” she praised. “I think you have a knack for knitting.”
Yvette boasted she could knit just as well, and when Paul said she didn’t seem the domestic type, she pressed Jeannette to show her the stitches.
He regarded Rose. “Every night you take up that knitting, Nan. What do you do with your finished work? Nobody can use it here.”
“I send it to family in the States, and they usually donate it to the poor.”
Yvette tired of the tedious task much as Paul had predicted.
“What are you knitting, Jeannette?” he asked.
“I don’t know. What am I knitting, Nana Rose?”
“Why, a scarf, of course.”
“But, you don’t need a scarf, Jeannette!” Yvette exclaimed.
“No, I don’t,” she replied, “but I can send it to Johnny for Christmas!”
“That’s a wonderful idea,” Rose said with a smile, “and I’ll show you how to knit his initials into it when you near the end.”
Jeannette happily agreed.
“Just make sure he knows I helped make it, too!” Yvette insisted.
“I’m sure he’ll know exactly which two rows you knitted,” Charmaine chuckled, eyeing Yvette’s loose, uneven stitches.
Friday, December 8, 1837
The weather was fair, and the week on Espoir sped by quickly. In the mornings, Charmaine and the twins worked on lessons. After lunch, Paul joined them, and they ventured out on horseback to the sugarcane fields, some under preparation for planting, others growing tall. One afternoon they passed endless stretches being cleared of vegetation. The twins enjoyed riding along the trails that bordered the fields, traveling the entire circuit connecting one to the next.
On the last day of their excursion, the weather turned brisk. It had drizzled overnight, and cold air followed the rain. After dinner, they settled into the drawing room. Paul struck a fire in the hearth to chase away the chill, and the girls sat in front of it, Jeannette with her knitting and Yvette with a book. Before long, both had fallen asleep. Paul carried them to their room, where Charmaine tucked them in for the night. When she returned to the parlor, Rose stood and announced she, too, was retiring.
For the first time that week, Charmaine was alone with Paul, and she could feel herself growing tense—a strange mixture of excitement, anxiety, and reluctance. She remained on the sofa, watching him. He was banking the fire with fresh kindling, his masculinity silhouetted by the glowing embers. She admired the play of muscle in his thigh as he crouched low to press the logs deeper into the blaze. His handsome face was striking in the orange light. He rose and moved to the sideboard where he poured two glasses of wine.
Paul inhaled as he handed a glass to her. She was lovely tonight. He hadn’t kissed her in months, and the urge to do so now was overpowering.
Charmaine blushed as he settled on the sofa next to her, his arm cast across the back of it. He was so close she could feel the heat of his body. “I don’t drink,” she said, gesturing with the glass.
“Try it, Charmaine. It’s a vintage wine. It will help you relax.”
“Very well,” she said, taking a sip. It was smooth and warm going down.
“So, did you enjoy the trip here?” he asked.
“Very much. I’m impressed. I see what has kept you busy all these months.”
“There is still much to do before Espoir will stand on its own merit.”
“With all the care you’ve taken, it will be very successful.”
“I hope so. Still, it has distracted me from other important things.”
She looked at him quizzically. He was studying her intently. “You’ll find time for those things,” she said quickly, wishing to redirect the conversation.
“I’m trying to.” His hand, warm and persuasive, caressed her cheek, found her chin, and coaxed her head back. With her face upturned, he leaned forward, his lips meeting hers. “You are lovely, Charmaine Ryan,” he murmured against her mouth. “It has been so long since I’ve kissed you, I was afraid this week would pass without the opportunity.”
His kiss deepened, and his arm slid off the sofa, closing around her shoulder. The minutes gathered, and his ardor grew, his hand stroking her hair, her shoulder, and coming to rest on her thigh. She felt feminine and desirable, yet as the sensual moment heightened, a visceral tide of resistance took hold. She pressed her hands against his chest and slowly drew back.
He looked down at her searchingly. “Are you all right?”
“Yes, yes,” she replied, standing up and moving to the fireplace. This situation was very dangerous.
“Charmaine,” he started, coming to stand behind her. “I know you have been very sad these past two months. I had hoped to comfort you.”
She faced him. “And you have.
You have been a great comfort, a good friend, and I appreciate your concern.”
“Are you in better spirits now?” he asked, not relishing the title “good friend.”
She smiled. “Some days I am. This week I have been.”
The silence between them seemed endless.
“What do you want, Charmaine Ryan?”
“What do I want?” she queried, awed by the unexpected question. “Yes, what do you want—for your future, for your life?” Was this trite banter, or was he asking how she felt about him?
Somewhere inside, she knew the answer to his question, but it was too sublime, too frightening—too impossible—to even ponder.
“Six months ago, I could have answered,” she replied. “Now … I don’t know.” She paused, then turned the question over to him. “What do you want? And don’t say me.”
“And if I did say I want you?” he asked sincerely.
“I would say that I’m flattered.”
“But?”
“What do you mean when you say you want me?”
“It means I want you at my side. It means I want to make love to you.”
“Does it mean you want to marry me?” she inquired brashly. His smile faded, and she was strangely relieved. “What does it matter, anyway?” she chuckled lightheartedly, waving away the frivolous query, intent upon soothing him. “It’s not even in the realm of consideration, is it? After all, I’m just a governess, hardly a suitable spouse.”
Marriage … Not exactly the subject he wanted to broach right now. Marriage … Why was it so frightening? Why did he hesitate? You will rue the day you threw away happiness with both hands. If it weren’t Charmaine, who then? Marriage … For what was he waiting?
“I don’t think of you as just the governess, Charmaine,” he replied. “You are a fine woman: compassionate, intelligent, attractive. Social mores have never been important to me, and they certainly won’t dictate whom I marry. Look at my parentage. In society’s eyes, I am less worthy than you.”