by DeVa Gantt
With eyebrow arched, Mercedes passed Charmaine a knowing nod.
A bellowing voice called for silence, and the noise of the crowd died down. Charmaine glanced around, and once again, caught many eyes upon her, Mary Stanton gaping from the sidelines. At the center of the room, Edward Richecourt climbed atop a chair, a makeshift platform for his announcement.
John elbowed George. “You slip on the noose, and I’ll kick out the chair!”
George’s raucous guffaws echoed to the rafters, and people turned to see who was laughing.
“Ladies and gentlemen!” Richecourt shouted magnanimously. “I’d like to propose a toast.” He lifted a glass of champagne to Paul. “To our fine host,” he continued loudly, “he has treated us like royalty this week, culminating in this exquisite celebration. May this intrepid endeavor become his triumph! Cheers!”
A round of applause gripped the hall. A call went up for Paul to take the platform. As he did, Charmaine felt John’s hand slip around her waist, pulling her close, the feel of his sturdy frame quite pleasing.
“Thank you for your kind wishes,” Paul stated cordially.
Charmaine stiffened as his eyes roamed over the spectators, arcing in her direction. She tried to step away from John, but his arm was like a vise, holding her in place.
“And I thank you all for journeying here,” Paul continued. “I hope this evening will be your best yet on Charmantes—” His gaze alighted on John “—I look forward to a prosperous relationship with each and every one of you—” then settled in blatant astonishment on her. He took them in as a couple, and Charmaine read fury in his eyes, his speech ending between clenched teeth. “My father and I hope you enjoy the remainder of the evening.” Though the audience cheered enthusiastically, he didn’t seem to notice, for his reproachful gaze never left her.
As the clapping died down, John snatched a glass of champagne off the tray of a passing server. He raised it to propose his own toast, his crisp, resonant voice halting Paul before he stepped down. “To you, Paul,” he declared full-voiced. “I admire your persistence. In less than two years, you’ve kindled a budding empire from a deserted island. When you really know what you want, nothing holds you back. Here’s to making dreams come true.”
Paul’s mouth flew open to retaliate, but a third round of applause drowned him out. The crowd closed ranks, shouting good wishes and drinking to his success.
“I’m leaving!” Charmaine huffed, her eyes flashing.
“Not yet,” John argued, his voice sympathetic, though he held her fast.
“And how am I to face Paul after this? We both know what he thinks.”
“What does he think, Charmaine?” John demanded evenly.
“That we’re together.”
“And we are,” he replied simply. “That’s his fault. So why worry about facing him? If you’d left it up to him, you’d be up there—” and he nodded toward the ceiling “—reading some goddamn book, wishing you were down here!”
“Why did you have to embarrass me like that?”
“I didn’t embarrass you. He was going to find out sooner or later, wasn’t he? He doesn’t deserve you, Charmaine.”
He released her, acknowledging ultimately, it was her choice to stay or to go. The band tuned up, and the crowd dispersed to clear the floor.
“May I have this dance, my Charm?” he petitioned softly, innocently, prompting her to decide. She wanted to stay, and as her eyes met his, the plea in their soft brown depths gave way to the rogue, chasing the little boy away.
“I’m not sure I remember how,” she hesitated.
“I’m not very good at it, either,” he smiled, pleased with his second victory of the evening. He held up a finger. “But if we stumble, we can always consult an expert.” He nodded in Geoffrey Elliot’s direction, where the solicitor looped around a cluster of dancers, writhing and twisting grotesquely before a comely partner, drawing disdainful glares.
Charmaine giggled when the couple whirled past them.
“With Geffey on the floor,” John expounded, “nobody will even notice us!”
With that, he opened his arms, inviting her into his embrace. She placed one hand in his and the other on his shoulder. His warm hand clasped her waist as they stepped into the beat of the music. She followed his lead, quickly realizing he knew every step. Her lessons with Loretta came back slowly, and her eyes left her sluggish feet for John’s face.
He smiled down at her, and she was bound to his regard until the room and crowd fell away, and there was nothing but the music, the mild air imbibed with the fragrance of tropical flowers, and this man. For months now, not a moment had gone by when some corner of her mind had not coveted precious thoughts of him. Her throat constricted, and a deep flush suffused her cheeks.
She stepped back as the waltz ended, thankful he misinterpreted her crimson face. “It’s warm in here, isn’t it?” he remarked, leading her to the French doors. “I’ll get us something to drink.”
She welcomed his departure, for she needed time to compose herself.
Frederic stood on the sidelines of the huge hall watching Charmaine Ryan dance with John. He was intrigued when she’d returned to the ballroom on his son’s arm. They were drawing a lot of attention, the room abuzz with speculation. He studied Charmaine’s expression, one he’d never seen when she was around Paul, and he understood why that relationship hadn’t progressed these many months. She is in love with John.
Pondering it now, Frederic realized he’d often thought of the governess and John as a couple. It had started the first time he’d seen them together, the day Agatha had ruthlessly spanked Pierre, that day when he’d been acutely aware of Colette’s presence in the house. Then there was the twins’ birthday, when he observed John helping Charmaine onto the dappling mare. And the night when Yvette had been gambling at Dulcie’s; Charmaine’s eyes had flown to John for protection, not Paul. He’d never forget those terrible days when Pierre lay dying, the untold hours they’d spent at his bedside, or Charmaine’s compassion for John afterward, her heartfelt tears over his suffering. And only a week ago, her face had brightened with unabashed joy when John returned.
A glimmer of hope heartened Frederic as he watched them now. For the first time in ten long, dismal years, John looked happy. The cynicism John had worn like a badge was gone. Frederic closed his eyes and uttered a silent prayer that his son had finally found someone to call his own.
“So, Mademoiselle, you’ve rejoined the festivities,” Paul commented politely as he came to stand before her. The strains of the next waltz filled the room. “May I have this dance?”
Charmaine nodded charily. John was still off getting drinks, and she knew she could not turn Paul down without embarrassing him. He took her hand, and they walked to the center of the dance floor. There, she stepped into his embrace, not daring to look up. Instead, she cast her eyes aside, noting the scrutiny of many of the guests.
Anne London could hardly conceal her ire when she caught sight of the couple. First Mercedes, now this! Charmaine Ryan I have underestimated you. You have beguiled not only John, but Paul as well. What is this game you are playing?
Throughout the evening, Anne had itched to reveal all concerning the rewriting of Frederic Duvoisin’s will and John’s abolitionist activities. But her father’s warning forced her to glumly hold her tongue. Charmaine Ryan had been the least of her concerns. She was a servant girl, riffraff. But here she was—her gown breathtaking, her loose hair a mass of gorgeous curls—squired by John to this high-society affair and dancing with Paul, blushing in his arms! It was time to intervene. Her father hadn’t forbidden gossip about the governess; so that was where she’d start. Then, she’d throw caution to the wind and use her experience with men to make Paul forget the woman.
For a few minutes, Charmaine and Paul danced in painful silence. She did not feel the thrill of being in his arms as she had so many times before.
“It didn’t take you long to make other plans
for the evening, Charmaine.”
His words stung. “I didn’t make other plans,” she countered. “John invited me to join him, and it only happened a short while ago.”
She caught sight of Mary Stanton watching amidst a bevy of matrons.
“Why didn’t you tell me you were angry, Charmaine?” he asked, drawing her eyes back to him.
“Angry? About what?”
“Obviously you are getting even with me by returning on John’s arm.”
“Getting even?” she asked, his reasoning beginning to register.
“Because of what happened with Agatha and Anne—to give me a taste of rejection. Isn’t that it?”
“No, that is not it!” she refuted, offended he would think her so petty.
Paul chuckled derisively, inciting her more.
“I was not angry, but I was disappointed. John saw that, and invited me when he realized I would miss the ball.”
“John is very good at stealing other men’s women,” he replied, his voice low so only Charmaine could hear. “Do you want to be his next victim?”
Her temper flared, but she resisted the urge to tear away. Instead, she looked him straight in the eye, mustered a pleasant voice and said, “He wouldn’t have been able to steal me tonight if you had brought me here yourself.”
“Then you are angry,” he rejoined, his minor victory dissatisfying.
“I’m angry now.”
They danced the rest of the waltz in icy silence. Paul watched her return to his brother, who was waiting with two drinks.
“You look annoyed, my Charm,” John commented as he handed her a glass.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” she replied.
“Why? Because he scolded you?” John quipped.
“I told you, I don’t want to discuss it.”
“You should have given him a piece of your mind, Charmaine.”
“No! I refuse to make a scene here. This event means too much to him.”
“He didn’t seem too concerned about that,” John scoffed derisively. “He’s very fortunate you care.”
“Paul has been very good to me,” she retaliated. “Although you might not understand it, John, I care for him very deeply.”
He relented. Best to drop the subject, though her words “care very deeply” were perplexing. She hadn’t accepted Paul’s proposal, so what did she mean?
They had danced nearly every dance, and now they were in the lush gardens, where they’d stolen away from prying eyes. George couldn’t stop kissing her. How John had managed to coax Mercedes down to the ball, George could only wonder, but whatever he did, George thanked him now. This was the most exciting night of his life. He bent low to kiss her again. On Monday, she’d return to Richmond. He didn’t want her to leave, for he loved her so. “Mercedes,” he murmured in her ear.
“Yes … ?” she whispered, hugging him close.
“Will you marry me?”
Her embrace quickened. “Yes! Oh yes!”
“May I have this dance with the lady?”
John turned to Geoffrey Elliot, who had tapped him on the shoulder, his avid eyes on Charmaine. “Is your name written on her dance program?” John rejoined.
“Well—actually—no.”
“There is your answer.” John prodded Charmaine into the steps of the next reel, leaving an insulted Geoffrey alone in the center of the floor.
The next dance was a quadrille. Charmaine squared off with George, and Mercedes with John. Charmaine had thought no one could be as happy as she, but George’s eyes twinkled brighter than ever before. As the music died down, Rose once again stepped in and coaxed her grandson away. Charmaine laughed as George tried to keep pace with his wiry grandmother.
Throughout the evening, John had been the perfect gentleman. Like a debutante, Charmaine stole admiring glances at him: his height, the fine tailoring of his jacket, the lamplight playing its color-game with his hair. She was oddly exhilarated when his warm hand lightly brushed hers or their shoulders touched when they sat side by side.
The ballroom was dreadfully hot, and many guests lingered close to the French doors where the air was cooler. Exhausted, Charmaine took a seat close to the doors. John stood nearby, four gentlemen conversing with him. They were embroiled in a debate that, by Charmaine’s estimation, had been ongoing over the past week. They could not bend the radical’s mind, their discussion spiraling, touching upon an array of current events: the new president (Martin Van Buren), the dissolution of the Bank of the United States, and inevitably, the slave question. Though the men talked about these subjects with absolute gravity, John remained jocular, his bemusement growing proportionately with their anger. One stalwart Virginian nearly screamed the word “traitor” in his face when he maintained he welcomed protectionist tariffs on foreign imports. Though detrimental to shipping, they would fuel manufacturing in the North and benefit his investments there.
“Well, why should tonight be any different?”
A sandpaper voice caught Charmaine’s ear. She turned slightly to find two plump, middle-aged women six feet away, heads tilted together, eyes on John.
“You know, the Palmers were in New York on business last February and he actually had the audacity to bring that quadroon woman along with him to the dinner party thrown by the Severs. Sarah Palmer told me the woman was a slave on his plantation, but he freed her a few years ago and brought her to New York.” The woman smiled smugly. “We all know what she did to earn her freedom!”
The other woman manufactured a scandalized expression. “I’ve heard whenever he’s in New York, she stays with him at his house. It is common knowledge she is his—his—”
“—mistress,” the second supplied.
Charmaine was stunned, and her eyes went to John. His futile conversation had taken its toll; he was shaking his head.
“I wonder if his mistress in New York knows he has one here!”
“And the governess of all people!” the first woman exclaimed. “I can imagine the lessons she’s taught his sisters!”
Both women shared a hearty laugh at Charmaine’s expense, indifferent that she was now looking at them, their heads bent close together, though she caught snippets of their continued abuse. “White trash … what can you expect? Imagine, someone like that being hired to such a position?” Their eyes condemned her, while their remarks cut deeply into her dignity.
John’s tender voice drew her away from their flagrant condescension. “Pay them no mind, Charmaine.” Then he spoke loud enough for the women to hear. “They’re two cows who haven’t been touched by a man in decades, and they’re jealous because you are young and beautiful.”
Their mouths dropped open in apoplectic indignation, but they didn’t dare utter another insulting word.
Paul found a moment’s peace in the cool kitchen, a breeze coming through the open back door. Fatima wasn’t there. She was working from the cookhouse behind the ballroom tonight. For as long as he could remember, this was his favorite place to go when he was frustrated. Although it was Fatima’s territory, she never shooed him away. She’d been feeding him since he was old enough to beg for her cookies, and understood his moods. So, when he came in search of solace, she’d pile a plate high, pour a glass of milk, and set them on the table before him. Then, she’d turn back to her chores: the potatoes that needed peeling or the dough that needed kneading. In her deep, melodious voice, she’d hum a pitch-perfect tune while she worked, a yearning, soulful strain.
The soothing elixir of childhood memories did not have an enduring effect. Aggravated, he flung himself into one of the chairs, cradling his aching head in his hands. He’d been stupid yesterday, and he’d played the lout tonight. Damn!
Suddenly, he sensed somebody watching him, and he lifted his gaze to the door. He was thunderstruck by the girl standing there. Straight black hair framed the loveliest face he’d ever laid eyes on. Thick, dark lashes hooded her extraordinary green eyes. She stepped into the room, revealing a body that
rivaled her face. She was young, more than ten years his junior, he surmised. He wondered why she hadn’t caught his eye before. It was impossible not to notice such a comely lass. He stood, uncomfortable with the way she silently assessed him.
Rebecca hadn’t expected to find him here; in fact, she was certain she wouldn’t find him at all. Now, as she had so often dreamed, they were in a room together, alone, and she was tongue-tied.
“Are you lost?” he asked, the question reverberating foolishly off the walls.
“No,” came a husky alto voice.
“Then what can I do for you? Perhaps you are hungry,” he suggested, his hand sweeping about in indication of the room.
“No.”
The short response left him wondering if she had spoken at all. For all her beauty, she was odd, standing there staring at him. If she were the daughter of one of his guests, why hadn’t he seen her before? She must be one of the Caribbean guests who were lodging at Dulcie’s, her skin near tawny from the tropical sun.
“I can’t say I remember meeting you, Miss … ?”
No answer.
“To which family do you belong?”
“None,” she finally replied, her voice mellow and sensual. It did not match her youth. “I mean, I’m not one of your formal guests. My brother brought me. He is in your employ.”
“Your brother?”
“Wade Remmen.”
“Ah, yes,” Paul murmured, the light beginning to dawn. “Our impressive Mr. Remmen. I had forgotten he had a sister.”
His mind continued to work. What was it now—two years or three—since the indigent siblings had stowed away on a Duvoisin vessel? Amazing, the generosity of time. Or was his memory of a wide-eyed, half-starved, filthy girl deceiving him? “And what might your name be, Miss Remmen?”
“Rebecca.”
“A lovely name,” he commented gregariously, comfortable now the conversation had begun to flow. “And what brings you to my kitchen, Miss Remmen? Have you a complaint you would like to bring to the cook?”