by DeVa Gantt
“What of Colette?” Michael mused. “You said you couldn’t love another.”
“I didn’t believe I could,” John murmured. “But I do.”
“Enough to forgive your father and yourself?”
John’s face hardened. “I don’t know.”
“He’s forgiven you, hasn’t he?” Michael probed.
John was uncomfortable and rose swiftly from the desk. Michael wisely changed the subject. “When were the vows spoken?”
“On the island, after Paul’s party. It was very private with Father Benito—” John’s words broke off, and Michael followed his thoughts: What if the priest isn’t a priest at all? “When we are finished in New York,” John decided, “we will have a ceremony on Charmantes with you presiding this time, Michael.”
“I would be honored.”
“There is something else you should know. You are going to be a grandfather.”
Michael wondered if the surprises would ever end, but this was the sort of announcement he could capitalize on. “A baby on the way,” he pondered softly. “When is he or she due?”
“Around Christmastide.”
“And you think it wise to be away from Charmaine at such a time?”
“You sound like my father,” John pronounced as he began to pace.
“We’re concerned for you, as well as for your new son or daughter.”
“Yes, I’m sure you are,” John muttered, then he stopped in his tracks. “So—is the sermon coming now or are you still leading up to it?”
“John—”
“You’re wasting your time, Michael.”
“John, you are one of the most honorable men I know. For that reason alone, my time is not being wasted. But you are also married to my daughter now. I can’t keep silent. We each have our missions here.”
John’s tumultuous eyes mocked his crooked grin, but he did not argue.
Friday, August 31, 1838
Agatha Blackford Ward Duvoisin was not buried beside Frederic’s other two wives. Paul had her grave dug on the far side of the cemetery. Charmaine, George, and Mercedes were the only ones attending the small funeral, for the girls had refused to go, and even for Paul’s sake, Charmaine could not force them to pray for the woman who had murdered their mother and brother.
Without a priest, it fell to Paul to offer a eulogy, one sad sentence that chilled Charmaine’s soul: “May God forgive you and bring you the peace you never found in this life.” With bowed head, she allowed her tears to fall, not for Agatha, but for her son.
Late that night, Charmaine found Paul in the dark library; he’d allowed the lamp to burn out. She stepped into the room, the hallway sconces sending a shaft of light across the chair in which he lounged. As she moved closer, she found he slept. Her eyes filled with tears again. It would have been easier to love this man, she realized. Today, he had desperately needed someone to love him. Her mind wandered back to that time of innocence, when a bare chest and a lazy smile made her legs go weak. She’d always treasure those profound feelings of first love.
“Paul,” she whispered. “Paul?”
He stirred, his eyes fluttering open, and then, almost in a daze, he realized where he was. He rubbed his brow and then his eyes. “I must have fallen asleep.”
“Why don’t you go to bed? You’ve had a draining day.”
“No, no,” he dissented. “I wouldn’t be able to sleep if I retired.”
He stood, stretched, and went to the decanter to pour himself a drink. “Would you like some?” he offered, but she only shook her head.
“I felt the baby move today,” she said, attempting to break the melancholy.
His half-smile told her she hadn’t succeeded. “And how have you been feeling?” he asked.
“Better. Rose was right. The first few months were the worst.”
“You look beautiful, Charmaine,” he told her, his smile finally reaching his eyes as if he’d read her thoughts, “even if you are in the family way.”
Why this silly small talk? She inhaled, then plunged headlong into the source of their misery. “Paul, we haven’t spoken about this, and perhaps now is not the time, but John told me everything about your father and Agatha, and—” she paused, searching for the right words “—you should know you’re one of the finest men I’ve ever known. I hope you don’t hold yourself responsible for what’s happened to this family. I don’t, and I’m certain John doesn’t, either.”
He was listening intently, but she was uncertain of his reaction.
“I’ve lived with that terrible feeling of helplessness,” she continued, “and I’ve finally realized I could never have changed my father or prevented what he did. Agatha is only a bad memory now, but she did bless this world with something very good— you.”
Chapter 7
Sunday, September 2, 1838
New York City
WHEN Frederic and Michael stepped off the ship with John, they were awed by the bustle on the docks and the throngs in the street. They hailed a carriage and headed for John’s row house near Washington Square. Manhattan made Richmond look like a country village.
“This is where the future of shipping is, Father,” John said as the conveyance rolled through the streets.
They settled into the vacant row house on Sixth Avenue, opening windows and lighting the lamps. The next day, they set up house with supplies and foodstuffs, and began planning how they would track down Robert Blackford.
The bank where he’d deposited his small fortune proved to be a dead end. The account had been closed as soon as the Richmond banknote cleared. The financier yielded little information. Robert was shrewd. The money had not been transferred; he’d taken his funds in cash. There was nothing to do but start scouring the city, hoping for a clue or a lead.
They agreed Michael would accompany Frederic, and John would go out on his own because he knew New York better.
“I’m sure he’s taken an assumed name,” John said.
Frederic concurred. “But how do we begin to guess what that might be?”
“Start with the obvious ones,” Michael suggested, “Smith, Jones, Brown … ”
“He won’t go from Blackford to Brown,” John quipped derisively. “Is there anything darker than black? That’s what he is.”
“No, John,” Michael replied grimly. “Black is as dark as it gets. Try then the names Black and Ford.”
They grew quiet, discouraged by the daunting mission ahead of them.
“I want to know why he did it,” John muttered. “It wasn’t for the money, I know it wasn’t. There was something else.”
Frederic looked up, not surprised that his son had come to the same conclusion.
Their eyes locked, and John addressed the other problem they would have to face. “What do you intend to do with Agatha when we get back?”
“I don’t know, John. From what Paul told me, she is in her own private hell already.”
That night, John had his recurrent dream of Pierre, lost in the streets of New York. But this time, after Pierre disappeared in the crowd, John found himself in a dark factory, where veiled black figures shoveled coal into large ovens. The flames flared up and burned brightly, greedily devouring the coal.
Friday, September 7, 1838 Charmantes
They had fallen into a routine. Paul and George made a point of being home before dinner, and the table was laid for seven each night: Paul and Charmaine, the twins and Rose, Mercedes and George. Charmaine marveled at how the girls were maturing. They showed an interest in nearly any topic and participated in each conversation; Yvette in particular often questioned Paul about his workday. She continued to be an asset to the mill operation, the only bookkeeping about which he didn’t have to worry. Her knowledge of the family business astounded him, and as his respect grew, so, too, did the camaraderie that had sprung up between them.
Tonight was the same, and when the dishes were cleared away, everyone stood to retire to the front parlor. Yvette and Paul were invo
lved in a heated discussion concerning the benefits of building a sugar refinery on Charmantes. “It can’t be done!” Paul argued. “Purification must be accomplished abroad.”
“But the ships could carry far more condensed extract than raw, and you could charge a higher price for a nearly finished product.”
“Fresh water is limited here, Yvette, and there’s the wood supply to consider. We’d be burning a great deal each day just to fire the plant.”
“Then what about cocoa?” And so it went.
Charmaine exchanged a chuckle with Rose and, seeing one last plate on the table, turned to the kitchen to deliver it to Fatima. Pots and pans were piled high in the middle of the wooden table, and the cook was shuttling dishes and cutlery to the new girl, Rachel, who was scrubbing them in the adjacent scullery.
“Oh, Miss Charmaine,” Fatima scolded lightly, “let me have that plate.”
“Cookie, where are Felicia and Anna?”
The woman grunted. “Seeing to Master Paul, I suspect.”
Charmaine felt her ire rising. Evidently, this was not the first time the duty of washing the dishes had fallen to Fatima. “But this is their job, isn’t it?”
“With Missus Faraday minding Master Paul’s house and Mistress Agatha gone, they’ve been getting out of a lot of work they ought to be doing.”
“Have they?” Charmaine mused before marching from the room.
She’d suspected the two lazy maids had been slacking off, but that wasn’t the only reason she was furious when she entered the front parlor. Two days earlier, she had overheard their whispers behind the doors of John’s old room.
“. . . and now he’s away, you see how she fawns over Paul?”
“Even with John’s baby growin’ inside of her.”
“Well, maybe it ain’t John’s at all!”
The room echoed with vicious giggles.
Charmaine had turned away, not allowing them the victory they would certainly savor if they knew they had hurt her. But not tonight! Tonight she was armed for battle.
Sure enough, she found the two at the liquor cabinet, Anna pretending to wipe up, while Felicia strolled across the room with hips swaying, presenting a glass of port to Paul, who looked up and smiled.
“Felicia, Anna,” Charmaine called from the doorway, her arms crossed.
The two women turned to face her.
“Have you finished with the dinner dishes already?”
“Fatima said she’d see to it,” Felicia lied.
Charmaine responded sternly. “I told Mrs. Henderson she is not to do dishes, pots, pans, knives, forks, spoons, or utensils of any sort. She is our cook, not the cleanup help. However, if I do find her cleaning up after a meal, I will give her a day off, and the chore of cooking will fall to you. Understood?”
Both maids appeared shocked, but when Anna opened her mouth to speak, Charmaine rushed on. “Now, if I were you, I’d run to that kitchen and make myself busy. You’re not being paid to pour drinks.”
Felicia’s eyes flew to Paul, as if to say she’d only take orders from him, perhaps hoping he’d come to her rescue, and Charmaine held her breath. But one look at his face told her he was of no mind to interfere. Felicia must have recognized it, too, for she stomped from the room in an insulted huff. As she passed through the door, Charmaine added, “In future, we won’t be requiring your services after dinner. This is family time.”
When they were alone, Yvette and Jeannette began to laugh, and George quickly joined in. “What was that all about?” Paul asked.
“If I am mistress of this manor, it is time I start acting the part.”
Paul raised his glass in a toast and winked. For the first time in two long weeks, Charmaine felt happy.
Three days later, Felicia was sent packing. Charmaine hadn’t a clue why.
Paul fired the trollop on the spot and didn’t give her a backward glance as she scurried from the house. Returning to the study where he’d been working, he thought back on the morning. Anna and Felicia had been making his bed, thinking him gone for the day. They were also talking about Charmaine.
“My blood boils every time I think how that hussy sauntered into this house,” Felicia was saying, “wormin’ her way into the family by playin’ the virgin.”
“You’d best get over it,” Anna advised in a whisper.
But Felicia could not curb her temper. “I’d rather have Agatha back.”
“Charmaine’s not that bad. You’re jealous, is all.”
“Jealous of what? Her big belly? I think that baby was growin’ inside of her long before she snared John.”
“Felicia, you saw the bed linen, same as I did!” Anna stated.
“She probably cut herself and bled on them sheets just to trick everyone, John included. You see the way she’s sprouting? It won’t be long before Paul is disgusted by the sight of her, and then he’ll be looking my way again.”
Paul had heard enough and barged in, slamming the door behind him.
“Master Paul!” Anna shrieked.
His scowl was directed at Felicia, and she recoiled. “Pack your things,” he growled. “You’ll not spend another night in this house.”
“But where will I go?”
“Your parents live in town, don’t they? Maybe they’ll take you in. If not, there’s always Dulcie’s. You’re more suited for that type of work, anyway.”
Felicia blushed and fled the room.
Paul turned on Anna, and she unconsciously took two steps backward. “Sir,” she implored. “I didn’t like listening to her.”
“You had best make me believe that,” he warned, his jaw still clenched. “I don’t want to hear that Charmaine has had to speak to you again. And she had better not be the subject of any of your conversations. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir,” she murmured meekly and, with a swift curtsy, flew out the door.
Tuesday, September 11, 1838
Paul was in town when the shout went up that a ship was docking. He stood on the wharf as Matt Williams navigated the Destiny to the pier. Once the ship was moored, he jumped aboard. “What brings you to us, Matt?” he queried. “I thought you’d be running shipments for John out of Virginia.”
“That was the original plan, but according to Stuart Simons, John and your father changed all that. They’ve taken the Raven on to New York and sent me to deliver these.” He handed Paul two letters, the envelopes addressed in John’s scrawl. “I’m carrying only a half-cargo of tobacco. John thought the trip could be salvaged if I filled the remainder of the hold with sugar.”
“Rest for now,” Paul said. “We should be able to get her loaded tomorrow, and you can set sail in two days’ time.”
Matt nodded, then informed his crew. With a whoop of appreciation, they quickly finished securing the vessel, motivated by thoughts of Dulcie’s and an afternoon of leisure.
Paul went down into the captain’s cabin and tore open his letter. When he’d finished reading it, he looked at the envelope addressed to Charmaine and abruptly decided to postpone the work he had planned for the afternoon.
Charmaine was sitting on the swing listening to the girls as they took turns reading to her. The weather was mild and the day too beautiful, so she had suggested they finish the novel in the shade of the oak tree. She was surprised to see Paul ride through the gates and rein Alabaster in their direction.
He dismounted quickly, tucked both hands behind his back, and suggested she pick one. Bewildered, she chose the right, but when it came up empty, he quickly presented his left. “A little present,” he said with a debonair smile.
Charmaine recognized John’s handwriting and gasped in relief. She turned the envelope over, carefully broke the seal, and sat absent-mindedly on the swing.
“Is it from Johnny?” Jeannette asked.
“What does it say?” Yvette demanded.
Paul put a finger to his lips and motioned the girls to follow him to the stable. Without an argument, they fell in step beside him, A
labaster in tow. When they were a distance away, he said, “Give Charmaine some time alone. She needs a few moments of happiness.”
They smiled up at him.
“Besides,” he continued, “John wrote to you in my letter.”
“Truly?” they queried in tandem. “What did he say?”
“He wrote he misses you and will be home as soon as possible.”
“That’s all?” Yvette asked. “Did he say if he killed Dr. Blackford yet?”
“No, Yvette—” Paul frowned “—he didn’t write about that. According to his letter, he’s still searching for him.”
“Well, he’s sure taking his time, isn’t he?”
“What about Papa?” Jeannette asked. “Did Johnny write if he’s all right?”
“I don’t know,” Paul admitted, “but I’m certain Father is fine.”
“I just hope they’re not fighting,” Yvette proclaimed. “That will surely slow things down.”
Paul shook his head with his sister’s words of wisdom. “Let it be, Yvette.”
Charmaine feasted on John’s letter from the tender opening: My dearest Charm, to the poignant closing: Tell our beautiful baby I love him as much as I love his mother. She learned his pursuit of Blackford was taking him and his father to New York and he’d unexpectedly met Joshua Harrington. Then came his love words, words that melted Charmaine’s heart.
I apologize for the way I left you that day. Please understand I am compelled to seek justice. I could never live with myself knowing the murderer of my son was still at large and I did nothing. And, yes, I am also doing this for Colette. I would be a liar if I didn’t admit that to you or myself. But it is not because I harbor a fierce love for her. She was a good and kind person who didn’t deserve to die so young—to be murdered. If she were alive today, I would still choose you. You are more woman than I could ever hope to love me. I learned something incredible today—something that made me smile amidst all this gloom, but that news will have to wait. This revelation made me realize how much you mean to me, my Charm, and how very much I love you. It’s so lonely here tonight. I long to hold you in my arms and make love to you. I promise when I return, we will make up for all the time these weeks have stolen from us.