by DeVa Gantt
Blinded by tears, Charmaine pressed the signature to her lips and savored the contact, as if she could drink in John’s presence through the kiss. She closed her eyes to bittersweet happiness and breathed deeply. When she had composed herself, she looked up and realized she was alone.
Later that evening when Yvette and Jeannette were asleep, Charmaine wrote her first love letter. She poured out all her emotions and found herself crying before she had finished. Like John, she, too, apologized for the things she’d said before he left and told him how much she longed for the day he’d return home to her. When she was finished, she kissed the missive. Paul promised to put the post on the first vessel bound for New York. Thanks to George, they knew John’s address there.
Thursday, September 13, 1838
Robert Blackford stood behind a middle-aged woman who spoke softly to the clerk at the apothecary counter. He smiled to himself when she asked for a small vial of arsenic, and he wondered whose demise she was planning, most likely her husband’s or perhaps a lover’s. The clerk produced a ledger he asked her to sign. She paid him, and he handed over the poison.
Simple, Robert thought, so very simple. If Colette had lived on the mainland, Agatha wouldn’t have needed his services. But the mercantile on Charmantes stocked few medicinal items, and she had had to rely on him to procure the arsenic from Europe, which he did after she’d given Colette that first, nearly fatal dose in the early spring of 1836.
Robert stepped out into the bright sunshine moments later. He breathed deeply of the unusually brisk autumn air—crisp, but not clean. The booming factories soiled the afternoon breezes with thick smoke. Ah well, he couldn’t have everything.
As he walked along the bustling streets, his mind returned to Charmantes, that faraway place where he’d passed the better part of his life. Agatha had neatly sewn up the future for him, situating him here. He remembered his joy when she had arrived on Charmantes to stay. He thought it was the beginning for them; in reality, it was the beginning of the end.
Her husband had died, and even now, Robert wondered if Thomas Ward was the first of her victims. She had left Britain with enough arsenic to kill Colette overnight. But her rush for revenge was thwarted. Perhaps Colette was stronger than she realized, perhaps the entire draught was not consumed. Whatever the reason, Colette recovered, and Agatha had little poison left. When she confided in Robert, he upbraided her.
“You fool! What if Frederic were to find out? He’d have your head!”
She threw herself into his arms and cried on his shoulder. He basked in her embrace. When her tears subsided, she cajoled him, and promised she loved him as well. “I must rid Charmantes of any memory of Elizabeth. Please help me, Robert!” she implored.
She was determined to do away with Colette, marry Frederic, and effect John’s disinheritance, ensuring Paul the security that had been robbed from him on the day of his birth. Only then could they be together and enjoy the wonderful life Frederic’s money could buy.
He believed her. And because he loved her fiercely, he took command of the murder plot. He procured the arsenic and administered it in minute doses. “So it will be a slow, unexplainable death,” he reasoned. In truth, he dragged his feet for a full year before he killed Colette, hoping Agatha would change her mind and return to him.
“Yes,” her eyes glittered. “Let it be painful.”
When Colette began to complain about her “illness,” her mistrust of Robert apparent, it was easy to allow Agatha to take over. A strict schedule was developed, doses carefully calculated. A dash of poison was sprinkled on Colette’s food three days prior to Robert’s appointment, a tad more the following day, and a full measure the day after that. Colette was so ill by the time Robert arrived she welcomed his visits. Agatha withheld the poison on the days he came, and Colette would feel better after he left, as the severe side effects of the arsenic were wearing off. After three days, Agatha began the dosing all over again.
For months, she took enormous pleasure in watching Colette suffer, gleefully describing the grisly details: the headaches and dizziness, the vomiting and soiled undergarments, the ghastly face and hair loss. But in time, Agatha grew anxious to be done with the act, accelerating their routine to two appointments per week.
Colette should have died sooner, but pneumonia made poisoning difficult. Though arsenic was undetectable in food and liquids, Colette consumed very little of either, and when she did, there was always someone hovering over her: Gladys, Millie, Rose, and on occasion, Frederic. Toward the very end, Robert grew apprehensive; both Paul and Frederic were asking too many questions, and he prayed the pneumonia would kill her. When Colette pulled through, he seized the moment and liberally laced her broth and coffee with a lethal dose. But he wasn’t allowed in her room, and the tray he carried from the kitchen was left with Frederic. He feared the worst: what if Frederic sampled the poisonous fare?
Robert was lucky. Colette swallowed every drop and, within the hour, was violently ill. He was surprised she lasted the day, more amazed no one ever contemplated her many symptoms. But then, they had been gradual and endured over a long period of time.
His cunning had worked in their favor; their treachery met with only one hitch: Benito St. Giovanni. The island priest had been just as clever and ruthless. It could not be helped, but Robert let Agatha handle that. Benito’s extortion did not deter her. She was certain she’d find a way to shake him off. Besides, there was more to do: Pierre was next.
“He is in the will,” she complained. “Pierre may inherit it all, and Paul won’t get a red penny of his birthright. We must set this injustice right, Robert! Help me, my dearest, please! I promise we shall be together as soon as we’ve taken care of this one last detail.”
“John is first in line,” he’d reasoned. “I thought he was the problem.”
“Of course he is! But I want him to suffer as I did. It’s only a matter of time with John, anyway. I guarantee this event will be his undoing. I’ll make it so.”
Her hollow pledge haunted him still. Unconsciously, he’d embraced the truth: she was only using him. He didn’t want to believe it, and so he agreed to the diabolical deed, praying that in the ensuing turmoil, Frederic would suffer a fatal stroke and Agatha would finally realize how much he loved her. But just in case she didn’t, just in case he needed to flee Charmantes, he set a high price for the part he would play.
The fateful night arrived. Agatha swept into his abode, a hungry gleam in her eyes. The perfect opportunity had unexpectedly presented itself. Pierre had set the stage at dinner. “We must strike while the iron is hot,” she eagerly declared, her mind racing, “now, while Frederic is furious with John—before John returns to Richmond. We must stoke the rage into an inferno!”
Robert shuddered at her maniacal euphoria. “How much are you willing to pay?” he inquired coolly.
She was momentarily deflated, but quickly recovered, signing a promissory note that turned Thomas Ward’s entire estate over to him.
The next morning, she slipped a minute dose of arsenic into the boy’s milk. He became ill within the hour, complaining of stomach cramps and a headache, and as Agatha had predicted, John was asked to mind him while the family attended Mass.
In the meantime, Robert visited the stables. Few were about; most of the hands were also at Sunday service. His greatest fear that morning had been the great black stallion, but even that was easy. Phantom greedily devoured the mango he had pitted and filled with lye. Within seconds, the horse was writhing in agony. Robert unlatched the stall door, and the stallion bolted, knocking him over as he galloped out of the stable. He jumped to his feet and fled through the rear door, charting the shouts and high-pitched neighing that rose from the front lawns.
Within minutes, he reached the second floor of the manor, taking the back stairway that originated behind the ballroom and opened on to Agatha and Frederic’s chambers above. He watched John run from the nursery, and before the front door slammed shut, he was
at Pierre’s bedside, scooping him up. The boy’s eyes were closed, and Robert looked away, racing back the way he had come, out across the rear lawns, and into the safety of the tree line. Capsizing the boat and the actual drowning took longer than anticipated. He was distracted by shouts in the distance. “The lake—my father said the lake!”
He fled and watched from the boathouse, petrified when he realized the boy was not dead. What if he awoke? What if he talked? For three agonizing days, Robert could only pace. There were no ships in port—no means of escape. He waited to be called upon; he’d waste no time finishing what he’d begun. But Pierre died all on his own.
Even today, the memories remained vivid. Robert breathed a sigh of relief. Fate had smiled down on him eleven months ago. It was just as well he had left Charmantes. Here, he was far from Benito, even Agatha, and he was safe. No one, neither Frederic nor John, could ever track him down. Smiling smugly, he ambled down the busy road with a lighthearted gait.
Saturday, September 15, 1838
Maddy Thompson shook out the last lovely dress. The wardrobe John had ordered for Charmaine had arrived from Europe. But the new garments held no joy for Charmaine. The dresses didn’t fit, and even if they did, John wasn’t there to see her in them.
“What’s the matter?” Jeannette asked. “Don’t you like them?”
Even Yvette was disturbed by Charmaine’s apparent dissatisfaction. “They’re all beautiful,” she said.
“Beautiful, yes,” Charmaine murmured, “but I’ll not be wearing them for quite some time.”
Maddy returned the garment to its box. “Your condition won’t last forever,” she said. “By springtime you’ll have your figure back. For the moment, however, I think I could sew something a bit more comfortable than that.” The widow’s eyes rested on Charmaine’s protruding belly and tight bodice. Every dress Charmaine owned had been altered, each pleat, each seam, let out, and soon, not a one would fit. “If you stop by my house in an hour’s time, I will take some measurements and have a few dresses ready for you by next week. How would that be?”
“It would be wonderful,” Charmaine replied gratefully.
The bell sounded above the mercantile doorway and Wade Remmen stepped in with a beautiful young woman at his side—the girl George had been dancing with the night of the ball. “Good afternoon, Yvette,” he greeted. “I left this week’s invoices at the warehouse a few minutes ago.”
She nodded, but like her sister, her eyes rested on the woman.
“This is my sister, Rebecca,” he offered, seeing their interest. “Rebecca, this is Yvette and Jeannette Duvoisin, and this is Charmaine Duvoisin, John’s wife.”
Charmaine extended her hand, but received only a hostile glare.
Later, outside the general store, Wade berated his sister. “What was that all about?”
“What?”
“You know what, Rebecca! Charmaine was being friendly, and you were downright rude to her.”
Rebecca raised her nose. “I don’t like her, that’s all.”
Friday, September 21, 1838
Paul was determined to accomplish some work. Riding out at dawn, he headed to Charmantes’ tobacco fields.
He’d spent a week on Espoir. One man in particular had proven an asset. With Peter Wuerst in charge, Paul was confident he could reside on Charmantes and venture to Espoir once a week. Her sugar crop was hardy, and his laborers had been through the production routine a number of times.
Tobacco, on the other hand, was a time-consuming and tricky business: transplanting early in the season, pests and mold to manage, and painstaking fire curing over a three-to-twelve-week period. The curing barns had been constructed. But now, with another harvest upon them, each field required a half-dozen pickings, starting from the bottom of the stalk up. After curing, the tobacco needed to age for a year before being sent to market. The leaves were bundled into “hands” and warehoused in town near the wharf, where they were regularly inspected for insect infestation. Charmantes’ tobacco hadn’t turned a profit yet, making Paul wonder why he’d ever gotten involved with it. At the time, he’d reasoned if John had been successful, it had to be easy. Easy?
He arrived at the southern fields not a half-hour later and cursed as he looked out over the sloping terrain. The paid help and indentured servants were milling around. Paul urged his horse forward. “What’s going on here?” he demanded.
“We’re waitin’ for Mr. Richards,” one man answered. “He said he’d come out first thing this mornin’ to show us what needed doin’.”
“What about Mr. Browning?”
“He took some men with him into town. They’re stackin’ the kegs from yesterday’s cane pressin’ in the warehouse.”
“So because he’s not here, and Mr. Richards hasn’t arrived yet, the lot of you don’t know what to do?” Paul growled, jumping down from the saddle.
He strode through the nearest row of tobacco plants, plucking off several dark green leaves, bending each one over, noting they were brittle. Returning to Alabaster, he pulled up and into the saddle and shouted out to all the men. “I want the remaining leaves of this entire tract gathered and bundled. Tomorrow, I want them hung in the curing barns.”
The workers began to grumble, “We went through this field a day ago.”
Though irritated, Paul knew losing his temper wouldn’t get the work done, especially if George remained absent. “I know John has shown you what to do. These leaves are ready. If they are reaped by sunset, I will grant a day off for every man here—after the harvest. For those of you who’ve paid your time, an extra day’s wages!”
A whoop of approval went up, and the men threw themselves into the toil.
Paul turned Alabaster around, intent upon locating George. He checked the mill next and found the same situation there. Unsupervised, the men were taking advantage. “Have any of you seen George Richards?” he queried in rising agitation.
“No, sir, he don’t usually drop round ’til noon.”
“Where the hell is Wade Remmen?”
“He’s normally here by now, sir, but he was feelin’ poorly yesterday.”
Paul swore under his breath. “Very well, Tom, how would you like to be in charge for the day?” When the man frowned, he added, “Double wages if you mill as much lumber as Wade usually does.”
“Yes, sir!”
Paul spoke to the other men who had gathered around. “Tom’s in charge. Follow his orders, get the work done, and there will be a bonus at sunset.”
Before Paul had mounted up, Tom was barking orders.
What to do? He had been lax lately, and the word had gotten out: Frederic and John were gone, and he was rarely around. Had everyone gone on holiday because he wasn’t breaking his back? He had no idea where to look for George, but Wade Remmen was going to find out he couldn’t take a day off on a whim. The man was paid well to be reliable.
Twenty minutes later, he was riding along the waterfront road on the outskirts of town, where the cottages were humble. Near the end, he reined in Alabaster, dismounted, and tied the horse to the whitewashed fence that enclosed the bungalow’s small front yard. Of all the abodes along the lane, this one was the most charming, with flower boxes under the windows and a fresh coat of paint on the front door. Paul smiled despite his foul mood.
He knocked and waited. The door opened. There stood the young woman who had approached him in Fatima’s kitchen on the night of the ball. Of course! She is Wade’s sister. Even in her plain dress, she was stunning. “Is your brother here?” Paul inquired curtly, attempting to camouflage his surprise.
“Yes,” she said softly.
“May I speak to him?”
“He’s not well.”
“I would still like to speak with him,” Paul persisted. It would be nice if she invited me in.
“He’s sick with fever,” she argued. “I don’t want him disturbed.”
Paul snorted in derision. Obviously, she was lying. Her manner alone branded her
guilty, for she refused to budge.
“May I come in?” he bit out, quickly losing patience.
When she protested again, he placed palm to door and pushed it aside. As he strode into the plain but tidy room—a kitchen and parlor of sorts—the young girl tracked him, spitting fire over his audacity.
“How dare you? This is our home and if you think you can barge in here because you’re the high and mighty Paul Duvoisin, you’ve got—”
Paul headed toward one of the bedroom doors.
Just as swiftly, Rebecca scooted past him and flattened herself against it. “I told you—Wade is ill! You can’t disturb him!”
“Miss Remmen—step aside, or I will move you.”
“You just try it!” she sneered through bared teeth and narrowed eyes.
She was a little vixen, but he wasn’t about to be deterred, or worse, ordered around by a sassy snip of a girl, lovely or not. In one fluid motion, he swept her up in his arms and deposited her unceremoniously in the nearest chair.
Astounded, she scrambled to her feet, but he’d already entered the bedroom.
The curtains were drawn and someone was abed. Wade’s breathing bordered on a snore. As Paul’s eyes grew accustomed to the dim light, he could see beads of perspiration on the young man’s brow. He placed a palm to his forehead. Wade’s eyes fluttered open, and he murmured something in delirium. “He’s burning up,” Paul stated irately. “Why didn’t you summon the doctor?”
“Doctors cost money,” she defiantly whispered. “Now, please, he’s resting. You will awaken him, and then I’ll have him arguing with me as well.”
“Arguing with you?” Paul declared incredulously. “He’s delirious! I pay your brother decent wages. He can afford a doctor when he’s this ill.”
“Wade insists on saving his money.”
Paul glowered at her, and she added, “So we don’t ever go hungry again.”