by DeVa Gantt
Charmaine giggled, envisioning the budding romance.
“Are you well?” Loretta pressed, brushing the topic of Gwendolyn and Geoffrey Elliot aside and leaning forward to clasp Charmaine’s hand.
Charmaine noted the worry in Loretta’s voice and replied, “When I first found I was expecting, I was ill most mornings. But that passed, and I’ve been feeling much better.”
Loretta and Joshua exchanged looks of relief.
“Joshua met John in Richmond,” Loretta offered.
“Yes, I know. John wrote that you’d spoken at the Richmond bank.” She looked up at the older man with a smile, then back to his wife, reading her misgivings. “Mrs. Harrington, I’m fine. I don’t know what you’ve heard, but truly, I’m fine.”
“But are you happy?” Joshua asked.
Charmaine tilted her head, trying to read him. “Yes, I’m happy … ”
“But?” Loretta probed.
“But,” Charmaine breathed, “I miss my husband.”
“And the only reason you’re not with him in Richmond is because of your morning sickness?”
“That is not the reason,” Charmaine admitted. “And John is no longer in Richmond. He’s traveled to New York.”
“Charmaine,” Loretta began slowly, not wishing to alarm the young woman, but determined to make sense out of all she had heard. “There is idle talk in Richmond, and it concerns your hasty and most surprising marriage to Mr. Duvoisin.”
Charmaine grew dismayed. “What are they saying?”
“It is not what they are saying, it is what they are insinuating. And as much as I hate to admit it, some lies often stem from truths.” When Charmaine didn’t respond, Loretta pressed on. “Were you forced to marry this man?”
“No!” Charmaine denied, aghast with the canards that had obviously prompted the Harringtons’ trip. “John was my choice. I love him.”
Loretta was happy with the vehement answer, but Joshua wasn’t convinced. “Then why has he left you alone at a time like this?”
Charmaine studied the hands in her lap. “Something terrible happened here a month ago.” Slowly, painfully, she told them about the murders.
“But why is your husband tracking down this doctor?” Joshua asked. “I thought he and his father didn’t get along.”
Charmaine grappled with an excuse, for the truth could never be revealed, and Loretta realized there was a great deal more to the story.
“There, there, Charmaine,” she soothed, “we don’t mean to upset you.” She eyed her husband and added, “After all, it’s not good for the baby. I would like to freshen up and rest a bit. The voyage was extremely unsettling. Could you show us to our room?”
“Certainly,” Charmaine said, grateful Loretta understood. “How long will you be staying?”
“For as long as you would like,” Loretta offered with abundant love.
“At least until the baby is born,” Charmaine hoped aloud.
“I’m certain we could manage that, now couldn’t we, Joshua?”
Monday, October 15, 1838
John’s second letter to Charmaine was delivered to the Duvoisin warehouse in Richmond. One of the employees paid the mail dispatcher the postage fee. Seeing the post was sent care of stuart simons, he tossed the envelope atop a pile of mail for the man. Stuart wasn’t due in Richmond for another fortnight.
Friday, October 26, 1838
The jeweler handed John the ring for his inspection. He’d fashioned it precisely to his customer’s specifications. It had taken weeks to locate the diamond, a difficult task, since Mr. Duvoisin wanted a flawless stone weighing at least three carats. The jeweler watched John as he examined it. Even in this dim room, the stone flashed with fire and light. It was set on a thick, unadorned band, engraved inside with the simple sentiment, for my charm, with my love, j.d.
The jeweler could see his client was satisfied, so he placed the ring back in its box. John paid for it in cash, tucked the box into the pocket of his overcoat, and stepped out of the shop into the overcast day.
Nearly two months had passed since they’d arrived in New York and their efforts had proven fruitless, all their leads dead ends. His father had begun suggesting they take their search to London or Liverpool. After all, Blackford’s roots were in England. But John was adamant they stay in New York, certain Blackford had not gone any farther than the anonymity and the work the large city had to offer, especially with the burgeoning immigrant population. He had only his intuition to support this hunch, but he could not shake the certainty of it, nor ignore the recurrent dreams of Colette and Pierre that reinforced those assumptions every night.
He walked to the post office. He’d received a letter from Charmaine earlier that week and had been relieved to hear news from home, the most important: Agatha was dead. It was one less thing to plague him, to have to face. He was happy to know the twins were well, Mercedes expecting, and Charmaine had forgiven him his hasty departure. She’d written she could feel the baby moving. He longed to put this crusade behind him so he could return home; he was missing so much. The letter he’d send off today admitted they hadn’t uncovered anything new concerning his uncle’s whereabouts, but reassured her it was only a matter of time until he was holding her again.
Like his last letter, he’d placed it within another envelope addressed to Stuart in Richmond with instructions for its immediate delivery to Charmantes. With Paul’s packets running supplies to Charmantes at least once a month, John was certain Charmaine would receive the correspondence by early December.
That night, John showed Michael the ring. “Beautiful,” the priest admired.
“I know what you’re thinking,” John said. “I should have given the money to the poor.”
“No, John. Charmaine deserves to be happy.” Michael looked at the ring again, turning it over in his hand. “This should make her very happy.”
John smiled, watching as his friend read the inscription.
“My Charm?” he asked.
John’s grin widened, his eyes lighting up as well. “My pet name for her,” he explained. “She used to hate it when I called her that, but I’d say it again and again just to see her eyes flash.”
Michael could tell John relished the memory.
“Like Marie’s eyes … ” John mused.
Michael nodded. “Yes,” he breathed. “I remember that look … ”
He handed the diamond back to John, who replaced it in its box, then locked it away in his desk. “If anything should happen, Michael, please make certain Charmaine gets it.”
Michael’s heart lurched with the tenebrous request.
November 1838
Charmantes didn’t have a jail, so Benito Giovanni had spent the last two months incarcerated in the storeroom beneath the town’s meetinghouse. The cellar had been used for petty infractions in the past, and, so, Paul had transferred the priest from the bondsmen’s keep three days after his arrest to keep a better eye on him.
The edifice was built into the side of a hillock, and those attending Sunday Mass climbed eight steps up to a small wooden platform that opened into one large room. Inside, a staircase led down to a dark, cool basement, where perishable items were stored. The chamber was six feet deep with an earthen floor, its front wall constructed of rock and clay mortar, the rear wall, little more than heavy stones embedded in the hillside. Three rows of shelves lined the back of the cellar. They were stacked with preserves, wine, vegetables, and exotic fruits. The priest was pleased to discover the farthest shelf was set about two feet away from the stone and dirt wall. It was tight, but there was room to move behind it.
Giovanni had spent the first two weeks of his imprisonment cursing his rotten luck, his scheme to leave Charmantes at the end of the year, foiled. He’d prepared for the possibility of betrayal from the start, but when Blackford departed and Agatha was banished, that ceased to be a concern. Certainly, he never expected this! Before he could escape from the island, he had to escape his cell. As lo
ng as he had time, there was a chance. Within two weeks, he had formulated a plan.
Twice a week, either Paul or George would check in on him. Sometimes the door would open, other times he’d hear their voices on the other side and knew a sentry stood guard. He wondered why John or Frederic had not come to confront him again, concluding they had left Charmantes in search of Blackford. He wondered what had happened to Agatha and puzzled as to how the truth had been unraveled and their treachery revealed.
Twice a day, he was brought food: breakfast early in the morning, and around five, supper. At that time, his chamber pot was removed and returned clean. Buck Mathers had been taken from the docks and charged with delivering these meals and any other needs. The priest knew better than to attempt an escape when Buck came through the door. Giovanni used the time to strike up several conversations with the man, however, gradually putting him at ease. Buck religiously attended the Sunday noon Mass with his wife and five children. Like everyone else on the island, he was astonished a man of the cloth could be guilty of blackmail, blackmail over two murders.
“I don’t know how this happened,” Benito murmured humbly one evening.
Buck looked up from the chair he had posted near the door.
“Surely Frederic realizes I’m bound by the Holy Father’s precepts to hold confessions secret.” Giovanni stole a glance at Buck and was pleased with the Negro’s look of consternation. He softly added, “It pained me to hear Agatha Duvoisin’s confession, but I was not allowed to divulge her terrible sin.”
“The way I hear it,” Buck bristled, “there wasn’t a confession. You were blackmailin’ her.”
“I am sad to say she was very sly,” the priest admitted, head bobbing forward. “She attempted to bestow gifts upon me, perhaps to ease her guilt. If only I had known she was tricking me into sharing the blame … ”
He said no more for a week, allowing Buck to mull over his remarks.
One day, he managed to steal a spoon off his food tray and was pleased it went undetected. That evening he calculated where he would dig and how he would conceal the hole. Using the utensil, he pried the first stone of the rudimentary foundation free, and like unraveling a knitting stitch, the rocks next to it dislodged easily. When the hole was big enough, he lifted the rocks back into place. He wasn’t quite ready to begin digging. The shelves would help to conceal the breach, but a rearrangement of goods was necessary first. He moved a sack of fruit one day, a few jars the next, a bucket or a crate after that, until slowly and imperceptibly, the excavation site was concealed. Then he began to dig, spending hours in the dim room, timing his work on the light that came through the narrow, barred window, stopping a half hour before meals were delivered. He’d fill an empty bucket to the top and sprinkle the loose dirt evenly on the ground, trampling it under foot until it compacted with the earthen floor. He prayed he’d break through to the other side before time ran out.
His contrition had garnered Buck’s sympathy, and Giovanni read pity in the black man’s eyes every time he delivered meals. The Negro was speaking freely to him now, and the priest learned John and Frederic had indeed left the island in pursuit of the evil Robert Blackford. Paul was in charge while they were away, and Agatha had committed suicide, or so everyone assumed.
It could take months, possibly years, to track down Blackford. Benito had plenty of time to tunnel his way out of his prison, recover his stash of jewels, and flee Charmantes on the skiff he’d hidden near his cabin. Of course, Paul might discover he was gone before he was off the island, but the man would search the ships in the harbor first. Giovanni had practiced an escape. His maps were stowed with the rowboat. The nearest uninhabited landmass was tiny Esprit, half a day’s trek in the skiff. No one would think to look for him there, but with the jars of fresh water and foodstuffs he’d stored on the isle, he could survive for two weeks, if necessary. From Esprit, six hours rowing and a good wind would take him to any of three inhabited Bahamian islands. He would melt into the populace and leave for civilization when it suited him. All he needed was calm seas, grit, and some luck. Thanks to Agatha, he could kiss the priesthood goodbye.
Thursday, November 15, 1838
John was dreaming. He was at home—on Charmantes—in his room. Colette was beckoning to him from the French doors. This time he followed her: out onto the balcony, across the side lawns, behind the manor and to the edge of the woods and the small, unbeaten footpath to the lake.
He was on the shore when he noticed Colette was gone, her only trace the faint scent of lily. A dark, faceless figure loomed beyond his reach at the water’s edge. Even though the sun shone high in the sky, everything was shrouded in darkness. Shards of light flashed on the rippling water.
Then he saw the boat and the boy in it, bobbing perilously on the churning lake. Predictably, it capsized, toppling its passenger out. He started forward to save Pierre, but he could not lift his feet. It was as if they had sprouted hearty roots, holding him fast. There was no time to lose, yet he watched, horrified and helpless. His eyes went desperately to the morbid specter, standing an easy distance from the tumult, but it only backed away, dissolving into the tree line.
John awoke with a start, a cry shattering his nightmare. He jumped up, rushed into the dimly lit hallway, and crossed to his father’s room. As he reached for the knob, the door opened.
Frederic was standing there, bleary-eyed. “What is it?” he asked.
“I heard you cry out.”
“I heard you cry out,” Frederic rejoined, baffled.
“It wasn’t me,” John replied. “Maybe it was Michael.” He walked down the corridor and opened the door to a third bedroom, but the priest was snoring loudly. “Perhaps that’s what we heard,” he quipped lightly, quietly closing the door. “The windows are rattling.” He walked back to his room.
Frederic followed. “I had a dream about Pierre,” he offered in a low voice. John stopped dead in his tracks. “First he was at the lake,” Frederic continued, “in the boat. It was very dark. The dinghy capsized—” Frederic’s voice cracked.
“And?” John pressed.
“I was powerless to get to him, just like the morning Blackford—”
“You’ve had this dream before?”
“No,” Frederic muttered. “I was awake the morning Blackford abducted Pierre, wide-awake when Colette came to me. She led me out onto the balcony, then evaporated. I thought I was going mad, until I saw a movement in the tree line. I was gripped with dread. That’s why I sent Paul to the lake.”
John stared at him in mute consternation. He’d never learned why his brother had gone to the lake, assuming Charmaine had returned to the nursery, found Pierre missing, and had sent Paul in search of him. Vexed, John exhaled. He turned toward his room, but Frederic halted his step. “There’s more.”
John frowned, facing his father slowly.
“The dream changed. Suddenly, I was here, in New York. I saw Pierre. He was lost in a busy street, but when I tried to reach him, he was swallowed up by the crowd.”
John gaped at him in utter disbelief. “What happened next?”
“There were furnaces and flames—burning coal. I thought I was going to fall into them. Maybe that’s when I cried out in my sleep.”
“Does burning coal mean anything to you?” John asked, gooseflesh raised on his arms and up the back of his neck.
“Why?”
“Because I’ve had the same dream.”
Frederic’s eyes widened. “I don’t know,” he said. But as he lay in bed, an oblique memory hit him: Elizabeth’s mother’s maiden name had been Coleburn.
Friday, November 16, 1838
Stuart Simons swore under his breath when he found not one, but two letters from John addressed to him at the warehouse. Sickness at Freedom and Wisteria Hill had kept him away from the Richmond harbor for over a month now, but he had left explicit instructions that any correspondence from John should be opened and forwarded to Charmantes as appropriate. He was reliev
ed when he read John’s notes to him and realized there was no news to tell. John just wanted to make certain the accompanying letters reached his wife. She wouldn’t have to wait much longer. The ship dedicated to Charmantes was due in port any day now.
Stuart smiled. Although John’s search had proved futile thus far, Stuart’s had not. John Ryan had surfaced nearly two months ago.
Saturday, December 1, 1838
Charmaine’s birthday was a short two weeks away and the twins wanted to get her a present, something special, they told Paul. He agreed to take them into town. Charmaine declined to accompany them, reluctant to appear in public in her condition. “I’ll rest,” she said. “I didn’t sleep very well last night.”
When Loretta showed concern, Charmaine reassured her, saying, “I had dream after dream. My mother was there—” she laughed hollowly “—talking about John, of all people!”
After Paul and the girls left, Charmaine remained contemplative, wondering whether her dreams meant more. She had not received word from John since his letter ten weeks ago and, as the days accumulated, she grew more and more worried, a gnawing dread plaguing her late into the night. Loretta sent Joshua off with George, and stayed with Charmaine all afternoon. It was then Loretta learned about John and most of what had happened on Charmantes.
Leaving the livery, Paul draped his arms across Jeannette’s and Yvette’s shoulders and they strolled down the thoroughfare, drinking in the sunshine despite the brisk breeze.
“Aren’t Sundays pleasant now that we don’t have to attend Mass anymore?” Yvette mused.
Paul raised a dubious brow. “Charmaine had better not hear you say that or she’ll be sending for a new priest.” His mild warning ended in laughter. “I have to admit, I don’t miss Father Benito’s sermons, either.”
“But what will happen if someone wants to marry?” Jeannette asked.
“I suppose the couple will have to travel to America or Europe,” Paul speculated, guiding them toward the mercantile, “or do as father’s sister did and exchange vows before a ship’s captain.”