Forever Waiting

by DeVa Gantt

  She gaped at him. “My mother?”

  “Yes.” John nodded, regarding his slumbering daughter again. “Your mother, Marie … She was my savior long before I met you, my Charm. Only I didn’t learn she was your mother until last August. She was the one who helped me through that terrible time before and after Pierre’s birth, and she introduced me to Michael.”

  “Sweet Lord!” Charmaine gasped, goose bumps rising on her flesh.

  “What is it?”

  “It was you,” she whispered. “My mother once told me, ‘the greater the wealth, the deeper the pain.’ I didn’t understand what she meant, had no idea of whom she was speaking. But after Pierre’s death, her presence was so strong. I felt her there beside me in the chapel. And then the next day, during the funeral, those words kept coming back to me. For days they went through my mind. Now I’m certain she was talking about you, John— you and your pain!”

  John remembered telling Marie his father’s fortune had ruined his life, firmly believing Colette had forfeited their love for it. He looked from his wife to Michael. “It appears she brought us together, Charmaine.” He shook his head with the weight of it. “If I had known of your mother’s life with John Ryan, I swear I would have put a stop to it. But she never burdened me with her troubles. She was only concerned for mine. I didn’t even know her surname or that she had died. I was in New York when it happened. And I certainly didn’t make the connection between you, John Ryan, or her.” When he spoke again, there was anger in his voice. “I promise you now, Charmaine, he will be punished.”

  She took a deep breath. “You don’t have to worry about that.”

  The remark shook him. He knew from Paul that Ryan had been incarcerated on Charmantes in early December. “What has happened?” he asked in dismay.

  She related the story of Benito St. Giovanni and John Ryan’s escape. More than once, John swore under his breath, his scowl deepening as he contemplated the danger in which Charmaine, his daughter, and the twins had been placed. But the finale brought a twinkle to his eye, and he couldn’t resist saying, “Good thing I taught Yvette how to swim.”

  “That’s exactly what Yvette said,” Charmaine replied, “but my father could have killed her.” She bowed her head. “The Good Lord’s mercy spared her.”

  “He wasn’t your father, Charmaine,” he said, perceiving her guilt and knowing it was time to bury the lie. “You mustn’t blame yourself.”

  She looked up in surprise. “How do you know that?”

  John was equally astonished. Obviously, she knew a portion of the truth. But how?

  “Charmaine,” Michael whispered softly, cautiously, “I’m your father.”

  Charmaine’s expression bordered on the mortified, but John squeezed her hand, encouraging her to listen compassionately.

  “I loved your mother deeply,” Michael affirmed, clearing his throat. “I didn’t know she was carrying my child, Charmaine. I didn’t know the truth about you until nine months ago.”

  His confession came hard.

  “She just left one day. When she returned to St. Jude, you were already a little girl. I thought you were John Ryan’s little girl.” He pulled a letter from his pocket and offered it to her. “It’s from your mother.”

  Charmaine took it, studied the neat, familiar handwriting on the envelope.

  “Marie gave it to John years before she died,” Michael continued.

  “She asked me to pass it on to Michael should anything happen to her,” John interjected. “But I didn’t learn about her death until this past spring.”

  “Even then,” the priest continued, “John didn’t make the connection between you and Marie because I never mentioned your name. I went to the Harringtons the week of Paul’s celebration. That is when I found out where you were—when I realized John must know you. But it wasn’t until he came to me for information on your island priest that all the pieces of the puzzle fell into place.”

  There was a long silence, Charmaine speechless, John and Michael giving her time to absorb the incredible story.

  “I loved her, Charmaine,” he reverently proclaimed, “and I would have left the priesthood if I had known she was with child. But she didn’t want me to do that, and she guarded her secret until she wrote that.” He nodded toward the letter Charmaine still held in her hands. “She sacrificed her own happiness for me … ”

  Michael lowered his head, and Charmaine knew he was fighting back tears. She reached across the carriage and took his hand. “All these years, I believed my mother never knew a moment of happiness. I’m glad to discover I was wrong—you loved her dearly. I know she loved you.”

  He looked up, his eyes sparkling, and no further words were necessary. Hands clasped, they basked in the miraculous revelation they were family.

  The baby stirred and John gazed down at the wriggling infant. “Would you like to hold your granddaughter?” he asked.

  When Michael nodded, Charmaine scooped Marie from John’s lap and passed the little bundle to him. He snuggled her in the crook of his arm and his tears fell freely. Charmaine grasped John’s arm with both hands and laid her head against his shoulder. She closed her eyes in a prayer of thanksgiving, certain she would be weeping tears of joy for many days to come.

  They were nearly home when Marie began to cry, refusing even the comfort of her mother’s arms. “She’s hungry,” Charmaine explained, and then more softly for John’s ears, “She fell asleep before she had her fill and needs to be nursed.”

  He tilted his head and whispered, “Can I watch?”

  She blushed scarlet, her eyes flying to her father, hoping he had not heard. He was only smiling tenderly at her, and she turned to John, pleased to find that wonderful, familiar deviltry dancing in his eyes.

  “If you’d like,” she answered sweetly, that lopsided smile now dominating his handsome face, his brow raised in astonishment over her bold response.

  As the carriage rolled through the front gates, Michael sat in awe of the majestic mansion and its grounds. The coach drew up to the portico steps. Charmaine placed the fidgeting Marie in John’s arms and alighted, holding up a hand to wave off any assistance. Marie started wailing immediately, but Charmaine was there to take her back.

  George emerged from the house, laughing heartily when he caught sight of John climbing from the carriage. “How are you, weary traveler?” he called, rushing forward and eyeing Michael who had also alighted.

  “A bit frayed around the edges,” John chuckled, “but no worse for wear.” He introduced George to Michael.

  “Did you get the bastard?”

  “My father did,” John answered somberly.

  The other coaches had also arrived, and their passengers spilled out, flooding the cobblestone drive, a clamoring crowd of family and friends.

  Charmaine’s voice rose above the others as she issued a spate of orders to the servants who appeared at the doorway. “Travis, please take Father Michael’s luggage up to one of the guest rooms. Joseph, could you summon Dr. Hastings? Tell him I’d like him to check on John. Millie, would you take Marie and change her, then bring her to my bedroom. Cookie, could you brew a pot of coffee and prepare us a nice spread of food? Mrs. Faraday … ”

  A great hush blanketed the terrace, save Charmaine’s authoritative voice.

  “I told you,” Paul said to Frederic and John, “she’s in charge now.”

  Charmaine swung round to face them. “And you—” she pointed to John “—up to bed!”

  “I’m ready whenever you are, my Charm.”

  George chortled, but Charmaine shook her head, choosing to ignore the ribald comment. “George, Father Michael, would you help him manage the stairs?”

  In no time, John was in his room. She pulled down the coverlet of their bed. John winced as he sat and slowly drew his legs up and onto it. Suddenly, she was aware of the great effort he had exerted at the quay, remembering the pained expression he’d attempted to camouflage when he’d climbed into the c
arriage. “Now will you tell me what happened?”

  “Blackford stabbed me in the side,” he grunted, releasing the breath of air he’d held. “My father got there just in time to keep him from doing worse.”

  “I knew it!” she said, concern giving way to anger. “You were in danger!”

  “It’s over now, Charmaine. Don’t be angry with me.”

  “Why didn’t you write?”

  “I did write—at least three or four letters.”

  “I only received one—from Richmond!”

  “I wrote twice from New York.”

  His face contorted as he readjusted himself on the pillows, and her ire flagged. “Lie still,” she admonished, brushing the hair from his forehead and dabbing away beads of perspiration.

  When she’d finished, he grasped her hand and drew it to his mouth, kissing it tenderly. “I missed you, Charmaine. I promise I’ll never leave you again.”

  “You’d best remember that,” she warned, “because I intend to hold you to it.”

  With a soft rap on the open door, Millie brought in the wailing Marie. “Thank you, Millie,” Charmaine said. “Please, close the door on your way out.”

  John looked on in amusement as his wife reclined alongside him and unbuttoned her blouse, offering the greedy infant a large pink nipple. He drew an uneven breath, the quickening in his loins oblivious to his injury. His hungry eyes consumed every inch of her. “It might be a while before I can make love to you, my Charm,” he whispered, “but I long to do so right now.”

  “I yearn for you, too,” she murmured, leaning over her daughter to steal a kiss from him. His hand cupped the back of her head, and he held her lips to his for a few moments longer.

  When Marie was asleep and swaddled comfortably in her cradle, Charmaine turned back to the bed. John had fallen asleep as well, and she shook her head, alarmed by his weakened constitution. Rest was what he needed.

  She closed the door quietly behind her, wondering if Joseph had returned with the doctor yet. Voices drew her to the dining room. She found all of her loved ones at the table: Joshua and Loretta, George and Mercedes, Rose, Yvette, and Jeannette, Michael, Paul, and Frederic. Her eyes met Frederic’s. He rose, and she went to him, wrapping her arms around him, laying her cheek against his chest.

  “Thank you for bringing him home to me—alive.”

  Frederic closed his eyes. “We have God to thank,” he murmured, “and the people who love my son. I didn’t realize how many they were.”

  Marie was wailing, waking John with a start. He sat up in bed and looked into the bassinet. The babe was squirming, her face beet-red. He lifted her to his shoulder and rocked her gently, to no avail. His eyes traveled to the door, wondering why Charmaine hadn’t yet appeared.

  Loretta heard Marie crying from the staircase. She’d left the large company in the drawing room, where Charmaine was entertaining the family. When the pulsating protests did not abate, she quickly went to the bedchamber and knocked. There was no answer, so she opened the door and stepped in to pacify the babe before she woke her convalescing father.

  She found John sitting at the edge of the bed with Marie in his arms. He turned at the sound of her entrance, and his face dropped. “Not the milkmaid yet, Marie,” he soothed.

  Loretta smiled and went to him. Marie was wriggling fiercely, working her way down his chest in search of a nipple.

  “She was on my shoulder a moment ago,” he commented helplessly.

  “She’s looking for her mama’s bosom,” Loretta supplied delicately.

  “Well, she’s at the wrong address.”

  Loretta chuckled. “Here, let me take her. She could be wet or soiled.” She lifted Marie from his arms, put a nose to her bottom, and sniffed.

  John frowned. “Any other way to check?”

  Loretta smiled again as she hastened toward the changing table in the adjoining chamber. “She needs her nappy changed.”

  John followed her. Loretta laid the babe on the soft table. Marie immediately stopped crying. “She knows where she is,” John mused.

  “They learn quickly,” Loretta replied, as she worked at the diaper pins.

  Loretta changed Marie adeptly. Lifting her off the table, she offered her, clean and happy, to John. He took her into his arms. “You’re quite good at that,” he said.

  “I’ve had a lot of experience—five boys.”

  “How long do babies stay in those?” he asked, nodding toward the diapers.

  “About two years, or a bit longer. It depends on the child.”

  “You know, we don’t have any plans for that room you’re staying in. Are you sure you want to leave? Free room and board for two years, or a bit longer, depending … ”

  “I would love to stay, but Joshua is anxious to get back to Virginia, and I miss my sons and grandchildren.” She eyed John pensively. “I trust you are back for good, Mr. Duvoisin?”

  “Yes, I am, Mrs. Harrington. I had a score that needed to be settled. It has been, and I’m not going anywhere now.”

  Somewhat satisfied, Loretta pressed on. “Charmaine is the daughter I never had, Mr. Duvoisin. I want her to be happy. I love her, you know.”

  “Not as much as I do, Mrs. Harrington.”

  Loretta nodded, reassured by the declaration and his apparent sincerity.

  “If Charmaine is your daughter, that makes me your son-in-law,” John continued. “So why don’t you call me John? That is, if your husband will have it. I believe he has some other names for me.”

  Loretta laughed heartily; this man was quick and quite irreverent. No wonder her mild-mannered husband didn’t like him. “Very well. As long as you call me Loretta.”

  Rebecca closed the door to the cottage and leaned back into it. She was home, but it offered no security. She closed her eyes for a moment, hoping the spinning room would settle, certain the floorboards below her feet rocked like the ship. When the wave of nausea ebbed, she headed listlessly toward her bedroom. She would remove her beautiful dress and never wear it again.

  The door banged open behind her, causing her to jump, and Wade strode into the room, eyes furious, jaw set. He slammed the door behind him, and Rebecca flinched. “Where the hell have you been?” he growled.

  There was no point in lying. “On board the Tempest,” she whispered.

  He swore under his breath, eyes raking her from head to toe. “You little slut!” he blazed, satisfied by the pain he read on her face. But she raised her chin a notch, and he struck out again. “Are you his mistress now?” When she frowned in confusion, he pressed on in disgust. “Those fine clothes must have bought a great deal.”

  She looked down at the lovely gown, blinking back tears. Without a word, she walked toward her bedroom.

  Wade charged across the kitchen and blocked her path, swatting away her hand as she reached for the doorknob. “Damn it, Rebecca! Answer me! How could you have done this to me—to yourself? That’s what we ran from—why we stowed away! We’ve built a new life here. How will we face our friends now? Doesn’t that matter to you?” When still she refused to respond, he ran his hands through his hair. “It matters to me!”

  “I’m glad they’re more important to you than I am!” she sobbed. Unable to bear his abuse any longer, she shoved him out of her way and pushed into her room. Slamming the door shut, she fell facedown on her bed and wept.

  Paul entered his bedchamber and breathed a sigh of relief. It had been an exhausting three weeks, and he was glad to be back home, in his own room and in his own bed. But as he sat down to pull off his boots and unbutton his shirt, he felt forlorn, the empty room, desolate. Tired as he was, he pushed off the bed and walked out onto the balcony.

  Rebecca Remmen, what are you doing tonight?

  He hadn’t seen her slip off the Tempest. Then again, he’d been preoccupied with helping his brother and making the arrangements to get everyone home. During the nine-day voyage from New York to Charmantes he had guarded his silence, speaking very little to h
er to bolster his stowaway story and protect her honor, even though he had tarnished it. Everyone on the ship had accepted his explanation, seemed to believe him, though John had raised a dubious brow.

  Paul wondered over his own deception. When he feared his brother was dead, he’d had a reason to pretend disinterest in Rebecca, but now he was free to court her. So why hadn’t he done so? There was nothing stopping him from bringing her home to his bed tonight. His heart thundered in his ears as he relived the heady memory of her naked in his arms, inexperienced, yet meeting his ardor with uninhibited carnal zeal.

  But Rebecca wanted more than his bed. She wanted to be his wife, wanted his love. Was marriage to her so intolerable? No, he realized without trepidation. He would savor making love to her each night, would be content to claim that right. He had thought of little else the last eighteen days—since the night of their unbridled union. Never had a woman obsessed him so, not even Charmaine. Even if Rebecca ignored him, he would enjoy having her here if only to look at her. He admired her stubbornness, and he burned to tame her. But mostly, he longed to hold her, to comfort her, to make her happy.

  Tomorrow, he would visit her, just to see her again, to be intoxicated. Finally, he was able to settle into bed, and after a while, sleep.

  Diabolical dreams beset him, fragmented visions of Rebecca running frantically through a sinister forest with hooded fiends close on her heels, dogs barking and tracking her down. She was crying, calling for him, and his heart raced. He awoke in a cold sweat and jumped up.

  The consuming need to know she was all right spurred him to action. In less than ten minutes, he was dressed and in the stable saddling a confused Alabaster. He thanked the gods the night sky was clear and the moon bright. It was nearly one o’clock in the morning when he rode down the deserted dirt road and stopped in front of the Remmen cottage. A soft glow spilled out of the kitchen window. Someone was still awake. He tied Alabaster to the picket fence, strode up to the small porch, and rapped on the door.

  Wade was drunk and scowled darkly at him. “What the hell do you want?”