by DeVa Gantt
“Forever,” he whispered. “I’ll have you forever.”
He grasped her hand and brought it to his mouth, his titillating kiss sending wisps of pleasure up her arm. He read the look of longing in her eyes. “Later, my Charm,” he promised, setting her heart to a rapid beat. “Later … ”
Having cleared the altar of the final wedding feast, Michael headed to the dining room for dinner, crossing through the ballroom and into the foyer. For the first time since his arrival yesterday, all was quiet there, and he stopped for a moment to study the portrait of Colette Duvoisin, the painting that had given him pause the moment he had first stepped into the mansion yesterday.
So this was the woman who had started it all, her pulchritude unrivaled, precisely as John had told him. He was so deep in thought he didn’t hear Frederic’s approach until the older man was standing beside him.
“She was very beautiful,” Michael said.
“Yes,” Frederic replied. “In a few more years, my daughters will look exactly like her, especially Yvette.”
This surprised Michael. Frederic smiled now. “Personality plays a great part in one’s looks. Yvette is more like her mother than her sister will ever be. Colette was full of fire and very vocal about her beliefs and crusades. She would have approved of your work, Michael.”
Before Michael could ask him what he meant, footfalls echoed from the hallway. Frederic turned slightly to regard John.
Michael considered both men. The mending kinship was fragile and, he feared, easily broken.
Frederic’s eyes returned to the magnificent portrait. “I think I shall have the canvas taken down,” he commented.
“No, Father,” John breathed, “don’t remove it. I feel secure knowing Colette is watching over us.”
The remarkable declaration intensified in the sudden silence. Frederic broke the aura. “I’m afraid I’ve forgotten something in the chapel,” he murmured and walked away.
John watched his father disappear through the archway, staring after him pensively.
Michael permitted John his faraway thoughts. “Shall we go in to dinner?” he finally asked.
“You go ahead,” John replied, never looking at him. “I’ll be there in a minute.”
The light of the joyous day was waning, and in the chapel, the shadows lengthened. The stone enclosure was cool, and Frederic lit the candles on the altar. He edged into the front pew and knelt. Burying his face in his hands, he offered a prayer of thanksgiving. His prayers had been answered. When his Maker called him home now, he could go to Him in peace—clear of conscience. He had done everything within his mortal power to atone for his many mistakes and sins.
He lost himself in the quiet sanctuary, the consuming peace here, and opened his heart and soul, inviting Elizabeth’s and Colette’s guiding presence.
A hand came down on his shoulder, and his eyes lifted to John, standing behind him. He watched in surprise as his son settled next to him. They sat for many minutes without speaking.
“Thank you,” John murmured, fighting the moment’s reticence.
Frederic turned to find his son’s earnest eyes locked on him.
“I would be dead if you hadn’t been there for me.” John sighed deeply. “When you had the seizure, I left you for dead. I didn’t care if you lived or died. I wanted you to die. After everything I did to you, you could have—should have—left me for dead, too. I didn’t deserve to have you stay by my side.”
Frederic looked back at the altar, struggling for words. “Thirty years ago, I abandoned you, John. Even though you were innocent and vulnerable, I abandoned you.” He swallowed hard. “I was there in New York because I love you, John. No matter what you had done to me, I wasn’t about to abandon you again.”
Another lengthy silence took hold.
“I saw Pierre that night, Father,” John whispered. “I saw my mother, and I saw Colette. I was with them.” He looked at Frederic again. “They are in a peaceful place. Mother wants you to know she loves you still. And Colette … she loves you, too.”
Frederic turned tear-filled eyes to the altar. “I loved her, John,” he rasped.
“I know you did, Father. I know you did.”
Frederic could say no more.
John rose and placed a comforting hand on his shoulder, held it there for a moment, then turned and left.
The dinner table was voluble and animated, filled to capacity. Only the head and foot of the table remained vacant. John eventually joined them, followed a few minutes later by Frederic. Each in his turn smiled at Charmaine, and she wondered where they had been. Now all twelve chairs were occupied. John and Frederic were quickly drawn into various conversations, often talking across the great expanse to each other. Charmaine sat back, overwhelmed by the wholesome banter of a loving family.
How many dinners she had passed in her parents’ home on tenterhooks, fearing her father? Even when she lived with the Harringtons, she had always yearned for a family of her own. Here it was before her now: a boundless feast. Her mother’s presence was strong, and she bowed her head in renewed thanksgiving. At long last, peace and love reigned under this roof.
When the table was cleared, everyone migrated to the drawing room. Even John, who had rested again after their wedding ceremony, insisted on joining them. As additional chairs were pulled from the study, Michael sat on the piano bench near John.
“This pianoforte is similar to the one you have in New York,” the priest commented.
“It’s identical,” John said. “I purchased both from the Bridgeland and Jardine Company when they were first introduced five years ago. Perhaps you’ve heard of them?”
When Michael shook his head “no,” John continued. “The sound of this particular piano is powerful and brilliant. The manner in which it is strung heightens that quality, making it a far superior instrument to the pianofortes manufactured a decade ago. I was quite taken by the demonstration they gave and, once I’d played it myself, immediately ordered four.”
“Four?” Michael queried. “You purchased four?”
John chuckled. “One for New York, one for Richmond, the other for the plantation, and the fourth for here. It was quite a feat to secure it on the ship. But it did make for an interesting welcome when I arrived here. I thought my sisters would enjoy learning to play, and thanks to Charmaine, they have.”
Frederic joined the conversation. “John is quite an accomplished pianist himself. It was the one thing at which he excelled when I sent him to university.”
“I’ve heard him play,” Michael remarked, unmindful of John’s snicker. “Unfortunately, I’ve always interrupted him.”
“Well, then,” Frederic said, “perhaps he’ll perform something for all of us now. That is, if you feel well enough?” He regarded his son, his eyes filled with pride.
Yvette and Jeannette moved closer and took up the petition, “Yes, Johnny, please! You used to play for us all the time. We’d love to hear something now.”
“What would you have me play?”
“Anything!”
“Something special!”
“Why not play the piece you composed?” Frederic suggested.
John’s eyes turned turbulent, and he looked to Charmaine. She was chatting with the Harringtons.
“I … I don’t think I could,” he hesitated.
Frederic read his misgivings. “It would please me to hear it, John.”
John scratched the back of his neck, then acquiesced. Frederic and Michael found vacant chairs. Yvette sat in her father’s lap. Jeannette grabbed Paul and Rebecca’s hands and pulled them into the gathering, then settled next to Frederic, who patted her head as John began to play.
The opening chord echoed, and all banter ceased, eyes turning to the man at the piano. His fingers traveled the familiar path across the keys, resurrecting the melancholy rhapsody. Pouring out his life and soul, John played, arpeggios rising in a frenzied fugue, turbulent and discontent, effete and hopeless, surrendering at la
st to a tender, tumbling cadence of bittersweet yearning. Then a sweet, new melody rose from the despair, a delicate strain that wed the somber with the bright, the harmonious threads amplifying in a reverberating crescendo. Then it ended: a triumphant, solitary chord.
Someone started clapping. John raised his head and turned slowly around. His eyes traveled to Charmaine, who sat spellbound. He winked at her. It had been accomplished; he’d found the resolution to his composition.
“Johnny,” Yvette broke in, “I didn’t know you wrote that!”
Charmaine was astounded. John … of course, John had composed the piece! Why hadn’t she guessed it? But more important, when was she going to realize he would never cease to amaze her?
“You didn’t know your brother was so talented, did you?” Frederic asked his daughter.
“Yes, I did!” Yvette countered, eliciting everyone’s laughter.
The merriment died down, but Frederic remained pensive. He hugged Yvette and Jeannette close, giving each a tender kiss atop their heads. He could feel Colette’s presence close by and savored the poignant moment.
John stood and crossed the room, drawing Charmaine out of her chair. She, too, was thinking about Colette. I hope you were listening, my dear friend. A distant memory answered: Perhaps your touch is exactly what the piece needs … bend the masterpiece … possess it, as it has possessed you … then, when your love is the music, the harmony will be perfect. Colette had been speaking of John. Colette knew; somehow, she knew!
Looping her arm through John’s, Charmaine allowed him to lead her from the room. They strolled along the front terrace, where it was cool and quiet. When they were opposite the ballroom, they stopped, and John leaned back against the balustrade. Charmaine stepped into his embrace.
“That was beautiful,” she murmured.
“You’ve made it so, my Charm,” he answered, studying every inch of her face, stroking her cheek with his hand. He pulled her against him and kissed her tenderly. “I love you, Charmaine, more than you’ll ever know.”
Rebecca trembled as Paul led her into his suite of rooms, closing the door quietly behind them. The day had been overwhelming. Now here she was with him, on her wedding night. She felt giddy and intoxicated, but mostly frightened. The grandeur and sophistication she’d experienced today were a world apart from her servile background, all of it quite intimidating. As the day had progressed, she began to question her foolhardy belief that she could ever live up to the role she had coveted for the past three years. She turned to face her husband, anxiety written on her face.
“What is this?” Paul queried with a chuckle. “You’re not suddenly afraid of me? This isn’t the wench who scarred me for life, is it?” He rolled up his shirtsleeve, extending his wrist toward her so she might see the bite mark she’d left there three weeks ago.
“I could never be afraid of you. But this house—” she indicated the lavish room “—and your family—who they are—all the things they know and own and can do! I was stupid to think I could fit in—that I was old enough to fit in. I don’t even know how to read and write!”
She began to cry and Paul felt a painful twinge in his breast, his love for her fierce and daunting. He went to her and pulled her into his embrace. “Rebecca … Rebecca … ” he murmured into her hair. “You have made me so happy! You’re honest and strong and proud. You’re not afraid to stand up for yourself.”
Her cheek was pressed to his chest, and as he chuckled again, she found comfort in the deep rumble beneath her ear.
“You’ve plagued me, Mrs. Duvoisin: my thoughts by day and my dreams at night! Now, don’t tell me you don’t belong here with me. You’re as much a Duvoisin as anyone else in this family.”
“But we hardly know each other. There are things—”
“No buts.”
He held her at arm’s length, studying her intently. “You want to learn to read and write? Then you’ll learn. Anything you want to do—just tell me, and it will be done. Do you understand?”
“Yes. I think so.”
“Good,” he said, and his smile turned wicked. “Now, I don’t want to hear any more of this nonsense or I’ll be forced to put you across my knee and give you something to cry about!”
“You wouldn’t dare!” she taunted, her heart suddenly pounding, her cheeks flushed in anticipation of his lovemaking.
Paul savored undressing her, and she, him. He carried her into his bedchamber and set her down on the mattress, making love to her throughout the night. By dawn, they were spent.
“You will soon be carrying my child, Rebecca, if every night is like this,” he said huskily.
She smiled down at her flat belly and stroked it. “I think I already am,” she murmured shyly, grateful he had pursued her last night, his resolution that they wed putting to rest her brother’s volcanic protestations.
Paul’s hand quickly covered hers, his dark fingers spreading across her tawny flesh. “I thought as much,” he replied, his ardor inflamed with the knowledge their first passionate encounter had made them a part of each other. His hand moved down from her tummy and stroked between her legs. When a guttural groan escaped her lips, he rolled on top of her and took her again.
John lay with Charmaine asleep in his arms, pondering the miracle that had brought him home. He remembered and relived that surreal place—that place in the light where his mother, Pierre, and Colette had embraced him. In his mind’s eye, he was there once again in paradise, holding his lost family in his arms—his son and the woman who should have been his wife.
Death … So simple a solution.
“John,” Colette breathed when he relaxed his embrace. “How is your father?”
The peace that enveloped him was shaken. “My father?”
“He is crying. He is praying for you. He doesn’t want you to die.”
“Why do we have to talk about him, when I’m here with you? Now I can take care of you.”
“You did take care of me,” she whispered. “Agatha and Robert— they have chosen to go to that other place … ”
“And we can finally be together,” John stated vehemently, “with our son.”
“We are not meant to be together,” she dolefully replied. “That is not our destiny. Frederic is part of me, John. I belong to him, and he belongs to me.” She brought his hand to her lips and kissed it tenderly, tempering the blow. “You must go back and reconcile with him.”
“I don’t understand … ?”
“He never meant to hurt you, John. He loves you. Don’t you hear how he weeps for you?” Her melancholy eyes bore into him, and he could hear his father crying. “Charmaine has abundant love to give—to my children—to you. She needs you as much as your father needs me. You’ve known that for a long time, haven’t you?”
The blues and blonds melted into mellow browns, and his mother was smiling up at him once again. Pierre was no longer in his arms, but nestled at her side. Behind him, John heard a baby cry. “You don’t belong here, John,” she affirmed. “Go back. Go back to your father and tell him I love him. Tell him you love him. Go back to your beautiful new daughter, and go back to Charmaine. She loves you so … ”
The baby cried again. His father was talking to him, begging God’s mercy, and John could feel the man’s deep sorrow, his Gethsemane. He yearned to comfort him, take away the agony. His breast ached, and he drew a deep breath to ease the pain. He longed to hold Charmaine. If he could just get back to his father, he knew he would hold her again.
John turned away from the light. Then he was back on the ceiling of the room. His father was still there, bent over the bed. A priest was mumbling prayers; it was Michael. John looked back at the light, but it was quickly fading away. His gaze shifted, and he saw a woman at the foot of his bed. She looked so much like Charmaine. It was Marie, and she was smiling and beckoning to him. John reached for her. He had too much to live for. He’d fight to live.
He was no longer on the ceiling. He was sleeping, and for a fe
w moments longer, he reveled in oblivion, at peace knowing his son was safe and happy in his mother’s care. When his eyes fluttered open, he saw relief and joy wash over his father’s face. Frederic grasped his hand even tighter, and John was comforted by the contact. “Father,” he groaned before closing his eyes again, content he’d chosen life over death …
Thinking back on that incredible experience now, with his beautiful wife asleep in his embrace and his newborn daughter slumbering in the cradle beside their bed, John realized a miracle had brought him home. Elizabeth, Colette, and even Marie had sent him back to Charmaine. But he couldn’t tell her that. Not that she wouldn’t believe him, but she didn’t want to hear about Colette. He would never allow Colette to come between them again. Colette said she belonged to his father, and he was willing to accept that. It didn’t matter anymore; it was over; it was finally over. With a sigh, John hugged Charmaine tightly and closed his eyes. A resplendent serenity settled over him, bathing him in hopefulness.
Epilogue
Friday, March 8, 1839
Accomplished
THE day dawned bright and glorious, but today they would be leaving, leaving Charmantes to travel to Richmond and on to New York City. Charmaine attempted to combat another onslaught of sentimentality. John came up behind her, reading her thoughts as she took the last of the clothing from her dresser drawers. “Don’t be sad, my Charm. We won’t stay away forever.” She turned in his arms and kissed him. When he had gone, she finished packing.
Colette’s letter was not where she had left it, though John’s shirts were still there, and she wondered if he now carried it with him. Did he realize it had been moved, possibly read? She was going to ask him about it, tell him she had found it, almost read it. Someday, she decided, but not today. Today was sad enough.
He had been home almost two months now and, by all signs, fully recovered. The mild weather of March was upon them and, over the last few weeks, they had spent many happy moments together. Her father and the Harringtons had returned to Virginia in late January, and she was looking forward to seeing them soon. Why then was she downtrodden? Charmantes. This was her home, would always be her home.