by DeVa Gantt
Charmaine chuckled. “Thank you, Jeannette. And may I say, so are you?”
“How did you know my name?”
Yvette grunted. “Mama told her before we came into the room, silly!”
“Your sister is correct,” Charmaine concurred. “But your mother didn’t have the chance to tell me much more than that. And I’d like to know more about both of you, unless of course, you’d like to know something about me.”
“I’d like to know your name,” Yvette replied.
Colette clicked her tongue. “Yvette, you’ve been told Miss Ryan’s name.”
“I mean her first name. What is your first name?”
“Charmaine.”
Jeannette canted her head. “That’s funny! It sounds like Charmantes.”
“It does, doesn’t it?” Charmaine agreed. “My friend said the same thing the other day, but I hadn’t thought of it before.”
“Can we call you Charmaine?” Yvette asked.
“No,” Colette interjected, “but you may call her Mademoiselle Charmaine.”
Yvette attempted to pull away from Rose, but succeeded in yanking her hair. “Ouch!” she squealed, gaining another scolding from her nana.
“If you’d stop your fidgeting, I’d have plaited your hair already.”
“Why do I have to have it brushed and braided, anyway? I’ve told you, I’d rather be a boy and cut it off!”
Charmaine chuckled again. “I sympathize with you, Yvette. I hate brushing my hair and think about trimming it short nearly every morning.”
Yvette studied her with something akin to admiration. “Why haven’t you?”
“I’ve been told it is my most beautiful possession.”
Yvette seemed displeased with the answer.
“Besides, what would I do if I looked horrid when I was finished? I’d be in a fine fix. It would take years to grow back.”
“True,” Yvette ceded, crossing to Charmaine now that her second braid was finished. “When do you begin taking care of us?”
Colette was astonished. “Why ever did you ask that, Yvette?”
The girl faced her mother. “Nana’s been saying she can’t keep up with us the way she did with Johnny, Paul, and George. And I heard Mrs. Ward suggest a governess.”
Colette frowned pensively. “And how did you overhear that, young lady?”
“I don’t know,” Yvette shrugged. “I just did.”
“And would you like Miss Ryan to be your governess?”
“I would,” Jeannette answered eagerly. She turned to her baby brother, who sat contentedly in his mother’s lap, and asked, “What about you, Pierre? Would you like Mademoiselle Ryan to come and take care of us?”
The little boy smiled, rubbed his eyes, and yawned.
“He’s tired,” Jeannette supplied, “but I think he likes her.”
“And what about you, Yvette?” Colette asked. “Would you like Mademoiselle Charmaine to come and live with us?”
“I guess so,” she replied flippantly.
Paul spoke sharply. “Yvette, your mother is asking for your opinion. It would be polite to give it.”
“It’s difficult to say,” Yvette returned, finger upon chin, “but I think I’ll like her better than I do Felicia.”
One look at Paul, and the entire company realized Yvette had said something best left unmentioned. It was equally evident Colette knew exactly what her daughter meant. Before Paul could reply, Colette said, “Yvette, I am very disappointed in you.”
The girl burst into tears, her impertinence swept away with her mother’s disapproval. “I’m sorry, Mama,” she cried. “I’m sorry, Paul!” Humiliated, she ran from the room.
Colette exhaled. “I think it best to end the interview now. I know you are anxious, Miss Ryan, but I must consider the matter at greater length. I shall send word to you by Monday, if that is agreeable?”
Charmaine smiled weakly. “Yes, of course. That will be fine.”
Sensing Charmaine’s chagrin, Jeannette walked over to her. “I like you very much. I promise to help convince Mama and Papa to offer you the job.”
Papa—Frederic Duvoisin—Charmaine had forgotten about him. Of course Colette would want to discuss this with her husband. Suddenly, all did not seem so bleak, and she smiled at the child. “Thank you, Jeannette, and I hope to see you again very soon.”
Caroline Browning was eagerly awaiting their arrival. “Come quickly,” she beckoned as they alighted from the carriage. “What happened? Did it go well? Did you get the position?”
Charmaine breathed deeply. “I don’t know. I mean, I won’t know until Monday. Mrs. Duvoisin wants to speak to her husband first.”
“Frederic wasn’t there?” Caroline asked as if scandalized. “Then it is true.”
“What is true?” Loretta asked.
“That Frederic doesn’t leave his chambers.”
“We don’t know that, do we?” Loretta replied. “He could have been attending to business elsewhere.”
Such speculation seemed implausible to Charmaine. Paul had found time to be there, and according to Gwendolyn, he was always busy.
Caroline echoed her thoughts. “Everyone knows he never ventures from the mansion. Isn’t that so, Harold?”
Her husband did not disagree.
“No, his condition must be grave.” Her mind continued to work. “And what of Miss Colette? Is she also as ill as everyone whispers?”
Loretta frowned. “You knew her health was failing and didn’t tell us?”
“I can’t think of everything,” Caroline said, drawing herself up and running a hand down her bodice. “Was it important?”
“It would have explained why Mrs. Duvoisin is seeking someone young and energetic to assist in the care of her children,” Loretta stated, her annoyance apparent. “We went to that interview believing education was the primary qualification for the position, when in fact, the children’s supervision is Mrs. Duvoisin’s greatest concern. Had we known that, Charmaine could have been better prepared.”
“So you think it went badly?” Gwendolyn timidly asked.
“On the contrary,” Loretta replied. “It went very well.”
Sunday, September 18, 1836
The day was cool, refreshing in its promise of milder weather, but it was drizzling, and Colette sighed as she realized the rainy season was upon them. They’d have overcast weather on and off now until December. She sat at her desk in her private chambers, reveling in the gentle breezes that swirled past the palm and pawpaw branches beyond the balcony and wafted through the French doors. Moments such as these were rare, and she had come to guard this precious time, insisting she have an hour to herself after Mass every Sunday. So far, everyone had respected her wishes. With Pierre sound asleep in the center of her bed, she was almost content.
Returning to the business at hand, her eyes fell to her partially penned letter:
Dear Miss Ryan,
Having reflected on our interview of Friday afternoon, I feel it would be beneficial to meet once again in order to discuss more fully the requirements designated to the care of my children. I would, therefore, like to extend a second invitation. If possible, could you meet with me privately this afternoon at four o’clock? I’m certain if this visit includes just the two of us in my chambers, it will give us the chance to become better acquainted.
What else to write? She didn’t want to alarm the young woman by asking her to come alone, but there had been too many people present on Friday afternoon, hardly the proper way to conduct an interview. She liked Charmaine Ryan and, in all probability, would offer her the governess position before the day was over.
A knock fell on the outer door. Is it noon already?
“Come in,” she beckoned, grimacing when Agatha Ward opened the door.
She despised the woman. But Agatha had made herself at home from the moment she crossed the mansion’s threshold six months ago. Unlike past visits, this one had never come to an end. According to Rose Rich
ards, the dowager had been making her sporadic treks to the island since Paul and John were young boys. With her parents dead and herself barren, she made a point of staying in touch with her only living relatives: specifically her brother, Robert, and nephew, John. From the day of her first visit some twenty years ago, Frederic had welcomed her, and she would often stay for weeks at a time, usually when her mariner husband, an officer in the British Royal Navy, put to sea. That husband died in January, leaving Agatha alone in the world. By March, she had swept into Colette’s world, taking up quarters in the north wing of the Duvoisin manor—permanently. When Colette unwisely suggested a separate residence, Agatha informed her that long ago Frederic had extended a standing invitation to live in the manse, should the need ever arise. The need had arisen, and Agatha Ward was there to stay. To make matters worse, she had masterfully ingratiated herself to the staff, insisting she was Colette’s personal companion of sorts. Colette had neither the will to fight the woman, nor the courage to discuss her misgivings with her husband. Today, she chastised herself for her faintheartedness.
“I thought you were resting,” the woman chided lightly.
Fighting an instant headache, Colette attempted to be civil. “I am.”
“But you are writing a letter.”
“Yes,” Colette breathed. “Hardly a strenuous activity.” She folded the missive as Agatha approached. “Is there a reason why you are here, Agatha? I thought I’d expressly stated an hour—that I’d like one hour to myself.”
“The girls were asking for you.”
“How can that be? George took them into town today.”
Agatha’s brow gathered in confusion, yet she shrugged nonchalantly. “I’m sorry. I thought Fatima had complained about them running around the kitchen. Perhaps she was referring to yesterday. But after last week’s incident in Paul’s chambers, I thought it best to inform you of any inappropriate behavior as soon as it arises. Yvette is the one who takes advantage of your private time.”
“Agatha, we’ve discussed this before. She is only a child.”
“And as such, should know her place. After all, what type of young lady will she grow to be if she is allowed—”
“You are speaking of my daughter.”
“And of course you would defend her,” Agatha continued with hardened voice. “Colette, I don’t mean to upset you, but Yvette does so on a daily basis. According to Robert, it is the worst thing for you. Listen to me!” and she held up a hand when Colette attempted to argue. “Yvette’s unruliness grows worse by the day. I realize your failing health, your inability to supervise her at all times, has exacerbated the problem, but that is no reason to ignore it. As your friend, your companion, I feel I must warn you of the consequences. She’s in need of a firm hand to eradicate—”
“Mrs. Ward!” Colette blazed. “You are my husband’s guest in this house.”
“On the contrary, I am your companion.”
“That is your title, not mine. You are a guest in this house, nothing more. Therefore, take heed: I love my children. Tread carefully where they are concerned, lest I revoke the gracious invitation my husband has extended to you. Do you understand?”
“My dear,” Agatha rejoined condescendingly. “It is you who do not understand. Your husband is distressed over your failing health and has expressed his concerns not only to Robert, but also to myself. It is owing to Frederic that I have agreed to remain on Charmantes. He has requested I not only tend to your every need, but make certain you follow my brother’s every instruction. You are, for all intents and purposes, my charge.” She smiled triumphantly. “Don’t look so chagrined, Colette. Frederic is only worried for you—and his children.”
Defeated, Colette bowed her head, unable to comprehend her husband and the further suffering he would now inflict. But then again, she knew all too well the hold Agatha had over him, and she hated the woman for it. When the dowager departed, Colette walked out of the stifling room and onto the balcony, welcoming the rain that kissed her face, washing away the tears that were suddenly there. Frederic—why? Why would you choose her over me?
Colette could still remember that night. The twins had just turned one, and Frederic hadn’t once, in all that time since their birth, made love to her. It was her own fault, she knew. He thought she hated him. She thought she hated him. But she also loved him, loved him fiercely, loved him until it hurt, a love that frightened her in its paralyzing intensity. In addition, there was the doctor’s insistence she never attempt to have more children. Agatha had arrived a few days earlier. She’d come with a number of business associates of her deceased father. Frederic was interested in commissioning a new ship, the Destiny, for his ever-growing fleet. These were the men who would take back the specifications and see the vessel built. There was one gentleman in particular, a younger, handsome man, quite taken with Colette’s youth and beauty. It had been easy to flirt with him. She enjoyed watching Frederic across the table: jaw set in tight lines, brow furrowed, his volatile temper perilously close to the surface. Perhaps it was just what he needed to push him over the edge and bring him back to her arms. She gave him a coquettish smile, daring him to speak. Later, in her sitting room, she paced a frightened trek across her carpet, fearful she’d overstepped her bounds. He’d come to her tonight, of that she was certain, but would she be equipped to deal with his wrath? Her pulse raced with the thought of his lovemaking, heart thudding in her ears. But the hours accumulated, and Frederic did not come. Frustrated, she abruptly decided to go to him. She would swallow her pride and admit she wanted him, loved him. Heavy breathing came from his bedchamber. There was no need to go farther. Agatha’s clothes were strewn on the dressing room floor. Frederic had found release in the arms of his sister-in-law. Colette tiptoed back to her own suite, finding release in the many tears she shed on her pillow, her heart dead.
Frederic never knew what she had seen. But every time Agatha came to visit, Colette surmised he welcomed her to his bed. She wondered if, even now, in his crippled state, he embraced the woman who had come to stay.
Colette returned to her letter. It would be pleasant to meet with Charmaine Ryan, even more pleasant to have someone closer to her own age residing in the manor. She decided to hire the young woman.
“Charmaine, whatever are you doing?” Loretta questioned from the bedroom doorway. “It’s nearly half-past three. You’ll be late for your appointment.”
“I must look my best, but I can’t seem to get this clasp.”
“Here,” Loretta scolded lightly, “allow me.”
The brooch was secured, and Charmaine stepped back for inspection. “How do I look? Will I pass the final test?”
“You look lovely,” Loretta answered, taking hold of Charmaine’s hands in reassurance. “My goodness, you are shaking like a leaf in a windstorm. No wonder you couldn’t fasten that clasp.”
“I’ll be fine,” Charmaine said tremulously, her smile faint, her eyes beseeching. “And if I fail to get the position…?”
“It will be their loss,” Loretta replied. “But, you must think positively. And remember, a white lie here or there is not beneath you.”
“Oh, I couldn’t!”
“Nonsense. You saw how effective my fibbing was. And no one in the Duvoisin household was the wiser for it.”
“But what if they were to discover the truth?”
“How could they, Charmaine? You must learn to deal with people as you find them, use their tactics, so to speak. Take Paul Duvoisin, for example. He exploited your inexperience, and I answered in kind. You are capable of caring for my grandchildren, even if you haven’t had the opportunity to do so.”
“You don’t like him, do you?” Charmaine queried.
“Who? Mr. Duvoisin? On the contrary, he’s most likely a fine gentleman. However, until you know him better, be on guard.” Loretta smiled encouragingly. “Now, come, Charmaine, the carriage is waiting to take you to a new life, and in my heart I know you won’t be disappointed.”
Charmaine settled into the landau Colette Duvoisin had provided. Sitting alone, she was left to contemplate her fears. Loretta was so sure of her future, but Charmaine could not muster the same confidence. She’d always found comfort in silent prayer, yet those she’d offered at the noon Mass did not help. The island priest, Father Benito St. Giovanni, had delivered a long-winded, inauspicious sermon, and although Colette Duvoisin’s letter seemed favorable, Charmaine experienced a sense of impending doom. Perhaps the magnitude of the Duvoisin dynasty blotted out the importance of her humble existence. What did she matter? But more important, if Paul disapproved of her, what real happiness could she hope to find within the mansion’s walls?
The master’s and mistress’s chambers were located to the rear of the south wing, far from the noise and activity of the thriving house. One story above the dormant ballroom, these lavish chambers provided the quiet solitude both master and mistress sought, and those who were intent upon living did not trespass there.
This was Frederic Duvoisin’s self-imposed prison, a place to brood over the life he had lived. Seated in the massive chair that occupied his outer chamber, he would often contemplate the oak door closed before him. There were three doors leading from the room: one that opened onto his bedchamber and another leading to the hall. But they were of no interest to him. The heavy door sitting directly across from him, not more than ten paces away, the door that opened onto his wife’s sitting room—that was the one he cared about.
He was acutely aware of her movements on the other side of that barrier, as he was every night when he lay abed, listening to the ritual of her nightly toilette. And when the chamber was plunged into a despairing silence, he would turn to stare at that door as well, the one connecting bedroom to bedroom, but not husband to wife…
He found himself grinding his teeth, unable to control the fulminating anger that seized him. In all his sixty years, he had never been a man to sit idly by and allow time or circumstance to control him. He had always forged forward: relentless, demanding, and above all else, stubborn. These traits had led to this hell of non-existence: half man mentally as well as physically, a decision fashioned eight years ago, a decision cemented five years later on the day he learned the devastating truth, the day of his seizure. Colette…how he loved her.
