by DeVa Gantt
“Consult all you like, Doctor, but you will not be treating me today.”
Agatha clicked her tongue. “It’s the governess,” she accused, indicating Charmaine. “She has been filling your head with her medical opinions.”
Colette frowned. “I don’t know what you are talking about, Agatha. But I do know how poorly I’ve been feeling.”
“Exactly,” the older woman agreed, “and that is why Robert is here. Think of your children and how it will affect them if your condition worsens.”
Colette faltered, and Agatha capitalized on her reaction, nodding toward Charmaine again. “If Miss Ryan thinks my brother is incompetent, I would like to hear why she feels that way.”
All eyes rested on Charmaine who was forced to defend herself. “I never said Dr. Blackford was incompetent, Mrs. Ward. I merely suggested the best therapy for Miss Colette was the company of her children.”
Paul cleared his throat. “Why don’t we leave your visit until next Saturday, Robert?” he suggested in an attempt to placate all parties. “In that time you can consult your journals and determine the proper dosage for Colette. Meanwhile, she can see how she fares without her weekly treatment.”
Robert gave a cursory nod, clutched his sister’s arm before she could protest, and led her out of the house.
When Colette heard the front door close, she sighed. “Thank you, Paul.”
He responded with a suave smile, then spoke of a different matter. “I’ve invited Stephen Westphal to dine with us this evening. My father has agreed to meet with him. I think you are right. It will do him good to get involved in island business again.”
Colette’s eyes lit up. “Did Frederic mention dining with us?”
“Not that involved,” Paul replied flatly, “not yet, anyway.”
Charmaine and the girls spent the better part of an hour transferring her belongings to her new room. Certain she’d never use the dressing room, she had asked George and Travis to move the armoire into the bedchamber where her dresses would be within easy reach. When the girls had finished tucking the last handkerchief away, she stood back to survey the final result, pleased.
Yesterday, the suite had been aired out. The masculine tones were all but gone: feathery curtains replaced the heavy draperies at the French doors, and the dark quilt that had covered the huge, four-poster bed was exchanged for a downy white comforter. Colette had removed all of John Duvoisin’s possessions. Charmaine prayed Paul and George were correct when they declared the man would never come home. She fretted over Colette’s assertion that he’d be upset to find his quarters given to someone else, let alone the governess.
The dinner hour arrived. Colette reminded her daughters they were to have a guest at their table, and they promised to be on their best behavior. When they reached the dining room, Paul and Stephen Westphal were already there. They had spent an hour in Frederic’s apartments, but as Paul had predicted, his father did not join them. Colette was annoyed to find Agatha positioned directly to Paul’s left and opposite Stephen, but said nothing. George arrived and said quite tactlessly, “Mr. Westphal, you are in my seat.”
“Mr. Richards, really!” Agatha castigated. “Stephen is Paul’s guest this evening and has important business to discuss with him. There are plenty of other chairs from which to choose.”
George’s face reddened, but he didn’t respond. Instead, he took a place near Charmaine and avoided glances toward the head of the table. A sumptuous feast was set before them, and though he fell into the meal, he simmered at Agatha’s insult.
Agatha Ward—how he despised the woman! For as long as he could remember, he and John fell in her disfavor. They stayed far out of her way whenever she came to visit. But Paul, ever polite and the apple of his father’s eye, gained her approval from the start. Agatha was always trying to please Frederic, and if Paul were his father’s favorite, Agatha would champion him as well. But today, something else was brewing. Today? Bah! For months! Perhaps it was Frederic’s malady, perhaps it was Paul’s good looks, so much like those of the older man. Evidently, Agatha’s eyes had been diverted from father to son. George snorted in revulsion. Maybe he should warn his friend before the hag dug her claws in too deeply. He snorted again. Paul didn’t come to my defense tonight, didn’t put the shrew in her place the way John would have, so no, I won’t speak to Paul about Agatha Ward.
The meal progressed and the banter was pleasant. Duvoisin business did not dominate the discussions, though Agatha attempted to direct the conversation to that issue. Paul avoided the topic of sugarcane crops and the shipping industry. After a time, it became obvious he either didn’t want Agatha to know anything about island operations or had covered all the important elements earlier in his father’s chambers.
Charmaine considered Colette. Though she played the perfect hostess, she seemed agitated. At first, Charmaine thought Pierre was the source of her irritation, for he played with his food and couldn’t be coaxed to eat. But one glance at George, and Charmaine read the same expression there. She felt bad for him, knowing he didn’t deserve Agatha Ward’s sharp rebuke.
Hoping to mellow his mood, she struck up a conversation, pleased when he responded impishly. In no time, they were chuckling over his whispered comments. “I think Agatha and Stephen make a handsome couple. He looks like a proud rooster. Perhaps he fancies being pecked to death by a clucking hen.”
The gaiety at the foot of the table chafed Paul. He threw George a nasty scowl, but the man’s head was inclined toward Charmaine, and he missed it. Charmaine noticed, however, and quickly straightened up. Reading her expression, George looked round, finally making eye contact with Paul.
Satisfied the tacit message had been received, Paul turned back to the banker. “So, Stephen, have you any news from Anne?”
The man swallowed, then patted his mouth with his serviette. “Why, yes. She is in fine spirits and no longer wearing widow’s weeds.”
“Anne London is Stephen’s daughter,” Paul elaborated for those listening. “She lives in Richmond, but was recently widowed—last year I believe?”
The banker smiled down the table, growing garrulous now that he’d been offered the floor. “A year ago, May. She was quite distraught over the loss of Charles, God rest his soul, but he left her a small fortune, and for that, she is grateful. She has begun socializing again. Of course, I’ve cautioned her a level head when receiving suitors. She must be wary of blackguards who will be after her money and not her heart.”
“I’ll bet,” George mumbled, eliciting a giggle from Charmaine.
Again Paul scowled, his jaw clenched.
Charmaine blushed at her own impropriety, especially when Yvette demanded, “What’s so funny?” She was glad when Agatha piped in.
“Has your daughter been receiving anyone, Stephen?”
“I’m not supposed to say,” he chuckled, looking from one face to the other, his gaze coming to rest on Paul, “but, in her last letter, Anne wrote that your brother has been paying her court.”
Paul was surprised. “John? She’s been receiving John?”
“That’s what she writes.”
“Johnny?” Yvette inquired. “Does your daughter know Johnny?”
He began to respond, but was cut off by Agatha. “Children should be seen and not heard. This is an adult conversation, young lady.”
Colette’s restraint wore thin. “Agatha—I am Yvette’s mother and will do the reprimanding when necessary.” She ripped her turbulent eyes from the widow and spoke to Stephen. “Mr. Westphal, please answer my daughter’s question.”
“Yes,” he said, clearing his throat, uncomfortable with the clash of wills across the table, “my daughter knows your elder brother. She writes fondly of him. Perhaps she will be your sister-in-law someday.”
Colette’s smile did not reach her eyes. “Tell me, Mr. Westphal, does your daughter have any children by her deceased husband?”
“No, Madame,” he answered, confused by the question. �
��She never really liked children, so I suppose it was for the best. Why do you ask?”
“I was just wondering.” She sipped her wine, her gaze traveling to Paul. He considered her momentarily, then returned to his dinner.
The meal ended without further incident, and much later, when Charmaine retired to her second-floor chamber, her thoughts were far from Stephen Westphal, Anne London, or Agatha Ward. She was thinking of the Harringtons and George and Paul. The dreams she would dream tonight would be wondrous in her new bed, for the mattress was luxurious, the pillows soft, and the comforter warm in the cool night air. Bravely, she left the French doors open and fell into a blissful slumber.
Paul and Agatha sent Stephen on his way and climbed opposite staircases to their chambers. Only Colette and George remained behind in the parlor. “George,” she said when he rose to retire, “I must speak with you.”
“Yes?” he said on a yawn.
“Have you noticed the way Agatha is mooning over Paul?”
He laughed with the comment. “You’ve noticed it as well? I thought it was just me! I was going to warn him about it, Colette, really I was.” He shook his head, disgusted. “I could have wrung her neck tonight! Who does she think she is, talking to me like that?”
“I know, George. I was angry, too. Aside from that, I’m uncomfortable with the way she’s been looking at Paul. For weeks now, I’ve tried to convince myself I’ve been misreading it. But tonight, when I saw her seated near the head of the table, leaning close to Paul, interested in his every word, I know I’m not.”
“Don’t worry, Colette, Paul is not going to fall for Agatha Ward. And if he does, what does it matter?”
“What does it matter? Do you think I want her living in this house permanently? She’s at least ten years older than he.”
“More like twenty. Elizabeth was her younger sister, and if I’m not mistaken, she was eighteen when she had John. That would make Agatha fifty.”
“One would never know. She’s a handsome woman.”
George only snorted. “Looks are only skin deep, Colette. Paul will be considering more than her beauty if he looks her way.”
Colette rubbed her brow. “He never has before.”
“Colette, don’t fret over it,” George soothed, just now realizing how upset she was. “I don’t see how you can think any man would be interested in Agatha. She’s downright cruel. Besides, Paul is far more taken with Charmaine Ryan. Did you see how angry he was with me tonight? He’s been giving me that ‘she’s mine—I saw her first’ look for two weeks now. If you want to place some distance between Paul and Agatha, make certain Charmaine sits next to him at the table. He won’t be looking at anyone else in the room. I guarantee it.”
Colette forced a smile, and George knew he had not put her at ease.
“I’ll talk to him about it. Is that what you want?”
“I don’t know, George…But I would like Agatha Ward out of my life.”
George nodded in understanding.
Much later, when she was abed, Colette mulled over her predicament. If only she could talk to her husband the way she had during their first year of marriage. They’d been quite happy then, certainly able to communicate once they’d worked their way through those first stormy months. What had happened? She knew: The twins…the birth of the twins had happened, and she had been forbidden to have any more children. Frederic was a passionate man, and the strain this placed on their relationship had been destructive. How often had she caught him ogling her in the months following the birth of their daughters, those months when he had never once made love to her? But it was more than that. Much more. Frederic had longed to hear her speak three simple words, words he had often murmured when he climaxed inside of her. Why then had she withheld the love she knew he craved, the love she readily possessed? Why hadn’t she told him she loved him in return? Because I was frightened, her mind screamed, frightened of yielding him a greater power over me! And so, she had remained silent, allowing him to believe the worst, that she was still very angry with him, hated him. And then something else happened. Agatha Ward had come to visit, and Agatha Ward had found his bed. Frederic’s intense perusals stopped, and Colette was left desolate.
Tonight, she worried anew. She’d been mistaken in believing Agatha still sought Frederic’s embrace. Evidently, the disabling effect of his stroke had left the woman wanting. Was Paul her next target? Colette shuddered with the thought. Not that she cared about Paul’s sexual proclivities. She did, however, fear the possibility of an enduring relationship. The woman was devious and capable of manipulating a younger man. Colette was strong enough to combat Agatha today, but what of tomorrow? What would happen to her children if she were not well or, worse still, not there to protect them? If Agatha gained a greater foothold in the Duvoisin home, her children would suffer. Colette prayed to God she was wrong, but she wouldn’t wait for God to answer. Though she didn’t want to send Charmaine to the wolves, she did have Paul’s promise to respect the young governess. Perhaps with time, he would look beyond Charmaine’s lovely face and see the beauty beneath. Yes, Colette sighed, finally able to close her eyes in pursuit of sleep…Beginning tomorrow, before Agatha becomes accustomed to sitting next to Paul, there will be a new and permanent seating assignment at my table. Let Agatha fume.
Chapter 6
Friday, December 16, 1836
IT was Charmaine’s nineteenth birthday, though no one in the house knew.
As soon as she was dressed, she went into the nursery. The children were still asleep, but Pierre sensed her standing over his bed, for he sat up, rubbed his eyes, and stretched out his arms. Charmaine cuddled him, as she did every morning. She had come to cherish him as if he were her son, and he reciprocated that love, an ever-growing bond that made his mother’s frequent absences bearable.
Colette’s health was deteriorating. Robert Blackford had indeed consulted his journals, changing the compounds he’d been prescribing to a more potent tonic. Throughout October, Colette had improved dramatically. Unlike September, she’d be up and about after his Saturday visits, maintaining she felt fine. Over the last month, however, the fatigue she’d experienced in late summer began setting in again. Charmaine noted that by week’s end, Colette’s cheeks were pale and her meager energy depleted. She often complained of headaches and dizziness. By Saturday, she desperately needed another dose of the doctor’s elixir. She no longer spent Fridays with the children; she was too ill.
Therefore, Charmaine was surprised when she swept into the nursery this morning, proclaiming she felt fit as a fiddle. “I think it did me good to see the doctor yesterday. As much as I hate to admit it, perhaps I should allow him to visit twice a week.”
I just wish his ministrations had a lasting effect, Charmaine thought as she smiled at Colette, her friend. Over the past two months, they had grown so close Charmaine couldn’t imagine life without her. Their similar age had a lot to do with it, but there was something deeper that drew them together: an unspoken, almost reverent, sympathy for one another.
“Good morning, my little Pierre.”
Pierre held out his arms to his mother. When she sat on his bed, Charmaine deposited him in her lap. “Mama, I missed you!”
Colette chuckled. “How could you have missed me, mon caillou? You were sleeping.”
“I dreamed you was far away, and I was wookin’ for you,” he said in earnest. “It was scary!”
“Oh, my!” Colette replied, feigning fearful eyes. “What happened?”
“There was so many peoples I couldn’t find you. And someone was callin’ me, but I was scared so I kept runnin’.” His brow, which had furrowed over stormy eyes, suddenly lifted, and his face brightened. “But I found you.”
“Where was I?”
“In heaven,” he answered simply, happily. “It was very boo-tiful there.”
A baleful chill rushed up Charmaine’s arms, but Colette’s countenance remained unscathed. She hugged her son and laughed. “Oh
, Pierre! Someday, we’ll all be in heaven together, with everyone we love. It’s a wonderful place.”
Once the girls were up and dressed, they went down for breakfast. Paul was at the table, an unusual sight. He was normally gone long before they had risen and wouldn’t return until evening.
Complying with Colette’s strange request, Charmaine sat down next to him. Two months ago, she had approached the new seating arrangement with demure reluctance. But she had survived that first day and the day after that. Today, she could honestly say she enjoyed sitting near him. Ever since their private carriage ride home, he had been the perfect gentleman, and though Charmaine often noticed that assessing look in his eyes, he hadn’t once embarrassed her. True to his word, she was safe in his home. Any indecent proposition remained a memory of the past, and she could now spend an entire evening in his presence without blushing. Colette seemed pleased with their blossoming “friendship,” and Charmaine wondered if she were now playing matchmaker.
“What keeps you at home this morning, Paul?” Colette asked while helping Pierre into his chair.
“I’ve been into town and back already,” he answered. “Now I have an important matter to discuss with my father.”
His voice was hard, and they realized he was irate. His fingers drummed a short stack of letters on the left side of his plate. Charmaine wondered if they were the cause of his anger.
“Is something wrong?” Colette asked in genuine concern.
“Just my brother.”
Yvette perked up. “Johnny? Did he write to you?”
“He wrote to me all right,” Paul replied. He leafed through the correspondence and pulled two letters from the rest. “Here, Yvette, Jeannette, at least someone will be happy today.”
“From Johnny?” Jeannette queried, her face radiant as she accepted the post.
“Why did you get one?” Yvette sulked. “I’m the one who wrote to him.”
