by DeVa Gantt
“I was merely commenting on the children’s happiness to see their father again,” Charmaine attempted to explain.
“Really? It sounded to me as if you were speaking of your own happiness.”
“Agatha,” Frederic interceded, “I am spending some time with my children. You wouldn’t infringe on that, would you?”
“Certainly not, Frederic,” she replied with a striking smile, departing as quietly as she had come.
Later that evening, she visited Frederic in his apartments. It was time to make her ardent dream a reality—now—before another young woman, and the governess no less, stepped in. He desperately needed comforting, was famished for a woman’s love. Tonight, he’d forget those other two who pretended at love just to enjoy his fortune.
Wednesday, June 14, 1837
“Are you mad?” Paul expostulated in disbelief. “You are mad, that is the only explanation for this lunacy!”
The day had been all but pleasant. First, he’d been forced to return to the main island midweek due to a shipping mix-up that threatened to delay the next stage of development on Espoir. No sooner had he set foot on Charmantes than a score of other crises erupted, each one more pressing than the one before. Without George there, his troubles continued to multiply. He snorted when he numbered the weeks his friend had been gone—over ten to date—and it greatly irritated him. How long did it take to travel to Richmond and back again? Was George on holiday now? Unfortunately, there was nothing he could do about it. However, the last thing he needed, the last thing he expected to be embroiled in at the end of this deplorable day was this absurd conversation with his father, whose sudden silence could have been mistaken for deep reflection had his visage been pensive. But the man’s eyes were stormy, his jaw set behind grinding teeth. Frustrated, Paul took to pacing, no closer to understanding the workings of his parent’s mind, his polar loyalty.
In the months before Christmas, Paul would have sworn that only mistrust and anger existed between Colette and his sire. Then, after his return from Europe, he’d witnessed a myriad of astonishing emotions: ostensible despair when Colette had hovered near death, relief and happiness when it seemed she’d overcome her malady, and, finally, incomprehensible grief when her shaky recovery had ended tragically. After the third week of mourning, Colette’s words, spoken in the gardens, haunted him: “He loved me once…did you know that? He loved me once.” Had that love never died? Possibly. Nevertheless, Paul could not dismiss the distant past, and remained uncertain. Yet today, as he walked the streets of Charmantes, he heard the gossip: Yes, he’s on the mend…He’s given up the fast…of course he still loves her, but he’s thinking of the children now…
Paul recalled the suicidal scheme his father had initiated in early May. When he arrived home, Rose confirmed the aborted effort. Though relieved to hear it was over, he was ashamed he’d been absent for it all, annoyed no one had sent word to Espoir. Today he was convinced his sire had loved Colette, even into the grave, and for the first time, Paul comprehended why the man had been so embittered for all those years. It wasn’t just hate, it was heartbreak. He had it all figured out.
But no, just moments ago, his father had changed course again, annihilating those logical deductions. Now Colette was to be “forgotten.” That was the word he’d used. Aside from the children, no one nearest him was to even speak of her: no reminders of her in his room, no artifact that would spoil the pristine world from which she had been purged.
Fine! He could tolerate that, humor his parent, pretend Colette no longer existed. But this other thing? Never! He would never condone this day’s nonsense! And he’d be damned if he’d allow the revolting idea to be kindled. He would snuff it out before it flared out of control.
“I tell you again, you are mad! And I won’t allow it!”
“Allow it?” Frederic returned. “I’m the father, or have you forgotten?”
Paul flung himself into a chair. “No, I haven’t forgotten,” he mumbled.
“Good. Then I can count on you to make all the arrangements?”
“No,” Paul answered tightly, his eyes every bit as turbulent as his father’s. “I’ll play no part in it.”
Frederic cocked his head to one side, attempting to read his son’s mind, unprepared for this reaction, erupting before he had a chance to explain. “Why are you so opposed to this?” he asked. “What does it matter to you?”
“It matters because it is a grave mistake you will live to regret. Have you no regard for Colette? Yes”—he bit out—“I dare to speak her name! She has been dead for two months. Two months! Not even the lowest wife would be set aside so quickly. But Colette was not lowly. She was good and kind, fair inside and out. And no, don’t you dare argue that point!” He held up a hand. “For all your condemnation, for all your accusations, you know my words are true.”
“I know no such thing!”
“The hell you don’t!” Paul exploded. “She made a mistake, one terrible mistake you crucify her for over and over again! Can’t you see the forest for the trees? How can you judge Colette so severely and not see Agatha for what she is! To mention them in the same breath is abhorrent!”
“Do not speak of her so. She is to become my wife.”
“Haven’t you heard a single word I’ve said?” Paul shouted. “You cannot wed this woman! You cannot!”
“She will make me forget,” Frederic answered tightly, straying far from the issue now. “I need to forget.”
“She’ll make you wish to forget! Nothing more. If you think you knew what hell was married to Colette—if you think you know what it is now—just wait!”
“That’s enough!” Frederic snarled, further perplexed by his son’s outburst; yet Paul’s fierce opposition cemented his resolve to make Agatha Blackford Ward his third wife. “I do not expect you to see it my way. Not now, anyway. But all of this is done for a good reason, a reason I ask you to respect.”
“Reason?” Paul choked out, far from appeased. “I see no reason. You haven’t spoken of anything remotely linked to reason.”
“Isn’t it enough that I say it exists? Would you strip me of all pride by suggesting I’m incapable of making my own decisions?”
Paul faltered; he’d overstepped his bounds. “As you say, it is your decision to make,” he capitulated. “But, be warned, Father, my sentiments will not change. And I will never, never acknowledge Agatha as my stepmother.”
“I don’t expect you to,” Frederic grumbled, suddenly ambivalent in his noble intentions.
Saturday, July 1, 1837
Not three months after Colette’s death, Frederic took Agatha Blackford Ward for his third wife. The couple ventured to the mansion’s stone chapel early one Saturday morning for the private ceremony. Without the knowledge of family and friends, Benito St. Giovanni blessed the peculiar marriage in the presence of only two witnesses: Paul and the island’s doctor. Robert Blackford became Frederic’s brother-in-law for a second time.
If Frederic had hoped to receive a more favorable response from his younger children, he was disappointed. As he left Agatha and entered the nursery to tell them of his marriage, he was greeted by Yvette’s stormy face. “Is it true?” she demanded, pushing past Charmaine. “Tell me it’s not true?”
“Is what true?” Frederic asked in surprise.
“Joseph’s father told him you were marrying Mrs. Ward today. It’s not true, is it? He was lying. Please tell me he was lying, Father!”
Frederic experienced an overwhelming pang of regret. “It is true,” he answered curtly. “Agatha and I were married a short while ago.”
Charmaine’s stomach plummeted. In a panic, she grabbed hold of a bedpost, distantly aware of Pierre hugging her legs.
Yvette’s belligerent cry, “See, Mademoiselle Charmaine!” ricocheted off the walls. “I told you it was true! Joseph never lies to me.”
Jeannette burst into tears. “But, Father, why? Why would you marry her?”
When he did not explain, Yvette berated hi
m fiercely. “If you had to remarry, why didn’t you pick Mademoiselle Charmaine?”
Charmaine was aghast, and she found Frederic assessing her as if he were weighing his daughter’s words. Where did Yvette come up with her ideas?
The man took the comment in stride, a lopsided smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Is that why you are upset? You’d rather Mademoiselle Charmaine replace your mother?”
“I didn’t say that!” Yvette scolded, annoyed her father had misunderstood. “No one can replace Mama. You should know that! You told me you loved her. Were you lying? Mama was good and kind and beautiful. How could you marry someone who is bad and mean and ugly? Now we have a stepmother worse than any we’ve ever read about in fairytale books!”
Frederic’s eyes narrowed. “Enough, young lady! Agatha is your stepmother now, and as such, you will respect her.” He indicated Charmaine menacingly. “And your governess will see to it that you do.”
Charmaine’s moment of sympathy vanished, but she bit her tongue, willing herself not to side with the twin. “Sir,” she said instead, “Yvette is only speaking from her grief. She misses her mother. Surely you can understand that.”
“It does not give her the right to grow ill mannered,” he returned stiffly. “I’ll not abide insults directed at my new wife. Is that understood?”
“Yes, sir,” Charmaine answered meekly, her position precarious.
Perhaps the children sensed her dilemma, for they, too, fell mute.
Yvette’s eyes welled with tears, and she blinked them away. The unusual sight shook Frederic more than her ire had, but there was no turning back. Certain it was best to guard a harsh resolve, he bade them good day.
“You must not anger your father,” Charmaine cautioned once they were alone. “There is nothing you can do to change the situation, and insulting your new stepmother will make matters worse.”
Thankfully, the girl and her sister nodded.
“Remember,” she continued, forcing a smile, “I’ll always love you.” She hugged them, determined to overcome this newest impediment to their recovery.
Later, Charmaine wondered over Frederic’s decision to remarry so soon after his second wife’s demise. How could he dismiss Colette so quickly, set her from his heart with so little respect? Why had he attempted to end his own life, if his love had not been intense and consuming? What did it all mean? Perhaps Agatha charmed him in his grief. If nothing else, she had helped save his life. Charmaine concluded that Frederic had never seen Agatha’s cruel side, and had not the slightest idea of the repulsive conditions to which his children would be subjected.
Agatha inhaled deeply, enjoying the salty scent of the ocean air, sighing as she retreated to her sitting room. “That will be all, Gladys. I shall ring for you in the morning.”
Gladys, who had just finished removing Colette’s clothing, bobbed and left.
Agatha moved to the jewelry chest atop the dressing table. She lifted the lid and smiled down at the many gems sparkling within the velvet-lined box. She had stopped Gladys before they, too, were taken away, stored until the day the twins were old enough to wear them. She smiled when she found Elizabeth’s valuables amongst Colette’s. If the second wife could enjoy the first wife’s jewels, then so would the third. Of course, she knew why Frederic had allowed Colette to touch his precious Elizabeth’s possessions. He thought of the two women as one and the same. Agatha dismissed the disturbing thought. Today was too wonderful to dwell on the past. The painful journey was over, and finally, the future belonged to her. She closed the chest and moved about the chamber, arranging things more to her liking.
When Frederic entered, she gave him a dazzling smile. He limped over to her, as handsome as he’d been this morning, as handsome as ever.
He caressed her cheek. “Happy?” he queried softly.
Her eyes filled with tears. “Very happy,” she whispered. “I’ve loved you Frederic…for so very long.”
He nodded soberly. “I know. Perhaps we are destined to be together.”
“Perhaps? No, Frederic,” she insisted, “there is no ‘perhaps’ on this glorious day. I shall make you happy, and the sadness of the past will remain there.”
“For my children’s sake, I hope you are right. It seems I’m regarded as the sinister patriarch, and I am weary of it.”
Agatha laughed. “Sinister, Frederic? Never! But then, no one understands you the way I do.” She stroked his chest, her eyes clouded with passion. “Come,” she whispered, pulling him into his chambers and the bed that awaited them.
Sunday, July 2, 1837
On Sunday, Paul joined Charmaine and the children for Mass. As she smiled up at him, she was rewarded with a wink that set her heart to racing. She wondered how long he’d remain on Charmantes, but didn’t ask, deciding to enjoy the splendid moment while it lasted.
It didn’t. At the close of the service, Agatha intercepted the house staff at the chapel door, and Paul rushed off. She instructed them to reconvene in the great hall in one hour’s time.
“I will be assigning additional duties to each of you,” she stated obtrusively. The underlying message was inauspicious, and Charmaine fretted over the lecture that awaited them. “That will be all,” she concluded, turning her attention to Father Benito, who had requested a minute of her time.
Charmaine gathered the children together, stifling a smile when it became apparent Agatha was annoyed at the priest.
“I don’t see why I should have to donate anything,” she hissed.
“Mrs. Duvoisin,” Benito replied pointedly, “you agreed to abandon your heretical ties to the Church of England on the day of your marriage—agreed to convert to Catholicism. Presently your duties as mistress extend far beyond this grand manor. Charmantes awaits you. As the wife of its benefactor, altruistic obligations fall to you. Surely you were aware of that.” Agatha glowered at him, but the priest smiled benevolently. “Miss Colette was extremely charitable, until she fell so violently ill.”
Charmaine followed the children through the ballroom, Agatha’s voice receding behind her. So, the new Mrs. Duvoisin is about to find a life of luxury comes with a price. Hopefully, the priest’s philanthropic work proved long and arduous.
An hour later, she returned to the banquet hall and withstood Agatha Duvoisin’s dictatorial oration. In less than five minutes, the new mistress revoked any shred of freedom the staff had previously enjoyed. Charmaine watched as Mrs. Faraday left in a huff, followed by a fiery Fatima Henderson and a downtrodden Gladys Thornfield. Felicia and Anna skulked away, permitting Charmaine a moment of vicarious pleasure as she imagined them working for their wages. With that happy thought, she headed for the foyer, certain Rose would be glad when she returned.
“Miss Ryan, you seem amused.”
Charmaine abandoned her reverie. “Pardon me?”
“I was wondering if you found my instructions amusing?” Agatha inquired stiffly. “You seem quite pleased with yourself.”
“No, ma’am,” Charmaine replied, her smile wiped clean.
“Good. I would like to speak with you privately in the study. The comfortable position you’ve held in this house is in need of a review.”
“Review?” Charmaine asked with growing dread.
“We shall discuss it later, at four o’clock. And Miss Ryan—do be prompt.”
Charmaine was left quaking; this private meeting portended trouble, and even Rose could not convince her otherwise. She remembered Frederic’s threatening words of just the morning before. If she didn’t tread carefully, she would be sent packing. Sadly, she realized she would sustain as great a heartache as the children if she were dismissed; she loved them so.
At three-thirty, Charmaine once again left them with Rose. She’d be more than punctual, limiting the ammunition Agatha might use against her.
Of late, nothing was going Paul’s way. He crossed the emerald lawn with an agitated gait, took the stone steps of the portico in two strides, and stormed the manor’
s double doors. He slapped a brown folder against his left thigh, the rhythm working his revolving thoughts into a frothing frenzy, until he found himself contemplating the circle’s inception once again: his father’s mismatched marriage, his ponderous schedule between Charmantes and Espoir, George’s prolonged absence, the new manor’s halted construction, and lastly, the circle’s end—the sorest point of all—his brother, John, and the missing shipping invoices that were not with the other, unimportant, papers he held in his hand.
“Why does he do this to me?” he seethed aloud, the habit of talking to himself most prevalent when John provoked him. “I know why,” he ground out, barging into the study and slamming the door shut with such force the glass rattled in the French doors across the room. “He knows it will foster havoc on Charmantes and I will have to deal with it! I bet he’s been snickering for months just thinking about it.”
He reached the desk in another five strides, flinging the folder atop the other papers lying there, its contents spilling out. The childish act yielded momentary gratification; he swung around to find Charmaine staring at him wide-eyed from the high-backed chair. “How long have you been sitting there?” he demanded, his temper spiking as he realized what she had witnessed. “Well? Answer me!”
“A long time, sir,” she replied docilely, fueling his feeling of foolishness.
Instantly, his anger was gone, and he closed his eyes and rubbed his brow. Sir…she’s calling me sir again. “I’m sorry, Charmaine. I didn’t mean to snap at you like that. I’ve been plagued with countless worries, and I’m at my wit’s end.”
“I guess we’re in the same predicament,” she replied.
He heard the apprehension in her voice. “Is something amiss?”
Is something amiss? she thought. Surely he jests! But how would he know of the troubles facing the entire Duvoisin staff, and her in particular? “There will be many changes in the house within the next few days,” she said, dropping her eyes to the hands in her lap. “Some of them frighten me.”
“What changes could possibly frighten you?”
