Decision and Destiny

by DeVa Gantt

  The nursery was peaceful, punctuated only by the sound of wind, rain, and deep breathing. John stepped closer to the beds and looked down at his sisters. Next, he turned an eye toward Pierre’s bed, but the soft lamplight did not penetrate that quarter of the room. He approached it carefully, and with his palm flat, he brushed over the thin coverlet, searching for a limb, a shoulder, or a tousled head. His hand came away clean. He scanned the mattress again, spanning its full length. It was empty. Alarmed, he turned back to the twins. Perhaps Pierre had settled in with one of them. But his initial impression of the sleeping arrangement was correct; his sisters slept alone.

  It occurred to him Pierre was with Charmaine. He stepped through the open doorway, relieved to discern two forms in the four-poster bed, the flickering lamplight dancing over them.

  Pierre was sleeping in the bend of Charmaine’s body, his back pressed against her bosom and belly. Like his sisters, his breathing verged on a snore, his mouth agape in total relaxation. Charmaine held him fast, her right arm encircling his waist possessively. Her face was expressionless, her locks, usually plaited into obedience were loose and curling over her pillow and shoulders.

  She was pretty, more so than the first night he had laid eyes on her, certainly more desirable. John shook his head, now filled with the lovely vision. Ah, my Charm, he thought, if only you had surprised me in my bedchamber tonight. I would not have evicted you. He studied her face: so innocent. The temptation to exchange places with the boy, to lose himself in the young woman’s inviting embrace, was strong. But he wouldn’t make that mistake either. Charmaine Ryan was the kind of girl a man married if he took her to his bed. But it was pleasant to dream, and fantasies didn’t hurt anyone, so long as they remained fantasies.

  As if she heard his thoughts, she sighed in her sleep.

  Realizing just how closely he stood over them, John quietly withdrew. When he returned to his chamber, the only vestige of Felicia’s presence was perfume in the air and the rumpled sheets she’d thrown on the floor.

  From the moment Paul settled his weary body on the bed, he knew slumber would evade him. Tomorrow would demand more of his time in the wake of the storm, and he’d be a fool not to get some sleep tonight. But, he was haunted by a young woman’s face: large dark eyes imploring his trust, trembling lips begging to be kissed, long wild tresses swirling about him. Yes, Charmaine Ryan was a temptress, an innocent, unknowing temptress. He’d been an oaf thinking she was anything else, yet she made him so damned angry when she permitted John that sweet glimpse of her vulnerability. John would only use her, hurt her.

  He punched his pillow and turned onto his side. Why did it all matter so very much? Why did he lose sleep over it? He’d never lost sleep over any woman before, but then, the others had spent their nights beside him, and he had known exactly where he stood. Charmaine was different, so very different.

  Odd, but in her innocence, she was more woman than those with years of experience, a woman he desperately wanted. Their aborted encounters had become increasingly painful, and though he admitted to lusting for her, he also knew she meant more to him than the shallow housemaids whom he had previously used at leisure. Charmaine was far from shallow. She was intelligent, vivacious, and capable of reciprocating any man’s passion as long as he loved her.

  He tossed in the bed, uncomfortable with the word. Love…It had always been absent from his romantic vocabulary, a word he avoided to keep his life on an even keel, less complex. He’d seen the games a woman could play with a man’s head, the lasting scars she could leave on a heart laid bare, and he wasn’t eager to step into that role. Better to keep the upper hand, sample the fruit and move on.

  But would a taste of Charmaine be enough? Did he want it to be enough? Where once he believed a simple conquest would vanquish his need for her, now he was uncertain, acknowledging he would not tire of her quickly. In fact, he knew she would please him more than any of the others who had gone before. Was this then love? Somewhere deep inside, he acknowledged that possibility. But he had never been in love before; so how could he know for certain?

  Then there was his brother to consider. Charmaine had become exceedingly enticing once he had to compete for her attention. He would have seduced her the night John returned if they hadn’t been interrupted. And so the game had begun. He’d lost his temper thrice this night on John’s account. He would not allow it to happen again.

  He was confident Charmaine could not be attracted to the likes of John, no matter how well his brother played his hand. Sooner or later, John’s pranks would push her away, and John would be forced to throw in his hand. Yes, John would definitely lose; he always did. But if he hadn’t learned who would take all, Paul would oblige him with one last turn of the card. It was a game in which they had engaged many times, ever since childhood, and John had never claimed the winning hand. All Paul needed to do was sit back, enjoy the spectacle his brother would make of himself, and wait for Charmaine to come running back to him. And when she did, the companionship he would offer would not require a commitment. Yes, John would unwittingly resolve all, including this gnawing fear of love and entrapment.

  Chapter 5

  Friday, September 29, 1837

  CHARMAINE’S eyes fluttered open. The bedside lamp cast a glow around the nursery, but it took a full minute to realize where she was and why she had spent a part of the night in Pierre’s bed. Close to three in the morning, a branch from the oak tree had crashed through the shuttered French doors of her bedchamber, rousing the entire house. Within minutes, a crowd had congregated in her room: the children, Paul, John, and George were all there, discussing what to do. Even the servants loitered in the hallway. Agatha appeared and took charge.

  John grimaced. “Auntie, why don’t you leave?”

  “Leave?”

  “Yes, leave. This bedchamber—now. The house—tomorrow. Charmantes—forever.”

  “That’s it!” she shrieked. Pursing her lips, she flounced from the room.

  Charmaine stifled a giggle and withdrew to the nursery, settling into bed with Pierre. She drifted off to sleep to the sounds of Paul and John removing the large branch, their discourse congenial, brotherly even.

  Now, the storm was gone, and all was peaceful, slivers of morning light springing through the slats of the shuttered French doors. She snuggled deeper under the covers and closed her eyes, content. It was too early to rise. The girls were still asleep and Pierre…

  She bolted upright in the bed. Pierre was not there, and the hallway door stood ajar. She flew into the corridor, pulling on her robe as she went. Everything was shrouded in darkness, save the same broken rays streaming through the boarded-up staircase windows overlooking the gardens. Another shaft of light poured from the slight crack at John’s dressing room door. Charmaine moved toward it. A youthful giggle confirmed her suspicions.

  “Pierre, are you in there?” she whispered.

  A moment’s pause, and the door opened, revealing a magical elf. Pierre beamed up at her, sporting a white beard concocted of shaving lather.

  “Oh, Pierre! What have you gotten into?”

  When she bent over to pick him up, he kissed her, and half of his moustache came away on her cheek, branding her a conspirator. The door opened entirely, and Charmaine’s eyes swept upward—from stocking feet to trousers, bare chest to manly face. John was laughing down at her, his own face blanketed in white.

  “Is there something you desire, my Charm?” he asked.

  She straightened up quickly. “I was looking for Pierre.”

  “He found his way into my room, so we were using the time wisely. I’m teaching him how to shave.”

  “Isn’t he a bit young for that?”

  “You can never learn too soon.” He stepped in front of the washstand, took up the straight razor, and caught her eye in the mirror. “It’s a tedious chore.”

  Pierre scurried after him, perching on a chair set to one side of the basin, absorbed with the first stroke of the r
azor.

  “Would you return him to the nursery when you’ve finished?”

  “Certainly,” John replied, throwing a wink to the boy.

  Five minutes later, Charmaine returned to the doorway. Now John was entertaining his twin sisters as well; they weren’t about to miss all the fun.

  “But I want to learn, too!” Yvette insisted.

  “Girls don’t shave,” came the answer, and then: “Welcome back, Miss Ryan. I suppose you’ll be demanding a lesson as well?”

  “Not in shaving, thank you.”

  He chuckled, mumbling there was hope for him yet.

  She comprehended his meaning when his eyes traveled to the bed, and her cheeks grew warm.

  “Why do you shave anyway, Johnny?” Jeannette inquired.

  “Because he doesn’t wanna grow a beard,” Pierre answered.

  “Exactly,” John nodded as he cocked his head to one side and drew the razor across the remaining strip of foam, his voice distorted when he spoke. “I like my face nice and smooth for the ladies I kiss.”

  “You kiss ladies?” Jeannette asked, astounded.

  “Once in a while—if I’m lucky.”

  “You like kissing them?” Yvette questioned, equally incredulous. “Do you kiss them on the lips like Paulie does?”

  “On occasion,” he replied, setting the razor aside and wiping his face clean.

  “When was the last time?” she interrogated.

  Charmaine’s eyes met John’s in the looking glass and her blush deepened.

  “Yvette,” he admonished mildly, “that is not a proper inquiry to place to any man, even your brother.”

  “Just answer the question. When was the last time?”

  “Hmm…let me think…”

  “It’s disgusting!” Yvette gagged. “I’ll never allow a boy to do that to me! All that spit! Yuk!”

  John finished drying his hands, then faced them. “Thank you, Yvette.”

  “For what?”

  “For clearing something up for me. You see, one lady I kissed quite recently did not seem to enjoy it at all and responded to my gesture of affection by wiping away my ‘spit’ with the back of her hand. I suppose she must feel the same way you do. It’s certainly an explanation to keep in mind. Then again,” he pondered offhandedly, “it could be she prefers a bristly face to a clean-shaven one.”

  Agatha did not pass a pleasant night. John’s newest affront rifled through her mind relentlessly, inducing a maddening headache. Why was life so complicated, hazardous? Why did it constantly throw stumbling blocks in her path? Well, she’d not stumble, had no intention of stumbling. By the crack of dawn, she was composed. She knew exactly how to proceed.

  She entered her husband’s dressing room just as Paul arrived. Camouflaging her delight, she quickly augmented her strategy and spoke decisively. “I don’t want to add fuel to an already blazing fire, Frederic, but this condition extends far beyond John’s insults. You’ve asked me to swallow my pride, even in front of the servants, and, for you, I have, enduring his relentless ridicule. However, I guarantee his abominable behavior is only a prelude of what is yet to come.” She paused, her voice waxing with concern. “Last night, I discovered his motives, why he has returned to Charmantes after all these years.”

  Frederic’s pulse quickened. “What are they, Agatha?”

  “Isn’t it obvious? He’s uncovered the plans for Paul’s Christmastide gala and is determined to undermine the event. Stephen Westphal has mentioned a number of things he’s already done to hinder the endeavor. He wants Paul to fail.”

  Frederic said nothing, in fact, he seemed relieved, and Agatha bristled, frustration riding high in her voice. “I warn you now, Frederic. I refuse to be humiliated in front of your prestigious Richmond associates and their wives. If John is allowed to remain on Charmantes—if you permit him to play his little games at Paul’s expense—then I will remove myself from the planning of those festivities.”

  She sent beseeching eyes to Paul. “I’m sorry, but I won’t participate in the spectacle I am certain your brother intends to manufacture. We will become the laughingstock of influential Southern society.”

  “Agatha,” Frederic attempted to appease, “I hardly think John has any intention of manufacturing—”

  “On the contrary,” Paul cut in, his eyes stormy. “Agatha is right, Father. We all know what John is like. If he remains on Charmantes, he will wreak havoc on this event. He already has.”

  “How?”

  “When the Raven laid anchor yesterday, she carried disturbing documents from Edward Richecourt. I was out to the harbor at dawn and received these.” He flashed the folio he had been holding.

  “They’re the reason why I’m here this morning. John definitely knows of our plans, learned all about them as early as last February. He’s questioned the directives I left with Richecourt in January. Thanks to him, important papers have been delayed and will not reach New York until Richecourt receives word from you overriding John’s power of attorney.”

  “The Raven?” Frederic asked. “How long will she remain in port?”

  Paul was confounded. He’d noted the man’s intense eyes and thought they reflected anger over John’s interference. Why then this inquiry about the Raven? “A few days,” he answered with a frown. “Why?”

  Frederic shook his head, his gaze fixed on the far wall. “No reason…I’d like to speak with Jonah Wilkinson before he sets sail.”

  Again, Paul puzzled over his father’s reaction, the peculiar request, and was quickly becoming annoyed with his parent’s disinterest in the more important matter at hand. “Can we get back to the subject of John?”

  “Yes,” the elder murmured, his mind feverishly working. Last night, he had debated his choices and struggled with a decision, frustrated to conclude it lacked direction. The Raven pointed the way, provided the rudder. Frederic rubbed his brow, detesting this course of action, his thoughts sinking like deadweight on his chest. If only John and he could speak civilly, but that option was closed to them; John would only accuse him of scheming—exactly what he was forced to do.

  “Father?” Paul pressed, shattering Frederic’s perplexing thoughts.

  “Yes…John,” his sire acknowledged, regarding Paul once again. “I have good reason to believe he will be leaving before week’s end.”

  Though stunned by the prediction, Agatha and Paul remained doubtful.

  “If it pleases you,” Frederic continued, his eyes traveling to Agatha, “I will speak to John tonight at dinner.”

  “At dinner?” she asked. “You’ll be taking dinner with the family?”

  “Am I not allowed to dine at my own table?”

  “Of course you are. It’s just—”

  Perturbed, Paul didn’t allow her to finish. “You realize what day it is?”

  “Yes,” Frederic said, his voice dispassionate, chilling in its emptiness.

  Charmaine and the children sat down to a late breakfast. The house had been an exciting place all morning as the barricades from the storm were pulled down, restoring the manor to its palatial glory. John was at the table, sipping the last of his coffee, and leaned back in his chair as the foursome took their seats. Paul was right behind them.

  “Have you been abroad to survey the damage?” John asked amiably.

  “Hours ago,” his brother replied just as congenially. “We were fortunate. The storm didn’t strike us directly. Some of the fishing boats are in need of repair, but we didn’t lose the Raven.”

  “Good. And the mill?”

  “Minimal damage, the only casualty the sugarcane, which will require a few days’ salvage work, but if we get on it quickly, it shouldn’t be a total loss.”

  Astounded, Charmaine listened as Paul and John exchanged ideas. They conversed like brothers. ˜ere was a time when they were close—very close.

  The conversation turned to the news of the day. The Raven carried various periodicals from England. King William was dead, and the new
monarch, his young niece, had ascended the throne. What effect would Queen Victoria’s reign have on Duvoisin commerce?

  George emerged from the kitchen. Charmaine had hoped to catch him this morning, but when she realized he was only passing through the room, she slipped from her chair and called after him. “George, may I speak with you?”

  “Certainly,” he smiled, surprised when she boldly took his arm and led him toward the hallway where they could converse privately.

  Paul’s regard followed the departing couple. He looked at John, but received only a shrug. By the time Charmaine returned, John and he were talking with Pierre.

  “And how did you like sharing your bed last night?” Paul asked.

  “I wuved it!” the three-year-old replied emphatically. “It was nice and warm when Mainie cuddled me.”

  “And did you cuddle Mademoiselle Ryan, too?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Now, there’s a boy who knows how to treat a lady,” John interjected for his brother’s benefit.

  Paul ignored the remark. “Wasn’t it a bit crowded, Pierre?”

  “Nope,” the lad replied, shaking his head twice and crossing his hands over his protruding abdomen. “And the next time there’s a huwacane, I’m gonna stay with Mainie in her bed. And I’m gonna puh-tect her, too, ’cause I’m not a’scared of no stupid branch.”

  “But what if we don’t have any more hurricanes?” John asked, treating the boy’s proclamation quite seriously.

  “I can still sleep with her—if I’m very good. Wight Mainie?”

  Charmaine nodded quickly, aware of John’s laughing eyes on her, certain of what he would say next.

  “And if I’m very good?”

  Pierre supplied the answer. “You can sleep with us, too!”

  Charmaine was shocked when Paul chortled, his hearty guffaws eliciting contagious giggles from Pierre, who was quite proud of himself.

  John, however, held silent, his chin perched on a fist, a faint smile tweaking his lips, and tender eyes caressing the boy, as if the sight of the child’s uninhibited joy was enough to sustain him for the day.