by DeVa Gantt
Pierre and Yvette watched the reparations under way. The huge branch had been pushed out of Charmaine’s room and onto the veranda last night, the glass removed this morning. Soon, Charmaine joined them, and the three stepped back as John and Joseph detached the splintered shutters and doorframes. Panels from one of the guestrooms awaited installation.
Wiping his brow with his forearm, John turned to the thick tree limb, lifting it as high as the balustrade. Joseph struggled to do the same with his end, but failed. On the third attempt, the branch splintered, falling on John’s foot. “Damn!” came the muttered oath, born of frustration rather than pain. Again he blotted his brow dry and turned to Joseph.
“I’m sorry, sir!” the lad blurted out. “I didn’t mean to—”
“It wasn’t your fault,” John ceded, though his voice was rough and his scowl black. “I need a more able-bodied assistant. Where is your father?”
“He’s busy with the stable-hands pulling the shutters off the windows. But I’m willing to try again, sir.”
“Try again?” John echoed incredulously. “Try again to break my foot?”
“No, sir. I’ll be extremely careful, sir.”
“I’ll help, Johnny!” Yvette volunteered. “And I won’t break your foot!”
John sent his eyes heavenward. “You think you can lift something Joseph can’t hoist above his knees?”
He missed Yvette’s determined nod as he faced the servant boy. “Go downstairs and find my brother. I believe Auntie is gnawing his ear in the study. He should appreciate the interruption.”
“But—”
John took a step toward the argumentative youth.
“Yes, sir!” the boy agreed. “Right away, sir!”
He dashed from the room, nearly colliding with Jeannette, who was rushing through the doorway.
“George is back!” she cried, disappearing into the nursery with her sister.
Charmaine and Pierre quickly followed, piquing John’s curiosity. “I’ve never received that much attention,” he grumbled. They exited the French doors adjacent to him and leaned excitedly over the balustrade.
George was still at the stable, retrieving a wrapped package from his saddlebag. He threw it under one arm before heading to the house.
“George!” Yvette called as he approached. “We’re up here!”
John frowned, befuddled. The girl had never behaved like this toward George before, waving vigorously to be sure he saw her. And Charmaine. She had pulled George aside just this morning. Something was definitely brewing here.
He smiled down at his friend. “Good afternoon, Georgie.”
“John,” he nodded before turning to Charmaine, the package he carried now raised. “I was able to locate the item you requested.”
“Thank you, George,” she replied sweetly, “I owe you a favor.”
“It was my pleasure. Do you think you can catch it?”
With her nod, he tossed it up, and Yvette quickly snatched it.
“Don’t rip it open here,” Charmaine ordered, her eyes meeting John’s.
“What was that all about?” he inquired when George disappeared below.
Charmaine basked in the moment. “Aren’t the employees entitled to a bit of privacy, sir?” she asked coquettishly.
Without waiting for a reply, she grasped Jeannette and Pierre’s hands and stepped back into the house. Yvette smiled up at him smugly, then waved the mysterious parcel in front of him, spun on her heel, and joined her siblings.
Paul arrived, and the branch was hoisted over the banister. Joseph appeared below and was told to remove it from the drive.
“That should take him the better part of a week,” John sniggered.
“Do you need me for anything else?” Paul asked as Charmaine and the children entered the partially restored room.
“No, that should do it.”
“What about those?” Paul gestured toward the doors that needed to be installed.
“I can manage. Why don’t you hurry off before Auntie corners you again?”
Paul’s countenance sobered. “John,” he started cautiously, “Agatha resents what you said to her last night. She’s finally made good her threat. She went to Father this morning and complained about it.”
“I don’t care,” John snorted and, as if to emphasize his indifference, turned his attention to the new glass panels.
“You should care,” Paul contended.
“And why is that? What is her charge—defamation of character? Auntie doesn’t need me to do that. She does it well enough on her own.”
“John…”
Paul’s faltering appeal seemed to reach the man, for he looked up from his work.
“Father plans to dine with us tonight and has promised Agatha he would speak to you.”
“Isn’t that nice,” John sneered, cocking his head to one side and folding his arms over his chest. “Thank you for warning me. I’m just quaking in my boots.”
“It’s not a warning, John, it’s just…”
“Just what, Paul? Just what?”
“Nothing,” Paul replied with a shake of his head, “it’s nothing.”
“Just what, Paul?” John shouted as his brother left the room, waiting a moment longer as if Paul might return. Then he set the French doors in place, muttering “Just what?” one last time.
Charmaine reflected upon Paul’s entreaty. Had it been meant as a warning? But to what end? A curbing of John’s tongue? Or his abstention from the evening meal? This seemed more logical, and her musings found voice.
“Will you be joining us for dinner?”
“Why wouldn’t I?” John asked gruffly.
“I thought—”
“It doesn’t matter what you thought, Miss Ryan,” he cut in. Then his voice grew heavy with sarcasm. “This is my home, too, and much as some people wish it weren’t so, I’m a member of this great family. I have every right to take a seat at the dinner table tonight, one I fully intend to exercise.”
Charmaine toyed with the ribbon that decorated the present in her lap. The children had been so excited when she told them about her idea this morning, accepting her recommendation they wait until dinner to offer their gift to John. They’d watched the clock all day long, their ebullience near bursting. She couldn’t disappoint them now. Nevertheless, she feared the possible outcome of celebrating John’s birthday; she was flouting Frederic Duvoisin’s prohibition of the event. Was she mad? She’d never seen the two men in the same room together, save that chilling encounter after Pierre’s spanking. And now, here she was stirring up a hornet’s nest.
They entered the dining room to find Frederic already there, seated at the foot of the table, and not the head. That chair remained vacant, and with growing anxiety, Charmaine questioned the master’s intent. If John did dine with them as he vowed he would, then he and his father would be facing each other, setting the stage for what could well become an out-and-out confrontation.
Agatha sat regally to Frederic’s left, her hands folded demurely in her lap, a soft smile planted upon her lips. She’d mastered the deceptive portrayal of beneficent mistress—statuesque, beautiful in fact.
“Good evening, Papa,” Jeannette greeted blithely, pausing to kiss his cheek as she circled round his end of the table.
“Good evening, princess. How are you tonight?”
“Very well, thank you,” she responded as she settled into the chair next to her sister. “How are you?”
“I’m feeling quite fit,” he said, his eyes traveling to his other daughter and the parcel she clutched. “What have you there, Yvette?”
“A present,” she remarked flippantly, “for Johnny. It’s his birthday, you know.”
Charmaine inhaled, but was confounded by his benign reply. “Yes, I know.”
Then his eyes were on her, and he nodded. “Miss Ryan.”
“Good evening, sir,” she breathed, quickly turning her attention to Pierre.
The greetings were exhaust
ed and the room fell silent, an uneasy calm in which the seconds gathered into minutes. Charmaine was relieved when Paul’s voice resounded in the hallway and he entered the dining room with Rose. He helped her with her chair, then took his own seat next to Charmaine. “Good evening, everyone,” he said, and in particular, “Father.”
Felicia and Anna appeared and glided around the table, pouring beverages from wine carafes and water pitchers. They exited and returned, bearing abundant trays of succulent meats, fresh green vegetables, fluffy white potatoes, and bread. This spread rivaled any meal Charmaine had partaken of in the manor. Clearly, Fatima had spared nothing when she learned the master of the house would be dining at the table this evening.
When everyone had been served, Frederic struck up a conversation with Paul. “Did you uncover any other storm damage this afternoon?”
“Not really, sir,” Paul replied, his respectful response affecting Charmaine in an odd way, having never heard him address his father before. “Our efforts to secure the important areas paid off.”
“Good,” Frederic nodded. “I can always depend on you.”
“Sir?”
Frederic didn’t elaborate. “Espoir,” he said instead, “any word from there?”
“No. But we secured the harbor in anticipation of hurricane season. The house is well built, and I imagine the burgeoning sugarcane is fine. Most of the plants are small, so I’m not overly concerned. I’ll find out on Monday.”
“Would you like some company?”
“Father?”
“I’d like to see the progress you’ve made firsthand.”
Paul sat in awe of the statement, as did everyone else at the table. Even Agatha’s expression betrayed astonishment. “You want to come with me?”
“Of course I do. Do you object?”
“No, sir. It’s just—I didn’t think you were ready for such an excursion.”
“A few miles at sea aboard a sound ship is hardly an excursion. I’ll be fine.”
Frederic spoke to his wife. “What about you, Agatha? Would you like to join us on Monday?”
“Yes,” the woman eagerly agreed.
“Then it’s settled,” Frederic concluded, raising his wineglass in a toast. “To Monday and Espoir.”
“To Espoir,” Paul concurred, warming to the inconceivable idea as he, too, raised a glass.
The cheers died down and varied conversations sprang up among those sitting near one another. More than once, Charmaine’s eyes traveled to the vacant chair at the head of the table. Obviously, John had decided to stay away, and though she was certain his decision was for the best, inexplicably, her heart was heavy. She turned back to her plate when voices carried from the main foyer. The table fell silent as all eyes turned to the delinquent intruders. John and George didn’t seem to notice as they casually took their seats, talking still.
Frederic laid down his fork and considered John across the table. There was no point in dallying. He’d best initiate the second stage of his plan. His family could not go on this way. It was time his son made a choice. “You’re late,” he reproved flatly and, after a moment’s pause, added, “dinner is served at seven.”
John leaned back in his chair, and Charmaine was certain she read sadness in his eyes. But they quickly turned turbulent, a shield erected for battle.
“Sir,” George began, “it’s my fault we’re late. I asked John to help me in the tobacco fields—”
“Don’t make excuses for me, George. No matter what you have to say, my father will choose to believe the worst. Isn’t that correct, sir?”
The sneered title stood in stark contrast to Paul’s respectful address.
“My judgment could never rival the Almighty’s,” Frederic rejoined.
Unnerved, Charmaine’s pulse accelerated. Yet, John was smiling. She scanned the table. They all stared at their plates, save Agatha, whose satisfied eyes sparkled. Charmaine looked askance at Paul. His brow tipped upward, acknowledging her silent appeal. So this was how father and son behaved toward one another, the hostility that hardened their hearts.
John’s regard remained fixed on Frederic. Finally he stood, grabbed George’s plate, and piled it high with all the food within his reach. He placed the heaping dish before his friend, receiving a nod of appreciation. Then he served himself, sat down, and began to eat. After a few hearty mouthfuls, clearly a deliberate tactic to prove his appetite had not been affected, he spoke.
“How are those kittens of yours, Jeannie?”
“They’re fine,” the surprised girl replied, not daring to expound.
Yvette was not intimidated. “Smudge slept in Jeannette’s bed last night.”
“Is that the orange one?” he asked, seemingly oblivious to his sire’s glare.
“No, that’s Orange.” When John snickered, she added, “Pierre named her.”
“Well, Orange woke me up this morning by walking all over my face.”
The children giggled, but Agatha clicked her tongue in disapproval. “The kittens are sweet, Jeannette,” she said, “but they should sleep in their own bed, not yours.”
The twins’ faces dropped, but not John’s.
“So, Father,” he goaded scathingly, “how is married life after being a bachelor for so very long? Is my dear aunt the perfect wife or does my good mother still claim that special place in your heart?”
Frederic responded impulsively. “Elizabeth’s goodness has never been reflected in you.”
“Ah, Father, if not my mother, then whom do I take after?”
“Good question,” Frederic volleyed. “Since the day you were born, you’ve brought nothing but pain and sorrow to this household.”
“Since the day I was born?” John retaliated softly, pensively, the query’s message brutally clear.
Frederic winced. Damn! Why did I say that? Damn! The wounds would never heal. Their only hope: stay out of each other’s way. Tonight’s stratagem would see it to that end. It is for the best, he resolved.
Charmaine toyed with her food, wishing only to leave the table. This dinner was all too reminiscent of those she’d partaken of as a girl. Why would a father say such a thing to his son? And why did John deliberately provoke the man?
The minutes ticked by, and the meal labored on. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw John return his knife and fork to his plate. He sat for a moment with head bowed, and then, abruptly, pushed back from the table. He would not be staying for dessert, and in premature relief, Charmaine sighed. They would give him his gift later, at a safer time.
Yvette was not of the same mind and called out as he stood. “Johnny, wait!” She jumped up and hastened around the table, offering him the wrapped package. “Happy Birthday.”
Dumbfounded, John made no move to take the gift, so she placed it before him, waiting patiently as he fingered the ribbon that held the wrapping in place.
“You’re the best brother in the whole world,” she declared adamantly, “and we love you!”
He swallowed hard and released the ties. The paper fell away, revealing a leather cap. He sat back down and leaned his forehead into his hand. “Thank you,” he choked out.
“Don’t you like it?” Pierre’s voice carried across the table.
John lifted his head and opened his mouth to speak, but Frederic’s command cut him off. “Pierre, come to me.”
The boy looked back and forth between the two men before choosing. His gaze rose above Frederic’s right shoulder. Smiling, he scrambled from his chair and climbed into the man’s lap, wrapping his arms around Frederic’s neck.
“I love you, son,” Frederic murmured heavily. The words were sincere, and though they were spoken to Pierre, Frederic’s eyes were on John, leaving Charmaine to wonder for whom they were meant.
“I love you, Papa,” the lad declared brightly.
Wood scraped against wood, and John’s chair crashed to the floor. He loomed over the table, palms planted on either side of his plate, face contorted and flushed, eye
s glassy with tears. “I hate you!” he cried out, the air rushing from his lungs as if he had sustained a violent blow. He grabbed the cap and fled the room.
Charmaine slowly faced Frederic. She found him stroking Pierre’s hair, a twisted smile marking his drawn face, though his eyes were dark with sorrow.
The nursery offered little refuge from the pathetic episode. Charmaine remained numb and, much like the children who sat lethargically in the playroom beyond, was unable to concentrate on any task. Her mind raced on, one thought dominating all the others: hatred, definitely hatred. It was an emotion she knew well, for hatred had been her close companion those tender years when she was growing up. But she’d always kept it inside: a silent, bitter devotion. Not so John.
And what of Frederic? His disdain was just as apparent, just as nauseating. Charmaine was revolted by the polar extremes she’d witnessed: the healthy accolades he’d bestowed upon Paul and the dark slander he’d hurled at John, all in front of his impressionable young daughters. It didn’t make sense. Why didn’t he just banish John from Charmantes? And why did John, for all his proclaimed hatred, remain? Didn’t she know? No, you don’t.
She jumped with a knock on the door, surprised to find John standing there. “I’d like to speak with you,” he said softly. “May I come in?”
She hesitated. He was the last person she had expected to see. “Of course.”
He stepped into the room. “I apologize for my behavior this evening. I didn’t intend—”
“You needn’t apologize to me,” she interrupted, uncomfortable with his strained words, relieved when Yvette appeared in the playroom doorway, smiling for the first time since dinner.
“Did you try on your cap?” she asked, walking over to him.
“Does it fit?”
“It’s perfect. In fact, that is the reason I’m here. I came to say thank you. Though it may have seemed I didn’t appreciate it, I do, and I shall wear it as proudly as I did the last one.”
“Really?
“Truly,” he replied, nodding to Jeannette and Pierre as they, too, entered the bedroom. “Actually, I like it better than the one I lost.”
