by DeVa Gantt
“Why did you tell Father you hate him?” she abruptly asked.
John’s eyes dropped to the floor. “It’s a long story. It took twenty-nine years to live, and it would take almost as much time to explain.”
“Well, if you hate him, then so do I!”
“No, Yvette!” he objected, falling on one knee before her. He took hold of her shoulders and looked her straight in the eye. “You mustn’t hate somebody just because someone else does. Hatred is a terrible thing. It destroys lives.”
“Then why do you hate him?”
“I shouldn’t have said what I said tonight. I said it because I was angry, but I shouldn’t have said it.”
“Why were you angry?”
“You are too young to understand,” he tried to reason. “But Father loves you, and it would hurt him to hear you say you hate him.”
“Didn’t you hurt him?”
“I don’t know. But you wouldn’t want to hurt him, would you?”
He patted her head when she said “no,” then stood and whispered a few last words to Charmaine. “I thank you also, Miss Ryan.”
“For what?”
“For attempting to make my birthday a special occasion.”
Saturday, September 30, 1837
The house was painfully quiet for a Saturday afternoon. It seemed everyone had taken heed of the past night’s persecution and had either fled the house or tucked themselves in some remote quarter. Paul was gone at the crack of dawn. The mistress, usually a late riser, followed shortly afterward, leaving by carriage at the unheard hour of seven. And finally, Rose and George departed for town, taking the twins with them. Charmaine had decided to remain behind with Pierre. Now, hours later, she wondered why she hadn’t joined them, for the desolate manor feasted upon her melancholy heart. Even Pierre’s innocent smile could not lift her downtrodden spirit.
He must have comprehended her somber state, for he gave her a hug and jumped from her lap, dismissing the alphabet book they had been reciting. Presently, he was playing with his blocks, constructing a simple structure.
Charmaine’s eyes left him and traveled across the room, settling on the large painting that hung above the fireplace. Funny, of all the times she’d sat in this elegant parlor, she never once studied the portrait. Now she did, with startling clarity: a man and two boys, that’s all it had been before. Today it was Frederic, embracing his adopted son, Paul, while his legitimate son, John, stood off to one side, dejected and alone. Her mind wandered far afield, and George’s words rang in her ears: They vied for their father’s approval, but that approval always weighed in on Paul’s side…Frederic was downright mean to John. So, imagine how John felt when he watched his father’s adopted son claim that man’s love, while he, the legitimate son, came up empty-handed… Her dismal mood plummeted further. Was the portrait displayed just to smite John?
Pierre’s tower clattered to the floor. Charmaine watched as he clambered under chairs to retrieve the scattered blocks, building it once again. As it grew taller, it inevitably swayed and crumbled. But the three-year-old was not defeated, and she watched with wonder as the edifice was erected a third and fourth time.
Could John’s life be so easily reassembled? Charmaine frowned, greatly disturbed with the comparison. Why had she thought of him in those terms? Why had she thought of him at all? More important, when had she not been thinking of him? She was uncomfortable with the realization he had been foremost in her mind for two full days.
Of all the people who had run away this morning, only he and Frederic remained behind. How were they faring? She shuddered again with the memory of the fierce hatred she had witnessed and the conclusions she’d drawn. What if the children became pawns in their despicable game of animosity? Dear God, she’d be in the middle of it. How was she to handle it? There were no answers, but if she were to know any peace today, she had to cleanse her mind of such questions and move forward. With that resolution, she stood.
“Pierre?” she called, setting the primer aside on the table. He looked up. “I have to go upstairs for just a minute.”
“Why?”
“I want to write a letter to my friends in Virginia, but I need some paper to do that and it’s up in my room. Can I leave you here all by yourself?”
“Uh-huh,” he nodded.
“And you’ll play nicely with your blocks? You won’t wander off?”
“No, Mainie. I’ll stay wight here and wait for you.”
She winked at him, her heart brimming with love. “I’ll be right back.”
He attempted to return the gesture, but both eyes blinked at the same time. He tried again, succeeding only when he held one eyelid open with his fingers.
Charmaine laughed heartily.
John leaned his shoulder into the doorframe that connected the study to the drawing room. He had been drawn away from the desk where he’d been reading by the sound of happy laughter, and now he considered the small boy who was singing softly to himself while crawling about on hands and knees, gathering his blocks. A quick scan of the room confirmed they were alone, and he savored the moment that permitted him to watch Pierre inconspicuously. This time belonged to him. He stepped forward. “Good morning!”
Pierre immediately turned around. “Whatcha doin’ here?”
“I was about to ask you the same thing.”
Pierre pointed to his blocks. “I’m buildin’ a house.”
“A house, is it? And when you’re finished, who’s going to live in it?”
“Me and Mainie and Jeannie and Yvie and…you!”
“I’d like that,” John said, and looking about the room again, he asked, “Where is Mainie, anyway? I thought I heard her laughing.”
“She was. But now she went upstairs. She tol’ me to wait wight here and she’ll be wight back. Then she’s gonna make me do the albabet again.”
“The albabet, eh?”
“Al-fa-bet!” Pierre corrected, annoyed with John’s mispronunciation.
John’s eyes twinkled. “So you can say it properly.”
“Yep! Do ya wanna hear it? I can say it real good now and I don’ even make no more mistakes.”
John listened, nodding his approval when the boy had finished.
Pierre pushed up from the floor and walked over to him. “Do ya know what letter I like the bestest?” he asked.
“No, what letter is that?”
“M.”
“M?” John queried. “Why M?”
“’Cause the two peoples that I love bestest in the whole world start with that letter. Jeannie tol’ me so.”
John was bewildered. “Really? And who are they?”
“Mainie and Mama, silly.”
“Of course.”
Pierre grew serious. “Do you know my Mama? She’s very boo-ti-ful.”
“So I’ve heard,” the man mumbled.
Pierre tugged on his hand. “I’ll show you her.”
John’s face went white; he followed the boy nonetheless.
Their pilgrimage ended at the landing of the north and south wing staircase, there where the portrait of Colette Duvoisin hung—reserved beauty, breathtaking in her unadorned loveliness. Cast in shades of blue, she could have been the Blessed Mother; her eyes radiated compassion born from her own burden of pain.
“Lif’ me up!” Pierre demanded, yanking the harder on John’s shirt when he didn’t respond. “Lif’ me up higher!”
John complied and stepped closer to the huge painting. They were directly beneath it now and had to crane their necks to look at the lifelike image.
“That’s my Mama,” Pierre whispered as if he might awaken her. “Isn’t she boo-ti-ful?”
“Yes,” John whispered in kind. “She’s very beautiful.”
Following the man’s example, Pierre stretched out a tentative finger and caressed the ivory hands folded on the woman’s lap. At the contact, his brow creased in displeasure. The texture of the canvas destroyed the artist’s illusion, for it mocked the sp
lashes of color that had so vividly captured the essence of his mother. “She’s not alive no more,” he said, his candid regard on John now.
“No,” John muttered, the words catching in his throat, “she’s no longer alive.”
Pierre tilted his head to one side, studying John’s glassy eyes. “Why are you cryin’?”
“I suppose I…miss her,” John answered softly.
“Do you love her?”
“Yes.”
“How much?”
“As much as you.” John gulped down his pain, grasped the boy tightly to him, and buried his lips in his soft hair, taking succor from the embrace.
By the time Charmaine reached the landing, his emotions were in check.
“Good morning, Miss Ryan,” he greeted. “Pierre and I were just keeping each other company.”
She was pleased to see a smile on his lips, if not in his eyes. “I’m sorry I left him unattended. I only went upstairs to—”
“No need to apologize. We were enjoying our chat, weren’t we, Pierre?”
The boy nodded, but was ready to return to his blocks. John set him on his feet and watched him race back to the parlor. He faced Charmaine, waiting for her to reach the landing. Together, they rejoined Pierre, who had resumed his construction of houses and towers. John took a chair close to him.
Charmaine set the stationery aside and sat opposite the man. He seemed intensely interested in the newest structure being erected until he looked up and their eyes locked. She spoke rashly. “Are you…well?”
He puzzled a moment. “If you are asking if I’ve recovered from last night’s ordeal,” he commented blandly, “I’ll survive. There are no visible scars.”
“Only concealed ones?”
Again a befuddled frown, and then, a twisted smile. “Why, Miss Ryan, could it be you are coming to understand me?”
“No,” she replied, shaking her head. “I’ll never pride myself of that.”
“Ah,” he breathed, “but you are trying.”
“I didn’t mean to pry,” she apologized, uncomfortable with the sardonic smile that now danced in his eyes.
“I don’t believe you did. In any case, I don’t fault your curiosity.” He leaned back in his chair, lending his full attention. “We’ve spent the better part of two months together, and you’ve seen most sides of me, many of them ugly. I think it only natural to contemplate my motives.”
He paused for a moment, and Charmaine wondered if he were waiting for her to comment. When she didn’t, he pressed on, arms folded across his chest. “I’d very much like to hear your assessment—your honest assessment of me.”
She was flabbergasted. Is he serious? “I’m afraid I couldn’t!”
“Why not?”
“Because—because—I just couldn’t.”
“I guarantee you’ve seen the worst of my temper, if that is your concern. And remember, you did survive.” He chuckled. “Come now, I know you’ve waited for this moment—the moment of truth, so to speak—when you could tell me exactly what you think of me, and force me to listen.”
“You are wrong!”
“Am I?” he asked dubiously, her flushed face at odds with her assertion. “Well, no matter. I’d still like to hear your evaluation. What if I promised to remain passive and keep a level head? Better yet,” he added on an afterthought, “if you pledge honesty, we’ll shake on it, and I shall be honest with you. I’m certain there is some family secret you would like to inquire about, something concerning Paul, perhaps? If I can, I will answer any question you place to me.”
Charmaine’s eyes widened. He had whetted her appetite and knew it.
“Is it a bargain?”
Suddenly, he was towering over her, and unsettled, she quickly came to her own feet. She was uncertain of his intentions until he extended his hand. Slowly, she placed her cool palm in his warm one, her eyes fixed upon the union. She met his gaze, losing herself in the caramel-colored eyes.
“It’s a pact, then,” he murmured, holding it a moment longer than necessary. “To truthfulness and honesty.”
“And you’ll answer my questions?”
“As soon as you reveal the real me,” he replied with a crooked smile.
She didn’t know where to begin…Then she did. Hadn’t conjecture mercilessly plagued her these past two days? “I think you are a man with a past,” she began cautiously, watching for the first sign of discontentment. “Something has either hurt you or left you disenchanted. Hence, you hide behind a shield of sharp gibes and joviality. Life has dealt you a heavy blow, and you intend to repay it in kind. It is easier to be cruel than to forgive, to laugh than to cry.”
“On the contrary, my Charm. Most times it is easier to cry than to laugh. Laughter is a hard-won, diligent effort. It must be refined day in and day out to bar despair and ruin. Only then can one subsist—”
“Did you love her?” she whispered, too late regretting her blunder. Already his eyes had hardened. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked—”
“Don’t apologize,” he snapped. “I shook on our pact.” He chuckled hollowly. “That particular question, however, is becoming quite tiresome. Pierre asked the very same one not ten minutes ago.”
“And your answer?”
“What do you think I said to a boy inquiring about his deceased mother?” he replied caustically. “Of course I loved her. She was, after all, my ‘stepmother.’”
He closed the conversation as swiftly as he turned his back on her. So much for honesty. But even in the lie, she glimpsed the truth.
Paul bathed quickly; Stephen Westphal was due within the hour. Much as he’d have liked to postpone the meeting, the banker had flagged him down in town, maintaining his proposal could wait no longer. It was time to bring Espoir’s construction phase to a close and her commercial phase to a beginning. With the first ship arriving any day now, Paul needed to cement ocean routes, buyers, and sellers. To that end, Westphal had worked tirelessly for him, his Stateside business connections invaluable, thus the reason for this evening’s meeting.
Paul entered the drawing room. It might as well have been deserted, for John stood solemnly at the far end, studying something through the French doors, while the banker fiddled with the starched collar that pinched his reddened neck. “Good evening, Stephen,” he greeted.
The man’s regard bespoke undying gratitude, as if he’d just been raised from the depths of hell. “Paul,” he returned, jumping to his feet, arm extended for a hearty handshake, “I didn’t realize how early I was.”
Paul moved to the liquor cabinet. “I apologize for keeping you waiting. I was delayed at the cane fields. We’re still cleaning up after Thursday’s storm.”
“Of course, of course,” Stephen nodded.
“May I pour you a brandy?” Paul inquired over his shoulder, his eyes going fleetingly to his brother, who already held a glass.
“That would be wonderful,” Stephen answered, “if it isn’t any trouble.”
Paul considered John again. “Couldn’t you offer our guest a drink, John?” he inquired sharply.
John turned. “It’s not mine to offer. Not yet, anyway.”
Paul’s eyes narrowed. Obviously, the two men had exchanged words; the question was, what had John said? Agatha’s assertions played heavily in Paul’s mind. John’s behavior toward Westphal could be a preview of what was yet to come, disaster right around the corner if potential investors and business partners were led to believe his brother was undermining him.
Agatha entered the room and showered the banker with exaggerated salutations. “Stephen, it’s been too long! How nice to have you as our guest!”
“Agatha, I assure you, the pleasure is all mine.”
John winced, muttering, “He’s easy to please.”
Paul fought the mounting tension. Much as he’d like to tell John to run off and play with the children, a vulgar retort came to mind, and he knew his brother was not above voicing it.
“Will Freder
ic be joining us?” Stephen asked.
“I’m afraid not,” Agatha stated. “He asked me to extend his apologies.”
“I’m sorry he cannot be with us.” The banker’s eyes shifted to John. “Your nephew mentioned a family gathering the other night. Might I presume Frederic’s health has taken a turn for the better?”
“In fact, it has,” Paul interjected charily. “This Christmastide conference was his idea. He’s assisted in every aspect of its preparation, his advice and know-how as invaluable as the funds he’s supplied. None of us would be where we are today if it weren’t for him, now would we?”
“I’ll drink to that,” John mordantly agreed, raising his brandy glass.
Paul cast him a murderous glare before suggesting they sit down. “Dinner will not be ready until seven, so we have a bit of time to get started.”
Agatha settled into an armchair, but Stephen moved to the desk, unfastened the straps of a leather portfolio, and withdrew some papers. “First, the invitation list,” he said, handing it over to Paul. “Those are the men you should invite: farmers, investors, and brokers. The farmers will provide the cargo, and of course, the investors will be critical as the business expands, but it will be the brokers who bid on your cargo space. If you’re to commission additional ships as you’ve indicated, these men, especially the wealthier farmers, could certainly provide the finances. That would, of course, be contingent upon your success. Most would be interested in a long-term return, say, over a five-year period.”
Paul looked over the names, his eyes gleaming with pleasure. If only half these men came in December and a mere quarter invested, the cornerstones of financial success would be laid, and he, Paul Duvoisin, the illegitimate son of the renowned tycoon, Frederic Duvoisin, would be on his way.
“I recommend Williamson, Brockton, Carroll, and Farley,” Westphal was saying. “They own some of the largest and most lucrative plantations in the South, and are always seeking alternate carriers. Every year their harvests increase, so I suggest you approach them directly. They usually deal with Hiram Gimble. His brokerage is well known, his success due to his bidding clout. If these farmers gain a vested interest in your shipping line, then I’m certain it would affect how they negotiate with Mr. Gimble, bringing their influence to bear, so to speak.”
