Decision and Destiny

by DeVa Gantt

  Frederic said nothing, and Paul stood bewildered when his father turned and limped down the pier. The man had shown great interest over the past five days, his enthusiasm ever expanding, and now this. Clearly, he was exhausted.

  After Agatha and the servants were settled inside the landau, Frederic declined the seat saved him. “You go ahead. The carriage is far too crowded. I’ll await its return at Dulcie’s.”

  “Dulcie’s?” Agatha objected. “That place is nothing more than a—”

  “Agatha, I’m acquainted with the establishments that operate on Charmantes. Paul and I will wait at Dulcie’s.”

  The vehicle pulled away, and Frederic faced his blatantly confused son. “Don’t tell me you’re concerned about the trouble I could get into there?”

  Paul laughed. “No, sir. But the past five days were long and strenuous. You must be tired and—”

  “Before all that, I’m the master of this island,” his sire interrupted. “I’d like to find out what has happened while we were away. What better way than to visit the tavern where the gossip is high and everything known?”

  Bawdy music spilled into the street just outside Dulcie’s, a syncopated rhythm livened by the boisterous laughter of men and women alike: the shout of a longshoreman, the squeal of a doxy, the snap of the spinning wheels, which drew huddles at the gaming tables.

  George Richards strode into the raucous common room looking forward to a stiff drink. The week’s work had been grueling: first the sugarcane harvest, then the loading of the Raven. The vessel hadn’t embarked until late that afternoon, and then he’d helped secure the new ship that pulled into port just behind her. After that, he’d traveled to the mill, relieved to find it running smoothly. Still, George would be glad when Paul returned. Managing Charmantes was too much for one man, and though John was there, he had been no help whatsoever, informing George at the onset of the week his father’s work was Paul’s work, not his. Therefore, everything had fallen into George’s lap, and tonight, he was bone-weary and spent.

  He sat at the bar and swiveled around on his stool. He watched as one surly sailor coaxed a barmaid into his embrace, only to find her less than willing when he didn’t hand over the coin he jangled. Though the man’s grip tightened, the buxom wench pushed hard on his chest, sending his chair tumbling to the floor. She rubbed her hands together and turned a proud nose upon his compatriots. “You don’t pay, you don’t get no service.” She sauntered toward another, more promising table, a mound of cold cash just now doubled at its center. George smiled as the strumpet leaned heavily into the shoulder of the man dealing the next hand. He shooed her aside with a slash of his arm, a sure sign he was losing. Indifferent, she moved around the table. George’s eyes followed as he raised a frothing tankard of ale to his lips. He took a long draw off the top, but spewed it down his shirtfront, choking.

  There, sitting in the circle of the gaming table, her back to the door and five cards clasped firmly to her chest, was Yvette Duvoisin, disguised as a guttersnipe, her meek sister, similarly garbed, standing directly behind her and sorely out of place.

  He jumped to his feet and was at the table in the bat of an eye. “What in blazes are you doing here, Yvette?” he roared.

  Alarmed for only a moment, she quickly recovered and raised her chin in defiance. “Playing poker. Five-card draw, to be precise. Isn’t that what you call it?” and she turned back to the men for affirmation.

  They nodded with a grumble, awaiting her bid.

  “I’ll raise it ten,” she announced, fingering a stack of coins before pushing it into the pot.

  George grabbed her by the arm and yanked her to her feet. “The game is over! Throw in your hand, we’re going home!”

  “No, I won’t!” she protested, wrenching free. “I’m not leaving until the pot is broken. I have over ten dollars in there!”

  But for all her recalcitrant bravado, she stumbled backward, cards still clasped to her chest, her resistance wavering under George’s uncommon fury.

  “Wait a minute, bud,” one of the gamblers objected, anticipating the outcome of the showdown, “no need to rush the little lady. She ain’t your kin is she?”

  “He’s only a friend,” Yvette swiftly answered. “He can’t order me around.”

  “Well, then,” another bolstered. “Why don’t you leave our little missy alone? She’s doin’ a fine job takin’ care of her herself. Won a hefty sum of our money, she has, and we’d appreciate the chance to win it back.”

  George turned on the men in disbelief. Evidently, they were new to Charmantes, off the maiden ship that had docked that afternoon and ignorant of Yvette’s identity. Her ragamuffin apparel didn’t help. Still, she was a mere child. “Have the lot of you gone mad?” he exclaimed. “She’s a nine-year-old girl—”

  “Hold it right there, fella!” the dealer warned. “She came in here with a hefty purse and demanded we let her play. Anyone can game if he has the money to lose, them’s the rules of any reputable gamblin’ house. At first, we thought we’d humor her. But she’s won a few hands, and now it’s become serious. So why don’t you leave us be?”

  “You can go to—”

  “George!” Yvette cut in. “One more hand—just let me play one more hand, then Jeannette and I will go home. I promise.”

  George eyed her suspiciously, still simmering. But reason cautioned him a level head. Her consorts were less than friendly, especially in the face of their losses, and the last thing he needed was an out-and-out brawl. He was, however, going to wring John’s neck. When the man had ridden over to the bondsmen’s keep and bragged about his weeklong escapades, George had been dismayed and warned him his visit to Dulcie’s would come back to haunt him. John had only mocked him for sounding like Charmaine. But of course, the instigator of this unfolding calamity was at home, while he, George, his so-called friend, was dealing with the consequences. And where in God’s name was Dulcie? Did no one know who the twins were?

  “One hand—that’s all you’re getting—one hand!” he relented. Whirling on his heel, he strode back to the bar and the drink he desperately needed. It would be a miracle if he escorted her home without a scandal. “Whisky—straight,” he ordered after downing the ale in one gulp, “and make it a double.”

  Again he pivoted on the stool and observed the ludicrous scene. Jeannette was bending to her sister’s ear, probably whispering some urgent plea they leave the saloon. Yvette, in turn, shook her head once and proceeded to fold two cards from her initial hand of five. Three of a kind, George surmised as he watched her draw two more from the dealer.

  A gush of cool night air, refreshing in the malodorous, smoke-filled tavern, heralded the arrival of newcomers. Snared by the hush that fell over the large room, George turned an eye to the entryway. There, on the threshold of Dulcie’s saloon, stood her benefactor, Frederic Duvoisin.

  Panic-stricken, George reached the door in three enormous strides. Frederic and Paul lingered there, surveying the establishment and its occupants, who slowly turned back to their vices. “Frederic—ah hum—Paul,” he coughed, thanking heaven itself when they gave him their undivided attention. “I didn’t expect you back so soon.”

  “Didn’t you?” Paul queried with a frown. “I said the end of the week.”

  “So you did, so you did,” George laughed falsely, taking hold of Paul’s elbow and firmly pulling him round. “I suppose I’ve just been so busy I didn’t realize what day of the week it was. Friday night already, my, my!”

  “George, is something wrong?” Paul interrupted, looking down at his arm.

  “Wrong? No, nothing’s wrong,” he replied with another hollow chuckle. “Why would you think that?”

  “You seem harried, and you’re pulling on my arm.”

  “So I am,” he responded, releasing the limb as if burned. He mustn’t be conspicuous. “Actually,” he said, inspired, “there was a bit of a problem while you and your father were away. But I need a breath of fresh air. It’s so hot
in here. Why don’t we go outside?”

  Frederic observed George with a mixture of satisfaction and regret. “If you have something to tell us, George, I prefer to hear it now, where I stand.”

  “Sir?” George gulped, by all signs a man with something to hide.

  Suddenly, a piercing screech rent the air. George cringed and cursed under his breath. “You’ve cheated!” Yvette cried, jumping to her feet and throwing a branding finger at the dealer. “You drew the third ace from your sleeve!”

  “Prove it!” the man retorted with a wicked chuckle.

  “There!” she spat, tossing the same card on the table. “I was holding the ace of spades in the hopes of drawing a higher pair!”

  The sailors shot to their feet, chairs clattering to the floor. Yvette was certain they were going to devour her, but one look at their faces and the cards they’d cast aside, and she realized she held the winning hand. She’d uncovered the dealer’s underhandedness, and now, with George beside her, she could claim her winnings and go home, just as soon as the snake who had raked in the pot pushed it back in her direction. “All of those coins are mine!” she proclaimed flippantly. “And those, too! Tell them, George!”

  From nowhere, a black cane struck the table, jolting it like the crack of a whip against the flank of a horse, leveling stacks of gold and silver coins and sending them tinkling to the floor. Others rolled in indecisive circles before toppling to rest. Her mind a blur for only an instant, Yvette recognized the familiar staff, stole a sidelong glance at the broad hand that clutched it, thick veins protruding against taut skin. Murmurs went up around her: “Frederic Duvoisin.”

  Ever so slowly, she faced her father and fought the urge to cower, looking up into his livid features, braving the clenched jaw—there, where a muscle twitched fiercely—the turbulent eyes, and the sharply creased brow. Worse still was his rabid silence, and she dreaded his leashed wrath. Never before had she seen this side of his ferocious temper. Now, here she was, the object of it.

  “Sir?” she gulped with colossal courage.

  “What are you doing here, daughter—and in those clothes?”

  The query was menacingly soft, yet devastating. Out of the corner of her eye, she took in the ashen complexions of her fellow gamblers.

  “Mr. Duvoisin,” one man dared to interrupt, “we thought she was a street waif. We had no idea she was your—”

  “Silence!” Frederic thundered, striking the table again. “You indulge in gaming with a child—a girl, no less—and then you attempt to extricate yourself by pleading ignorance? By God, man, you tread upon perilous ground! And you, young lady!” he growled, sweeping the table clear of its booty and leveling his gaze once again on his wayward daughter. “You will wait for me outside!”

  Yvette bobbed her head, then dashed around him and through the doors.

  As if seeing Jeannette for the first time, Frederic’s visage softened. “Go,” he indicated with a jerk of his head. She nodded woefully, then departed the tavern exceedingly slower than her sister, her head bowed in contrition rather than fear.

  Yvette was halfway down the street when her sister called after her, but she didn’t stop running until she reached the livery. “Yvette!” Jeannette scolded once she’d caught up. “Father said to wait for him outside Dulcie’s!”

  “I know what he said,” Yvette heaved, rubbing the pain in her side, turning to the bleary-eyed man who stepped out of the building. “Martin, I want my pony now,” she ordered, “and my sister’s as well.”

  Grumbling, the farrier disappeared into the livery.

  “If you know,” Jeannette rejoined, “then why didn’t you do as he said? You’re only going to make matters worse this way!”

  “Worse? Jeannette, how could it be any worse? I probably won’t be alive tomorrow morning. But I’m not going to die without a fight!”

  “How, by running away?”

  “Yes! Don’t you see? Down there—” and she pointed to the vacant street just outside the saloon “—I’d be murdered on the spot! But at home, I can hide behind Johnny or Charmaine!”

  “Yvette, you can’t! You know how terrible things are between Father and Johnny, and if you get Mademoiselle Charmaine involved, Father might dismiss her! Please—”

  “And what about me?” Yvette demanded. “I’m your sister! Don’t I count? Do you want to see me killed? How would you feel then?”

  “Yvette, I don’t think Father is going to—”

  “Oh dear, oh dear!” Yvette fretted, ignoring her sister altogether as she began to wring her hands. “Where is that man? If he doesn’t come back soon, I’ll be done for before I even have a chance to run away!”

  Endeared to be home, Agatha issued a spate of orders from the foyer, then watched as each servant hastened to follow her directives. Her satisfaction was short-lived, however. John, paper in hand, stood in the study archway.

  “Well,” he said with a tight smile, his shoulder propped against the doorframe, “you’re back.”

  “Yes,” she said proudly, “in my home.”

  “Tell me, Auntie, has my father accompanied you tonight, or did he have his fill of you this week and decide to remain on Espoir instead?”

  “It’s not like that between your father and me,” she refuted with dignity. “He loves me. And yes, he has returned, by my side.”

  “Really? Oh well, I knew heaven couldn’t last forever, but I was hoping to avoid hell. Where is he, anyway?”

  “I have no intention of playing your little game,” she replied haughtily. “The week we spent on Paul’s island was too marvelous, and not even you can spoil its lasting pleasure. Goodnight.”

  She’d just reached the landing when shrieks echoed from the front lawns, followed by thundering footsteps on the portico. The oak door was attacked, and Yvette stormed into the house as if demons chased her, Jeannette right on her heels. “Johnny! Charmaine!” she cried. “Help! Please help me!” She spotted John and threw herself into his outstretched arms, sobbing mercilessly, “Oh no! He’s right behind me!”

  “What the devil’s going on?” John demanded, attempting to peel her free.

  But she offered no explanation, clinging to him fiercely, her face buried in his shirtfront, moaning the incantation: “Oh, Johnny!” over and over again.

  ˜This is not a farce, he finally realized. Dismayed now, he looked to Jeannette for an answer. “What’s happened? Why are you up and out of the house at this late hour? And why are you dressed like this? Where is Charmaine?”

  “Here!” she called from above, belting her robe as she hurried down the stairs. “The cries awoke me.” She took one look at the tattered twins and her worry increased. “What is going on?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to sort out,” he said in growing vexation. “Yvette?”

  Still the girl whined. “You must save me! He’s going to kill me, I know he is! At the very least, he’ll beat me, whip me!”

  “Who—who’s going to—?”

  Frederic stepped across the threshold, and all went silent. Yvette choked back her tears, sniffling pitifully. She sidled behind her protector, her beseeching eyes lifting to Paul and George, who had drawn up alongside her father.

  “I told you to wait for me outside Dulcie’s,” Frederic growled.

  “Dulcie’s?” John queried in compounded shock. “She was at Dulcie’s?”

  Frederic’s regard, which had been riveted on his delinquent daughter, shot to John, and his rage flared, spawning the words: “Why are you still here?”

  The inquiry took everyone by surprise, save John, who smiled belligerently.

  Checked, Frederic hurled his fury at an easier target: his trembling daughter. “You have much to answer for this night, young lady. Come here!”

  “No!” she retaliated. But when he took one scraping step toward her, she fled the safety of her brother, skirted past Jeannette and Agatha, and raced up the staircase, hiding behind Charmaine.

  “Don’t let him to
uch me!”

  “Miss Ryan, bring her down here!” Frederic demanded.

  John had had enough. “Take her back to her room, Charmaine.”

  “Miss Ryan, stay!” came the master’s command, his eyes trained on her and not the son who was attempting to usurp his authority. “I hold you responsible. Bring Yvette to me—now!”

  “Charmaine—” this time Paul stepped forward “—do as John says and take Yvette to the nursery.”

  “Damn it!” Frederic bellowed. “This is my house! She will do as I say! Get out—all of you! This is between my daughter, her governess, and me!”

  “That’s right, Father, you crack your whip!” John fired back virulently. “But don’t expect me to cower before you!”

  The man wheeled around, his cane slicing up and over his shoulder. John didn’t move, his sardonic semblance piercing Frederic’s heart and staving his intent. Nauseated, he lowered the cane slowly. “Get out of my sight,” he croaked. “You pretend at being a man, but don’t have the backbone to claim what is yours.”

  The declaration wiped clean John’s inveigling smile, and his face paled as if he had suffered a debilitating blow. He bowed his head and exited the house, deserting them all. To Charmaine’s horror, Frederic turned on her.

  Mercifully, George stepped forward. “Sir, as I said in the carriage, this little calamity cannot be blamed on Miss Ryan. Certainly, she was asleep when—”

  “Mr. Richards,” Frederic cut in, “I have no intention of discussing this matter any further with you. I’ve yet to discern how you are involved; however, I do know you were at Dulcie’s while my daughter tried her hand at a game of cards, and, by every outward sign, meant to divert my attention from her. Now, don’t press your luck. Excuse yourself from this inquisition.”

  “Father—”

  “And the same goes for you!”

  “No!” Paul rejoined heatedly. “The same does not go for me! Now, I realize Yvette’s behavior was unruly, and she should be punished. But your anger exceeds the bounds of rational thinking when you turn on Miss Ryan and hold her responsible. She couldn’t have known about this. Or George and accuse him of conspiring with Yvette. Surely he was only trying to protect her!”