by DeVa Gantt
“Silence, woman!” Frederic thundered, before turning back to John. “Why—why are you doing this?” he beseeched, nonplussed.
“Because the price of your great fortune has been evil, misery, and tears,” John replied in disgust. “I’ve had my fair share of it, and I don’t want it anymore.”
Frederic gaped at him, reluctance and dismay branded on his face. Agatha beamed ecstatically. Anne leaned forward, savoring the unfolding story.
“I can accept your resignation,” Frederic said, “but I will not remove you from my will.”
“If you leave my name on it,” John sneered, “I swear, on the day you die, I will turn every parcel, every packet, every penny over to the Underground Railroad. Why not give it all to Paul? He deserves it far more than I do.”
Paul shifted uncomfortably, looking from Frederic to John. “John—” he started again, but his brother waved him off, his eyes fixed on Frederic.
“John is right, Frederic,” Agatha desperately chimed in. “You’d be wise to agree to this proposal immediately. It is the right thing to do. You have overlooked your worthy son for far too long.”
“Agatha! I said—”
“For once we agree, Auntie,” John concurred, cutting his father off. “What I don’t understand is why you’re such an advocate for my brother. He hates you as much as I do. One might think you were his mother.”
Paul’s eyes shot from Agatha’s injured face to his astonished father, a spark struck, a thought ignited.
“Frederic, you have no choice!” Agatha pursued irately. “Would you really see the family fortune tossed to the dogs? Why do you hesitate?”
“Silence, woman!” Frederic bellowed a third time. He studied John sadly. The chasm between them was growing wider.
John watched Frederic, confused by the genuine regret on his face. Why had the man spent the better part of a lifetime setting him aside, pushing him away, scorning him, even undermining him, if he really cared?
“You leave me no choice,” Frederic muttered, echoing a triumphant Agatha.
“Don’t worry, Father,” John offered sarcastically, “I do have one redeeming request of you.”
“What is it?”
“Guardianship of my sisters when you die. They are all that matter to me.”
Frederic’s eyes welled with tears, but he quickly hid them behind the hand he brought to his brow. Once composed, he nodded his assent.
“I’m sure Edward Richecourt will be here this week,” John continued. “Shall I make the arrangements for a meeting with him, or will you?”
“I will make the arrangements,” Frederic rasped, his plaintive eyes going to a stunned Paul. With a nod, John pushed out of his seat and left.
Frederic turned on Westphal. “Why wasn’t I given this information sooner?”
“I—I—” Westphal sputtered, red-faced. He didn’t want to betray Agatha because she had paid him well for the information.
“Stephen,” Paul jumped in, “we can finish up later—at your house.”
“Very good,” Westphal replied gratefully, hastily grabbing his portfolio and shoving the folder into it as he scurried from the room, Anne on his heels.
Frederic waited out their departure, his fury rising. “I warned you, Agatha,” he snarled, “yet you deliberately interfere with John and me time and again!”
Her chin jabbed up, but she did not speak.
Paul stepped between them. “Is what John said true, Father?” he asked, eyeing them both, reading their expressions as they glared at one another.
“Is what true?” Frederic asked, bewildered again.
“About Agatha.”
Frederic bowed his head, but Agatha smiled victoriously.
“You are my mother, aren’t you?” Paul demanded, incredulous, yet enlightened.
“Tell him, Frederic,” Agatha pressed. “Isn’t it time your grown son know the truth about us?”
Frederic looked at Paul’s harrowed face, a testimony to the total betrayal he now felt. “Paul, I need to explain. It’s a complicated story.”
“I’m sure it is,” Paul snorted, holding up a hand to hold him silent, “especially with all the lies you built around it. But I don’t want to hear it now! I have guests to greet and the reception tomorrow. I don’t want my plans for the week spoiled by this odious admission. I’ve worked too hard!”
John entered his room and threw his knapsack on the bed. He’d walked into an ambush! With his head pounding, he considered returning to town and boarding the first ship to Richmond, but he couldn’t disappoint his sisters, or Charmaine. He sat down and massaged his brow, breathing deeply to calm himself. The entire conversation came back to him now, and he wondered whether Westphal had taken his father by surprise. After all, Agatha had prompted Westphal’s diatribe. Yes, she hated him, but John hadn’t realized just how much until now. Though his taunting infuriated her, he doubted that alone motivated today’s tactics. There had to be another reason. But what?
When Anne London dined with her father later that evening, he forbade her to repeat a word of what she’d learned that afternoon, threatening to reveal her best-kept secrets if she dared to jeopardize his position on Charmantes.
Sunday, April 1, 1838, 4 a.m.
Paul could not sleep, yesterday’s incredible revelation magnifying in the darkness. He’d avoided his father for the remainder of the day and brushed aside two Caribbean farmers with whom he should have made time to speak. His mind was not on ships, steam propulsion or export commodities. The looming week was suddenly a heavy yoke, a burden to bear. He paced his bedchamber, grinding his left fist into the palm of his right hand, grappling with the truth he’d have to come to grips with and shake off, lest all his hard work go to waste. Agatha was his mother—the mother who was supposed to be dead. According to his father, she was dead! It wasn’t possible! But it was logical.
How had it happened? What had brought them together? Had Agatha offered Frederic succor after the death of his beloved Elizabeth? Was that it? But it couldn’t be. He was told he was older than John. Or was that another lie, too? Why did he even want to know?
You don’t want to know, he tried to convince himself, not yet anyway. Set it aside. Don’t let it distract you.
He needed air. With that thought, he left his rooms for the stable. He saddled up Alabaster and rode the stallion hard into town. Once there, he boarded the Bastion, the ship that had brought John to Charmantes. Standing on her empty decks, he cast his eyes beyond the thin peninsula, out to sea. A light rain was falling, and he breathed deeply of the salty air, letting the gentle drops wash away his turbulent thoughts. You will forget. Until the week’s end, you must forget!
Frederic lay abed, listlessly contemplating the ceiling. Paul knew … he finally knew. Frederic had dreaded this day, dreaded it with a passion. He had lied to Paul all those years ago. When the bright five-year-old found out he and John did not share the same mother, telling Paul his mother had died as well seemed the simplest, least painful, solution. It also protected Agatha. She was married and living a respectable life; it became important to keep the secret for her sake. Though Paul had never asked about her again, Frederic wondered if he longed to know more. Evidently, he did. Frederic recalled the torment in his son’s eyes, and he worried where his dishonesty would lead.
Then there was John. This afternoon’s fiasco had been another setback, not the step forward for which Frederic had hoped. Though he’d always allowed John free rein on all mainland business matters, he’d been embarrassed to learn about the family’s financial business through Westphal, so he’d lost his temper. Still, he’d endured far worse where John was concerned. The investments, though not traditional, were sound enough, reassuring Frederic the Duvoisin fortune was in capable hands. As for the abetting of runaway slaves, he had grave misgivings. Yet now, hours later, he knew John’s crusade had nothing to do with retaliation or revenge. It was a cause in which John believed.
Frederic sighed deeply.
Thanks to Agatha, both sons were angry with him. Somehow, he had to repair the damage. He would begin by speaking with John, alone. After that, he’d direct his attentions to Paul. For the first time, the son who had always honored him was more difficult to approach. He’d respect Paul’s wishes and wait until the week was over.
When John had first returned to Virginia last October, fitful sleep and fragmented dreams tormented him, despite long days of strenuous work. Nearly every night, he had nightmares that transported him to remote places where he roamed aimlessly along unfamiliar streets and spiritless strangers passed him. They were all ugly. He would turn a corner onto a crowded thoroughfare littered with refuse, carts, and animals. In the midst of the throng, he could see Pierre, lost. The boy’s face was streaked with dirt and tears, his clothes tattered and filthy, his eyes searching the faces around him. As John hastened to rescue him, the boy would move just beyond his reach until the pushing and shoving bodies swallowed him. Ultimately, his powerlessness would startle him awake.
By Christmas, the dreams were all but gone. Then, on the night of Michael’s visit to Freedom, the harrowing dream recurred, and it plagued him relentlessly over the days that followed. But unlike before, when he dismally attributed the nightmare to his guilty conscience, this time he felt it meant something more. Inexplicably, it pointed to Charmantes, telling him he had rushed back to Virginia too quickly—that he would never put the past behind him until, for some unfathomable reason, he returned home. Stranger still, he slept peacefully every night once he decided to return. That is, until tonight …
Succumbing to fatigue, bizarre images beset him. Colette was coming to him again, the first time since last October. She sent the breeze as her scout, clearing the way into this room of clandestine encounters. The drapes billowed with a gust of wind, coaxing the French doors open. John turned on his side, determined to ignore her, but the air was already imbued with her scent, and her shadow fell upon the threshold. He didn’t want her there, but she seemed to need him tonight. As she glided closer, he rose, transfixed by the blue eyes desperately beckoning him. As he lifted his hand to touch her, she grabbed it, pulling him across the room toward the French doors. But he planted his feet firmly and wrenched free. When she grabbed at his hand again, he cried out as if burned, and awoke.
He stared, unseeing, at the shadowed ceiling. Had he screamed? He threw a forearm over his eyes, feeling the sweat on his brow. The bedclothes were damp from perspiration. He sat up, his head spinning and stomach nauseous. Inhaling deeply, he rose and went to the bowl and pitcher on the nightstand. He splashed water in his face and on his chest and braced his hands on the edges of the table to steady the lurching room.
Charmaine could not sleep, and in the early hours of dawn, she abandoned her futile sheep counting and Hail Marys. Pulling on her robe, she left her bedchamber and went downstairs. Perhaps a book from the study and a warm glass of milk would do the trick.
The house was deathly quiet, but to her surprise, she found John seated at the desk in the study, his eyes closed and head tilted back against the leather cushions. The lamp was burning low.
“John?” she whispered. “John?” she called again, touching his arm lightly when he did not respond.
Startled, his eyes flew open. “Thank you, Miss Ryan,” he muttered, “the first bit of sleep I’ve had all night, and you’ve come to spoil it.”
“I’m sorry,” she sputtered, stung.
He leaned forward and propped a throbbing head in his hand, closing his eyes once again. In the awkward silence, she turned to leave, but his voice stopped her. “Why are you up and about at this hour?”
“I couldn’t sleep, either,” she replied, facing him. “My mind kept turning, and I couldn’t stop it. Hasn’t that ever happened to you?”
He was smiling now. “Far too often I’m afraid, my Charm.”
She relaxed with his use of her pet name.
“Why couldn’t you sleep?” he asked.
“I’m nervous about the coming week and the social graces needed to see it through.”
“You’ll be fine,” he reassured. “Are you attending the ball on Saturday?”
“Oh yes!” she exclaimed eagerly, her eyes lighting up. “Maddy Thompson has sewn the most exquisite gown! The fittings have taken hours and I’ve had to stand stock-still the entire time.”
His smile grew in proportion to her enthusiasm, his chin propped on a fist, his eyes sparkling. “Will you accompany the twins, or do you have an escort?”
She hesitated. Is he offering to take me? Why am I reluctant to tell him? “Paul has asked me,” she said, battling a pang of disappointment.
His eyes betrayed no reaction. “I must admit I’m surprised. I thought the fair Lady London would be his consort. She was glued to his side yesterday.”
“But he has invited me,” Charmaine replied defensively.
“You must be pleased.”
“I am. We’ve gotten to know each other better over the past months.”
John frowned slightly.
“Is there something wrong with that?” she probed.
“Nothing at all. Has he made any plans with you beyond this week?”
She knew what he was implying and did not answer.
“You realize, of course,” he expounded, “that after this celebration is over, Paul will be living on Espoir. You will see much less of him.”
The observation hit her head-on. She hadn’t thought of it before, but it was true. “The future will take care of itself,” she said. “I will have to wait and see.”
“You’ve done a lot of ‘waiting and seeing’ with my brother.”
When she appeared indignant, he harassed her further. “Do you
still harbor hopes for him?”
“Should I not?” she asked directly. “What is your advice?”
John grew quiet, and she could tell he debated what to say. “I don’t think my brother is ready to make a commitment to any woman,” he replied. “He has yet to understand himself, and he won’t be ready to marry until he does.”
“What do you mean by that?” she asked, baffled by his last remark.
“It doesn’t matter,” he said. “To state it more simply, he has had plenty of time with you and hasn’t proposed marriage yet. His romantic overtures could turn out to be a seduction and nothing more. That is my honest assessment of the matter, but you have heard it before.”
“Your opinion could be wrong.”
“It could be,” he conceded, thinking his advice had once again fallen on deaf ears. The room fell silent. “So how long are you willing to ‘wait and see,’ Charmaine, before you grow tired of it?” he asked pointedly.
“He is not my only prospect,” she objected, realizing how foolish she appeared.
“He’s not?” John teased. “Who else has arrived on the scene? Have you been kissing someone behind my brother’s back?”
“He’s not the only man I’ve ever kissed!” she insisted heatedly, blushing when his brow rose in merriment, the discourse reminiscent of their early days.
“Now we have the confessions,” he pursued devilishly. “Who else have you kissed, my Charm? You can tell me. Wade Remmen, perhaps?”
“I’ve kissed you!” she gushed, annoyed he’d forgotten the two occasions he’d taken her in his arms. Belatedly, she realized she’d put her foot squarely into her mouth.
He leaned back and chuckled. “Ah, but that doesn’t count … Or does it?”
“Of course it does!” she expostulated. “I mean, no—it doesn’t!”
His sagacious grin widened. “Then why did you mention it?” he asked.
But as her mouth flew open again, he waved off her retort and rushed on. “I think we had better drop this conversation, because you are growing annoyed with me, and I’d hate for the week to be spoiled so early on.”
“What about you?” she rejoined, her chin lifted in miffed vexation.
“What about me?”
“Will yo
u be escorting a lady to the ball?”
“I have no plans yet. Who knows? Perhaps they’ll change.”
She wondered what he meant, but didn’t ask. She grew serious. “Will you be staying on after the ball?”
“I’ll be returning to Virginia.”
“Right away?”
“I might stay a few days longer—for the twins, but not many.” He rose from the desk. “I’m going to retire. I’d like to get some sleep before everyone begins to stir. Goodnight, Charmaine.”
After he’d left, she stood in the center of the study for a long time. She abandoned the idea of a book and sought her own room, determined to get dressed. She wouldn’t be able to sleep now.
Three days’ sailing and the unpleasant confrontation with his father caught up with John, and he fell into a deep sleep. He rose after lunch and found nearly everyone had left the house to attend the kick-off festivities in town. He was pleased; he needed the afternoon to himself. Memories of Pierre were strong, so after he ate, he saddled up Phantom and rode to the family cemetery to contemplate, pay his respects, and come to terms with the past. He meandered around the island for the rest of the day, visiting old haunts and letting go.
Right now, the night air was balmy, and the leaves rustled, riding the easterly breeze. Crickets chattered in the grass, and the moonlight cast long shadows on the lawns. Voices from the drawing room carried on the gentle wind. Since George and Mercedes had gone off for a walk, and Charmaine had disappeared with the twins, John shunned Agatha and Anne, his father, and Paul, for the peaceful haven of the portico.
Charmaine was headed for the drawing room when she heard Anne London’s pretentious laugh. She walked straight to the main doors instead; she’d enjoy the refreshing breeze before she retired.
She was surprised to find John sitting on the top step of the portico, his elbows propped on his knees, his fingers entwined between them. He turned to see who was coming out of the house.
