by DeVa Gantt
“Come, sit beside me.” As he leaned over to drag a chair nearer the desk, the cat leapt out of his lap. “Here is a pen and paper. Take notes on our discussion.”
He couldn’t be serious! She didn’t know whether to frown or laugh.
“Come now, Miss Ryan,” he pressed, “time is marching on.”
He was serious, but she was too stupefied to reply. As she settled into the chair and took up the pen, she began to simmer. He was showing off!
John introduced her to the stranger, one Carlton Blake. He was good-looking and tipped his head, smiling suavely at her. He was about the same age as John, and she surmised he already knew John from the States.
Edward Richecourt resumed the conversation, and Charmaine was transfixed with this talk of prices and exports, supply and demand, contracts and deals, and she found herself enjoying this eye into the Duvoisin’s world. She tried her best to take notes, but her pen struggled to keep pace with the issues that bounced back and forth, and changed on a dime. She wondered why John needed her there, noticing he’d taken up a quill as well.
As Carlton Blake turned the conversation to Midwest shipping via the Erie Canal, Charmaine became aware of John’s eyes upon her. She was wary of meeting his gaze, but the caramel orbs were warm now as he reached over nonchalantly, took her sheet of paper and looked over her notes, his chin poised upon thumb and forefinger. He tucked her paper under the one he’d been writing on and passed both sheets back to her. She looked down at his sloppy scrawl. How long do you think it will take Geffey to ask me if I’ve signed his papers yet? Her eyes flew from the paper to Geoffrey Elliot to John, whose face was expressionless as he listened to Mr. Blake. Charmaine read the next line. I think Mr. Blake is enamored of you, my Charm. Perhaps I won’t invest with him after all. She smiled and looked at John. His eyes were trained on her, as if daring her to laugh first. Feeling a tickle bubbling forth, she looked down at the paper again. Mr. Pitchfork has to relieve himself, but he’d rather sit there and hold it than ask to be excused. Charmaine stole a sidelong glance at the man, who was squirming in his chair. She giggled, gaining the stoic stares of all three men, the room suddenly silent, save her laughter echoing off the walls. Highly embarrassed, she dropped her gaze to the paper, dramatizing great interest in it.
“Miss Ryan,” John commented coolly, “is something amusing? Perhaps you’d like to share it with us?” He leaned cockily back in his chair.
“Only your handwriting,” she responded smugly, lifting the paper as if she fully intended to hand it to Carlton Blake. “Perhaps your guests would like to see it. I think they’d agree.”
“No,” John countered, snatching it away. His eyes sparkled with admiration. “That won’t be necessary. They’ve seen it before. May we proceed?”
“Certainly. Do excuse me.”
She retrieved her paper and pretended at note taking, realizing now she’d been duped, John’s stern demeanor bolstering the success of his prank. She looked at him again, but he’d turned his attention back to his associates. She eyed the paper in front of him, and noticed he’d written yet another line meant for her eyes only, the sheet tilted in her direction so she could read it. His last message held the promise of long-denied distraction: If I can finish my business with these gentlemen today, I will take you and the girls on a riding excursion tomorrow.
Thursday, April 5, 1838
When Jeannette spilled the beans at breakfast that they were going on a picnic, Geoffrey Elliot invited himself on the outing. Edward Richecourt followed suit with his wife, Helen. Anne insisted Paul had run himself ragged for the first half of the week and deserved a leisurely afternoon, then told Mercedes she’d require her services. And so it went, until the small party became a crowd.
They met at the paddock at eleven o’clock, where the grooms were readying the horses. When Gerald emerged from the stable with Champion, Geoffrey stepped up to take the stallion’s reins.
“I’m sorry,” George intervened, “but that is Mercedes’s mount today.”
“Mr. Richards,” Geoffrey objected, “do you think it advisable the young lady sit such a spirited animal? I am an experienced equestrian. Please, allow me to take charge of this one.”
“She’s an experienced rider, too,” George replied, as Mercedes swung up into the saddle, “she’ll be fine.”
Geoffrey suspended his protestations when Gerald tied Phantom to the fence. John noticed his avid interest. “You’d best forget that idea, too, Geffey. Fang bites.”
“Fang?” the lawyer queried. “Certainly, that’s a queer appellation.”
John snickered and glanced toward Yvette who was giggling softly. “Not so queer. I’ll explain—later. That is, if you’re fearless enough to look into Fang’s mouth. Right now, Bud has found you a suitable mount: a nice docile gelding.”
Geoffrey simmered, but didn’t say a word as Bud led the horse, one usually reserved for the carriages, over to him. Though insulted, he took the reins.
Charmaine had just mounted Dapple when a fierce whinny drew her around. There was the old gelding, frantically circling in place, saddle askew, and a terrified Geoffrey hanging off his side. The lawyer gripped the horse’s flank like a vise, one leg looped over the beast’s back, the other tangled in the stirrup that had slipped under its belly. The horse continued to trumpet furiously, bucking to shake loose its clumsy burden, hind legs shooting out like pistons and jolting Geoffrey about like a kernel of popcorn in a hot kettle.
Paul guffawed at the pathetic spectacle, wiping away tears of mirth with his forearm. The twins and George were laughing, too, but not John. He stared in disbelief, uncharacteristically silent.
The beast pivoted once more, and George had seen enough. Lunging forward, he grabbed the gelding’s bridle, and the animal quickly settled, its anger evident only by its flattened ears.
Geoffrey hung on still, looking up at George helplessly.
“Let go,” the latter ordered, but the red-faced solicitor just stared up at him from the horse’s side. “Let go of the saddle and reins!”
Reluctantly, Geoffrey obeyed, dropping to the ground like a sack of potatoes. He kicked his foot free of the stirrup and stood, patting the dust from his trousers.
“I thought you were an experienced equestrian,” George remarked dryly, pulling the saddle up and onto the gelding’s back. “Or was that one of your maneuvers?”
John laughed loudly. “Good one, George!” he commended.
“That is not humorous!” Geoffrey protested testily, his humiliation gone. “Anyone can suffer a mishap. I assure you, I know what I am doing!”
“Then why didn’t you tighten the girth strap?” George rejoined.
“That service should have been performed by the grooms.”
“And it was. But any ‘experienced’ equestrian knows to check it again.”
“Ah, leave him be, George,” John interrupted, his merriment settling into a crooked grin. “He’ll never admit he wanted to ride side-saddle.”
An hour later, they were enjoying a scrumptious lunch on Charmantes’ western beaches. Paul began complaining he was wasting the day away. “I should have used the time to take another group of guests on a tour of the island.”
“How many times do they have to see Espoir to know you’re well on your way to financial success?” John chided facetiously.
“Not Espoir. Charmantes. I should have shown them Charmantes.”
“You’re showing me,” Anne London piped up. “Don’t I count?”
Paul smiled blandly. “I was talking about the plantation,” he responded, realizing he hadn’t exploited his ten years’ experience here.
John chuckled. “Don’t show them the tobacco fields, or they will jump in the harbor and swim straight home! A tobacco farmer you’re not. Those fields should have lain fallow for a while.”
Paul only grunted.
When they finished eating, Yvette and Jeannette asked to go exploring. Only John and Charmaine seemed eager to j
oin them, so they parted company, heading north to some caves John had discovered as a boy.
“This is more like it,” he commented as they strolled down the beach. “That ‘picnic’ was about as bad as it could get. Then again, Auntie could have come along.”
Yvette’s brow gathered, as if she had just remembered something. “You know, Johnny, Auntie Agatha is up to something,” she said.
John’s curiosity was immediately piqued. “What do you mean, Yvette?”
“I’ve been keeping an eye on her.”
“Keeping an eye on her?” Charmaine asked suspiciously. Since Pierre’s death, the girl had abandoned her mischievous jaunts.
“Well … ” Yvette faltered, reticent with Charmaine present. “It’s only a suspicion. Sometimes Auntie acts very strange. That’s all I meant.”
They arrived at the caves, where the beaches turned craggy and cliffs jutted toward the sky. The tide was low, and John suggested they go inside. Charmaine decided to wait for them on the dry beach.
“So, Yvette,” John pursued once they’d left her behind, “tell me about Auntie’s strange behavior.”
“You have to promise not to tell Mademoiselle Charmaine.”
When he’d given his vow, she said, “Every Saturday at three o’clock, Auntie goes for a carriage ride. I thought it was strange because she always goes alone, without a driver. So one day, I pretended I was sick when Father took Jeannette into town. Then I followed her on Spook. She went to Father Benito’s cabin. I peeked in the window. She gave him a pouch. I think there was jewelry inside.”
John canted his head, eyeing her doubtfully. “What did she say to him?”
“The window was closed,” she replied with the click of her tongue, annoyed she didn’t have more information for him. “You believe me, don’t you?”
John didn’t know what to make of it. “Yvette, you’re not to follow Agatha anywhere, understand? If she catches you, you’ll be in trouble with Father.”
“Yes,” she brooded, disappointed with his reaction.
“Why do you call Mr. Richecourt, ‘Mr. Pitchfork’?” Charmaine asked John as they walked back to the blanket.
John grinned. “My Charm, you’re the first person who has asked me that.”
“Well?” she pursued.
His smiled grew wicked. “Late one evening, I stopped by Mr. Richecourt’s office and caught him in an unsavory act with a woman who was not his wife.”
“And?” Charmaine pressed, though her cheeks were stained a deep crimson.
“And … when his face turned redder than yours, I pictured little horns growing out of his head, so I said to him, ‘Mr. Richecourt, you little devil, you—from this day forward, I dub thee Pitchfork.’ So there you have it. Lucky for him, you’re the first person who’s been intuitive enough to realize there’s more to that name than meets the eye.”
Charmaine giggled in spite of herself.
When they returned to the picnicking area, they found Paul and George arguing over who would tell John the news. “What news?” he asked, his eyes narrowing.
“Geoffrey rode off—on Phantom. After the gag you and the twins pulled on him with ‘Fang,’ I suppose he wanted to prove himself. He kept insisting your stallion was not too much horse for him to handle.”
Cursing, John threw up his hands. “He’s going to break his neck.”
“Then you won’t have to sign his papers,” George offered.
“We had better find him before he breaks Phantom’s neck,” John added.
Edward Richecourt stepped forward. “May I make a suggestion?”
Paul, George, and John regarded him derisively. “Suggest away, Pitchie.”
“Perhaps you’re overreacting,” he ventured with courteous concern, “Geoffrey will bring the beast back in good condition. He is an extremely gifted horseman.”
“Geffey is an extremely gifted horse’s ass,” John rejoined.
“May I make another suggestion?” Richecourt offered with an infinite amount of patience. “We should establish a search party.”
“That’s a brilliant idea, Mr. Richecourt,” John agreed.
“Thank you, John,” Richecourt responded modestly, “I always knew a worthy compliment was not beyond your character.”
“Neither is lying,” John commented dryly. “Now, since a search party was your idea, I’m going to put you in charge of returning to the mansion and rustling up some stable-hands to go out on a search. Can you manage that?”
With his assent, John explained there was a shortcut back to the house. Richecourt was to proceed directly into the woods for about one hundred yards and make a left at the great cabbage palm tree. If he continued straight, he would arrive at the compound in about fifteen minutes time. Richecourt repeated the directions to the word and set off on his horse.
George and Paul looked at each other bemusedly.
“I never knew about that shortcut,” George said, scratching the back of his head. “A great cabbage palm? Come to think of it, I don’t see how those directions could possibly take him to the estate.”
“They won’t,” John replied, low enough that Richecourt’s wife couldn’t hear, “but you know that old gelding— when he gets hungry, he’ll wander back on his own, and we’ll be spared Pitchie’s brilliant suggestions for the remainder of the afternoon.”
They found Geoffrey Elliot on the logging road a half-hour later. Phantom had jumped over a fallen tree at full gallop and had thrown Geoffrey some ten feet away. The horse lay whinnying in pain, abrasions on his chest, though by Mercedes’s estimation, his legs were not broken. Geoffrey Elliot III’s incessant groans echoed through the forest.
George stared down at him reproachfully. “How could you be so stupid? Don’t you realize the value of that animal?”
It took them some time to coax Phantom to his feet. George did the same with Geoffrey, and they staggered back to the mansion. George suggested they send for Martin, the hostler, but Mercedes convinced John that she could nurse the stallion back to health, as she had seen her father do over the years.
Charmaine and the twins were on their way to dinner when they found Dr. Blackford treating a badly battered Geoffrey Elliot in the drawing room. Seated in the large armchair near the hearth, his hair was a tousled mess, flecked with leaves and twigs, one sprig hanging off the side of his head. His face was bruised and dirty. His bleached, starched shirt of that morning was speckled with blood and soiled beyond repair. His right pant leg was split down the seam.
“What happened?” Charmaine asked as the physician pulled the shirtsleeve off Geoffrey’s right arm, ignoring his yelp of pain.
“He has fractured his arm,” Blackford replied.
“But what happened?” Charmaine asked again.
“That blasted animal threw me!” Geoffrey cursed.
“At least you’re not seriously injured,” Charmaine comforted, turning reproving eyes on Yvette and Jeannette, who were snickering.
“Not seriously injured?” he protested. “I’ve never experienced such pain in my life! And the rest of them—why, they’re all outside with that vicious beast. One would think it was he and not I who nearly sustained a broken neck!”
John, George, and Mercedes came in from the stables quite late and sat down to eat. The foyer door banged open. A few moments later, Edward Richecourt appeared in the dining room archway.
“Where have you been?” John asked, “I thought you were organizing a search party. We were about to send one out for you!”
“I’m afraid I got lost. Am I too late for dinner?”
Friday, April 6, 1838
“That should do it, Charmaine,” Mercedes smiled, securing the last pin on the bodice of her new gown. “We can finish up after lunch.”
Charmaine stepped down from the stool, glad to have an hour’s respite, equally glad John had taken the girls swimming today. They would have found the morning, as well as the afternoon to come, tedious.
“I’d like you
to look over the seating arrangements, before I hand them off to the staff,” Agatha was saying to Paul as Charmaine and Mercedes passed through the dining room on their way to the kitchen.
“Where will I be seated?” Anne queried coquettishly, smiling for Paul.
“At the head table, next to Paul, of course,” Agatha replied. “You are, after all, our special guest, your invitation written at his request. He will be honored to be your escort for the evening.”
As Anne said, “That’s wonderful!” Paul glared at Agatha in astonishment.
“Agatha—” he began. Instantly, he thought better of it, his eyes traveling helplessly to his father instead. But the exchange was lost on Frederic, who was absorbed in the newspaper at the side of his plate and hadn’t heard a thing.
Charmaine sped up her steps, disappointment rushing in. She could feel Mercedes’s regard on her, as well as Paul’s, but she didn’t dare look around. She declined lunch and fled back to her chambers via the servant’s staircase. The new gown was spread out on the bed, but she had no desire to pick up needle and thread. She wanted to cry, but forced herself to the task, lest she give in to the building tears. Now, all her dreams had been laid to waste, again by the inveigling Agatha Duvoisin.
She grimaced when a knock resounded on her door. She could not ignore the second rap and opened it to a grim-faced Paul.
“Charmaine, may I speak with you?” He gestured to the hallway, but as she stepped out of her room, he scanned the corridor, frowning. Voices indicated the approach of guests. “Come,” he said, “the gardens will offer some privacy.”
He didn’t speak again until they were near the center of the courtyard. “I’m sorry about what happened at lunch,” he began, his hands clasped behind his back. “I had no idea what Agatha was planning.”
She looked up at him, trying hard to conceal her dejection. “Perhaps you could tell Anne there has been a misunderstanding,” she offered.
His brow darkened. “I’m afraid that would be in poor taste. Anne would be highly insulted. It could spill over to my guests and spoil the entire affair.”
