Forever Waiting

by DeVa Gantt

  John was astounded. Frederic hadn’t challenged his expertise. As they walked off to find a spot for the barns, he realized it was the first time they had worked side-by-side in over ten years—not since the day Colette made her choice.

  Saturday, May 12, 1838

  Paul sat alone in the study of his grand new mansion. It had been a month since the life he had known had crumbled. His triumphant ascent into the world of commerce had been tainted from the outset. He reflected on John’s return, the confrontation that had removed his brother from Frederic’s will and revealed the truth about his own parentage. Agatha was his mother. Even after a month, it was hard to believe. For years, he had longed to know the details of how he had been placed in his father’s custody. Today, he wished he didn’t.

  He had achieved more than he’d ever dreamed possible, stood to inherit much of his father’s fortune. Yet, it left him empty. John was legitimate, John had Charmaine, and John was man enough to stand on his own. What had John called him months ago? A pathetic fool? Yes, he was pathetic. He had revered his father, but had it earned him the man’s admiration or respect? No—just his money, and that only when John had turned it down.

  Then there was Charmaine. She had been lovely the night of the ball. He’d allowed himself to be manipulated and distracted, taking it for granted she’d always be there. But John had been man enough to pass up frivolous temptation and claim what he truly desired. Paul was certain this had played a part in Charmaine’s decision to marry him, John’s apparent propriety set in counterpoint to his incontinent behavior with Anne London, confirming he would always be a rogue. He rubbed his brow, remembering how she’d pummeled his chest and screamed her hatred of him. He could have loved her, but now she, too, was lost to him.

  John, who had nothing, now had everything, even his father’s love. Frederic might storm and rage, but in the end, he really loved his legitimate son. As for his bastard son? Frederic was willing to pay Agatha to raise him in some far off place, choosing never to know him. After all these years, Paul understood why he had never measured up.

  A great shame laced with pity seized him. How often had he scorned Agatha, and still, she had championed him? Yes, she had done some terrible things, but he could empathize, and therefore, forgive. She had been egregiously wronged, had suffered at his father’s hands. He would never allow her to suffer again.

  Voices from the hallway brought him up from his contemplation. Agatha was talking to someone. “Go away! Frederic loves me! He’ll be coming soon, and I don’t want him to find you here!”

  Piqued, Paul strode to the doorway, only to find her staring off into the distance. “Agatha?” he queried, uncomfortable with calling her “Mother.” “To whom are you talking?”

  She spun around and smiled at him. “Paul, you’re here,” she breathed. “When will your father return?”

  “Father?” he asked in growing dismay. “My father won’t be coming here, Agatha. He’s in his home on Charmantes. Are you feeling ill?”

  “I’m well, Paul. But he’ll be here shortly, and I have to explain things to him. Once I do, I know he’ll understand.”

  “Agatha,” Paul cajoled, “why don’t you retire? I’ll call for a maid to assist you.”

  “No, no, I’d rather be awake when your father arrives,” she stated resolutely, sweeping into the study.

  It was the last straw. His father was to blame for this situation and had yet to answer for his ignominious actions. It was time they talked.

  “Are you feeling better now, Charmaine?” John asked. She had reached the water closet just in time. The last week and a half had been very unpleasant.

  “This is going to be a terrible nine months if I feel this way the entire time.”

  “Rose says it will only last a month or two,” he reassured.

  “That’s easy for her to say!” she moaned, sitting hard on their bed. When he snickered, she fumed. “Go ahead and laugh! You had all the pleasure—”

  “All the pleasure, my Charm?” and he raised a brow that set her cheeks crimson. “You’re still blushing.”

  “Out!” she ordered, pointing to the door.

  “Before I leave, I have something to discuss with you.”

  She eyed him apprehensively, his change of demeanor disconcerting.

  “I’ve been here for six weeks now,” he began, “but I have other matters to attend, both in Virginia and New York. I’d like to take you and the girls with me when I go. I spoke to my father yesterday, and he’ll allow them to accompany us. I also want to show you our home.”

  She had stiffened even before he’d finished. Richmond … home … it did not beckon to her at all. Yes, she would be able to see the Harringtons, proudly introduce her husband to them. But thoughts of John Ryan raised the hair on the back of her neck. He was still out there. Charmantes was her haven; she did not have to worry about him here. “I don’t think I could go right now,” she replied, shaking her head. “I’m afraid I’d be ill the entire voyage.”

  “Very well. We shall wait a bit longer and see if Rose is right. My father should be pleased. He’s beginning to realize how much Paul accomplished each day.”

  “You won’t be overworking, I hope?” she asked, mindful of the grueling schedule Paul had always kept.

  “Me? Never. But we won’t be picnicking every day, either.” He studied her for a moment longer. “Shall we take a walk together? The sunshine should do you some good.”

  Charmaine accepted John’s invitation, but no sooner had they reached the foyer, and Paul strode in. His punishing gaze immediately settled on her. “John,” he acknowledged caustically.

  “Paul,” John rejoined, stepping behind her and placing a reassuring hand on either shoulder. “We have a bit of good news. Charmaine is expecting.”

  “Congratulations,” Paul bit out, his day turning more sour. “Where is Father?”

  “In town with Yvette and Jeannette. Isn’t that right, Charmaine?”

  “Yes,” she murmured, her eyes fixed on the floor.

  Paul swore under his breath. He had hoped to corner Frederic at home; now he had to ride back the way he had come. Without another word, he was gone.

  “Charmaine,” John chided softly, squeezing her shoulders, “you must stop giving him the satisfaction of upsetting you.”

  Goose bumps rose on her arms, and her blood ran cold. “John,” she murmured, dismissing his comment entirely, “would you take me into town?”

  “Why?”

  “I have a very bad feeling about Paul going there.”

  He stepped in front of her and canted his head. “Very well,” he said.

  She chose to take the horses; they were faster to ready. In less than ten minutes, they were on their way. She quickly set aside any concern the mare’s jostling might endanger the baby; she felt no different than at any other time she had ridden and began to enjoy being out in the fresh air.

  In town, they found Yvette and Jeannette shopping at the mercantile. The girls hadn’t seen Paul, but Frederic had ventured to the dock; they were to meet him at Dulcie’s in a half hour. Leaving Charmaine with them, John promised to do the same. He headed toward the harbor.

  “Haul them off with the nets, then,” Frederic commanded, “I’ll stay down here and direct you when they’re ready to lower the boom.” The worker went off quickly, leaving him alone on the pier.

  Frederic was enjoying himself today. He was thankful for his improving health, that he had not died as he had once prayed. John and he had come to a truce, and though they would never be completely reconciled, he was glad the interminable acrimony had subsided. His son had a wife, a baby on the way, and a future. This grandchild would be welcomed into the family with joy, rather than sorrow.

  His two beautiful daughters were growing lovelier each day. In a few years, they would be turning many a young man’s eye. For this reason, he had agreed to let John take them abroad. It was time they saw the world beyond Charmantes’ shores. He would mis
s them, but John would bring them back, granting him more time to mend their healing relationship.

  Despite his clash with Agatha and Paul’s anger over it, it had been years since he’d felt this optimistic. Regrettably, he couldn’t change the circumstances surrounding Paul’s birth. Still, if he and John could take a positive step forward, Paul would certainly come around.

  Frederic had wasted so much time, but here on the wharf, watching the men unlading the Black Star, he had a purpose once again. If only Colette were alive, waiting for him at home, life would truly be complete.

  A large net was hoisted off the deck of the merchantman, cinching around nearly a ton of grain sacks. The vessel had weathered rough seas. Casks in the hold had collided and split open. The crew had bagged the grain that could be salvaged, but unlike the barrels, this cargo couldn’t be rolled off the ship and had to be discharged with a boom and net.

  Frederic cringed as the frayed ropes pulled taut, wondering why the crew hadn’t divided the haul. Suddenly, the boom let go of its tether and swiveled wildly over the wharf in a one-hundred-twenty-degree arc, slamming into the foremast rigging. Puffs of dust exploded from the sacks as the spinning net bobbed back and forth, the mast’s tapered yards puncturing the burlap with each collision. Amid the shouts of deckhands, the tether was slowly reined in, grain trickling onto the decks below. Frederic eyed the tattered, yet bulging net, certain the load was too heavy. “Buck!” he shouted, “You need to—”

  “Father!” Paul approached, scowling darkly, his teeth clenched.

  “Paul, I didn’t know you’d—”

  “We need to talk,” Paul cut in, dispensing with false greetings.

  “Come back to the house and have dinner with us. We can talk there.”

  “I don’t have time, but I would like to clear up a few things.”

  Frederic took courage to say, “Paul, I know you are angry with me—”

  “You can’t begin to imagine how I feel about you!”

  “I’d like the chance to explain,” Frederic insisted, “but not here.” Mindful of the dangerous work overhead, he took hold of his son’s arm to lead him away.

  “A chance to explain?” Paul laughed insanely, yanking free, appalled his father was still determined to keep the secret. “I’d say you’ve had over twenty years to explain! Now, when you’re cornered, you want more time?”

  “Paul, I never meant to hurt you. You are my son and I will always—”

  “Don’t—don’t you dare say it! When I wanted your love— your acceptance— your approval, what did I get? Name calling, nothing more!”

  Seeing the rampant confusion on his father’s face, Paul stormed on, all the angrier with the realization the man was unaware of the ridicule he had endured as a young boy, even into adulthood. “It was easier for you to turn a blind eye to the taunting than to be honest with me. ‘Oh, Paul Duvoisin,’” he mimicked, “ ‘the bastard Duvoisin? No, he doesn’t know from where he came—but his father must have had one hell of a lay with his whore of a mother if he took her bastard under wing! All that money, but he’s a bastard still!’ That’s what I heard day after day, and why? Because my ‘well-bred’ father wouldn’t marry her. No, he sent her away with a hefty purse and wed her sister instead! How did you live with yourself all those years, Father— looking at me, knowing what you had done to my mother—to me? Answer me that? Did you think taking me into your home absolved you? That telling me she was dead legitimized my birth? That I—”

  Suddenly, there was a shout from above. Frederic and Paul looked up as the boom swung over them, one rope rapidly unraveling down to a single ply of hemp. The strand snapped and the netting broke open, touching off an avalanche of fifty-pound sacks. Some of the punctured bags exploded with the forceful shift, showering their meal below. The rest fell in rapid succession, hitting the quay with thundering thuds, most splaying open and spilling forth a mountain of grain.

  Charmaine and the girls stepped out of the mercantile and into the bright sunshine carrying two bundles of goods. “The two of you go on to Dulcie’s,” Charmaine directed, passing her purchases to Jeannette. “I am going to find your father and John. We shall meet you there.”

  Frederic fell on the settling heap of grain. Not a hand, not a boot, not a trace of Paul. He cast his cane aside, digging barehanded into the pile. He cried out for help, yanking at the heavy sacks, clawing at the fluid mass that caved in upon itself as quickly as it was cleared. Surely Paul was unconscious—would suffocate. Pray God, he wasn’t dead already! He cursed his feeble arm, less hale than he’d thought, and cried out for help again. Did no one hear him? Would no one come? The longshoremen were suddenly there beside him, tackling the pile in the same frantic frenzy.

  John felt a series of shudders rumble the wharf. Charmaine’s earlier premonition took hold, and he broke into a run along the boardwalk, swiftly coming upon the disaster. Pandemonium ruled, then he heard George’s voice: “What is it?” followed by his father’s: “Paul—he’s buried under all of this!”

  “Good God!” George exploded, and seeing John running toward them, he let out a blood-curdling yell that incited anyone within earshot to come post-haste. “It’s Paul! He’s buried alive!” He, too, jumped into the fray.

  Men were grabbing sacks and tossing them aside, some landing with huge splashes in the water, others splitting open on the quay. Still, there was a mountain of grain to clear away.

  John spun around. Spotting Charmaine, he shouted to her. “Ring the bell at the meetinghouse and raise the alarm!”

  Propelled by fear, she pressed herself to run. She looked back only once, remembering a similar accident long ago. Everyone had escaped injury then. Today, she prayed for the poor soul trapped beneath.

  Paul was breathing. Through God’s mercy, they uncovered his head first. Slowly, they cleared the remaining meal away.

  “Paul, can you hear me?” Frederic beseeched, but his son lay unconscious. “Damn it, where’s Blackford?” he snarled.

  There was a murmur before Buck stepped forward. “He’s gone, sir.”

  “Gone?”

  “Yes, sir, left a month ago. But we sent for Doc Hastings.”

  Charmaine’s fist flew to her mouth when she reached the scene. “Is he—?”

  “Alive,” John answered, breathing easier. “We’re waiting for the doctor.”

  “Oh John, I knew something was going to happen. I just knew it!”

  Frederic hobbled a few feet away and slumped torpidly on a cutoff pile at the pier’s edge. John wondered how much more the man could endure in his life. John had to give him credit; somehow, he always managed to pull through.

  Dr. Hastings arrived, and Paul was placed on a makeshift stretcher. Broken ribs, he concluded, which could be wrapped once Paul was home.

  As the litter was raised, Charmaine picked the grain from Paul’s hair, a gesture that disturbed John even in its seeming innocence. Paul groaned, and John noted the relief that swept over his wife’s face. Before they began their trek down the boardwalk, Paul’s eyes opened, and he slowly scanned the crowd that had gathered around, reading the concern on their faces. He attempted to sit up.

  “Lie still,” Charmaine admonished, chasing more granules from his shirtfront.

  He grabbed her hand and pressed it to his lips, then lost consciousness again, his arm falling away.

  “Don’t be cross, John!” Charmaine beseeched as they rode home together. “He was hurt, and I was frightened for him.”

  “So was I, but I didn’t brush his hair clean for him.”

  “You’re jealous!” she accused and then laughed.

  John squeezed Phantom’s flank, nudging the stallion into a gallop. Charmaine was left behind to ponder his ill humor.

  When the doctor deemed Paul fit for visitors, Frederic seized the moment. He had almost lost his eldest son, the son he had taken for granted. He was not about to squander this second chance. “I’m sorry, Paul,” he whispered, standing over the bed.
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  Paul closed his eyes to the pain on his father’s face. He knew what had happened on the pier, the effort everyone had exerted to pull him out alive.

  “You gave us a fright,” Frederic continued, searching for words. “Son—I don’t know what I would have done if … ” He faltered. “You have every right to hate me, but I do love you, and I’m proud— have always been proud—to call you my son. If you ever doubted that, then I’m sorry. I only kept the truth from you because I was ashamed of myself. I hope someday you can forgive me.”

  Paul could not open his eyes for the tears that burned there. Though he fought to suppress them, small rivulets chased down his cheeks and into his hairline. His throat was dry, and it was painful to swallow, to breathe. He opened his eyes, only to find his father’s countenance mirrored his own. As Frederic turned to leave, he rasped, “Father—I’m no longer angry.”

  Charmaine eyed John surreptitiously from her mirror on her dressing table. He hadn’t spoken two words to her since they had arrived home. His morose mood was quite amusing, and she thought to have a bit of fun with it.

  “How is Paul?” she asked sweetly.

  He only grunted, provoking a smile that danced in her eyes. But he wasn’t looking her way. He sat hard on the bed, pulling off a boot.

  She arranged a serious expression on her face and stepped in front of him. “You wouldn’t object if I nursed Paul back to health, would you?” she asked nonchalantly, stooping to help him with the second boot and tossing it aside.

  “The hell you will!” he exploded, nearly coming to his feet.

  She ignored the outburst and pushed him back onto the bed. Propping herself atop him, she giggled. “John Duvoisin—the man who’s so good at getting everyone else’s goat—can’t take a bit of teasing himself.”

  As his eyes narrowed, her fingers traced his hairline, and she studied every feature of his handsome face. “If you don’t know by now my heart belongs only to you, then you are a fool, Mr. Duvoisin!”

  Before he could reply, she kissed him passionately, entwining her hands behind his head.