Forever Waiting

by DeVa Gantt

  The day he departed, Agatha aborted Thomas’s baby, refusing to be bound by his offspring. If Thomas were to die, she would be free to pursue her heart’s desire: Frederic. She nearly bled to death from the resulting miscarriage. Thomas was granted a leave of duty to minister to her. He remained by her bedside for nearly a month, and, quite unexpectedly, she grew fond of this tender, compassionate man. He never learned she had destroyed his baby.

  When she recovered, she resigned herself to a life without Frederic. As with Paul, he was lost to her forever.

  “There will be other children,” Thomas had promised, finding succor in her genuine embrace. But the months turned into years, and she never became pregnant again. Agatha knew she had done irreparable damage when she’d jabbed the sharpened twig between her legs and terminated the life of his unborn child.

  “I worry for you, my dearest,” he fretted over the years that followed. “My father wants a grandson to carry on his name and has threatened to leave his fortune to my sister’s son should I die without an heir. We must get you in the family way again. Let us seek the advice of a physician.”

  Fearing her husband might discover the cause of her infertility, Agatha pacified him by insisting she take the matter up with Robert. “During your next voyage abroad, I shall travel to Charmantes,” she suggested. “Robert will know if something can be done.”

  That was the summer of 1813, and Paul had just turned five. He was growing into a fine lad. If she was apprehensive over her reception on Charmantes, she needn’t have been. Frederic welcomed her into his home and insisted she stay as long as she desired.

  As handsome as ever, he remained aloof. She valiantly kept him at arm’s length, resisting his magnetism. She should hate him, she reasoned. He had stolen Paul away, and now, she would never know the joys of motherhood. She was irrevocably barren; there would be no other offspring. When she passed from this life, only Paul and the children he would someday sire would mark her existence. Paul became her obsession.

  Then there was Robert, always sniveling at her feet. She knew he still adored her in his own possessive, repugnant way, so, occasionally, she allowed him to make love to her. He repaid the favor by denouncing John and promoting Paul as Frederic’s flesh and blood. Because of Robert, Frederic believed the lie, doting on Paul and scorning John. Though she basked in that knowledge, she could not rest until Paul was the sole heir to the Duvoisin fortune—his birthright.

  When she left Charmantes, she resigned herself to three things. First, her struggle to forget the past was futile. She was hopelessly in love with Frederic. When she returned to Charmantes she would seduce him. Second, she would not leave Thomas. Sarah Coleburn was right; he would be a well-off man someday, so long as he outlived his father, and if she remained by his side, she would benefit from his wealth. She would always desire Frederic, but she’d learned not to rely on his love. He had used her and discarded her when she’d been most vulnerable: in love, pregnant, and alone. If she were widowed tomorrow, she could not bank on a proposal from him. His guilty conscience had prompted the last one. Never again would she be without resources. Third, time was on her side. With Elizabeth dead and John spurned, she could bide her time.

  By the following summer, she was living two very different lives: a respectable British officer’s wife when in England and a sultry seductress when her husband’s naval obligations took him far from British soil. She ventured to Charmantes as often as possible, and she and Frederic became intimate again, resurrecting all those glorious feelings. Leaving him grew more and more difficult, but Thomas’s father was growing feeble, and it was only a matter of time before Thomas inherited his estate. When Thomas died, she could count herself an independent woman, something she deserved after all she had suffered and sacrificed. No matter what the future held, she’d be secure.

  Thus, the years slipped by, and she and Frederic remained lovers. But this satisfactory arrangement was most unexpectedly annihilated.

  In the spring of 1829, Agatha met Colette Duvoisin. Paul had been off to university in Paris, and she hadn’t traveled to Charmantes in nearly four years. She was horrified to find Frederic had married this young woman, thirty-four years his junior. A whirlwind wedding they called it. Robert surmised it was something else, for Colette had come to the West Indies on John’s arm. But Agatha’s raging intuition dismissed his assertion. She shuddered with the memory of that introduction, Frederic’s desperate, consuming love for his child-bride branded on his face. He had barely looked Agatha’s way, and she was on fire with covetous hatred. Elizabeth had returned, the battle for him resumed.

  She turned to Robert. But he made light of her predicament with a shrug. “Frederic is married to her now. There is nothing you can do.”

  “Nothing? She is Elizabeth reborn, can’t you see that?”

  Robert laughed incredulously. “Don’t be ridiculous!”

  “I tell you, she is Elizabeth. Frederic knows it, too. I can see it in his eyes! She’s come back, I tell you, she’s come back to—to—”

  “To what, Agatha?”

  “To curse me—and Paul—to patch things up between Frederic and John!”

  “You are wrong, my dear, very wrong.”

  “Can’t you see? John stole her away, and John has brought her back!”

  Robert laughed at the preposterous premise. “John and Frederic’s questionable kinship has finally ruptured. John loathes his father now, his departure permanent. I should think this would please you, my dearest. So, if you hate Frederic as much as you say you do, let this be your revenge. Frederic may very well disinherit John if you use Colette as the wedge between them, and then Paul will have it all. It stands a better chance at succeeding than any of your other mendacious schemes.”

  Agatha was desperately forlorn when she returned to England, and Thomas was at a loss. His father’s death and mother’s widowhood distracted him, however, affording Agatha time and space to ponder this newest adversity.

  Her sour disposition abated when news arrived all was not well between Frederic and Colette. She cried out for John over and over again during her labor, Robert had written, though Frederic was there.

  Agatha eventually recognized the potential in exploiting the discord between Frederic and John, but first, she had to get back into Frederic’s bed. It was easier than she had imagined. Robert set the stage with three simple words that he repeated like a mantra to both Colette and Frederic: No more children.

  Another visit and it became obvious husband and wife were no longer intimate. Agatha couldn’t quite piece the puzzle together. Frederic obviously lusted for his young wife, and intuition told her Colette desired him as well, yet they remained estranged. Why? Was John truly to blame?

  Agatha capitalized on Frederic’s frustrated desire and seduced him before he returned to Colette’s bed. Then Colette had her affair with John. Betrayed, Frederic never made love to his wife again.

  So where had she failed? Somehow, Elizabeth had won; even in death, then in life and in death again, she had won.

  Agatha rubbed her brow with both hands, her torment manifest in an excruciating headache that threatened her sanity. She closed her eyes, and her sister’s caramel-colored eyes swam before her, taunting her as they turned smoky blue.

  Elizabeth, the war is not over. I am not defeated! Frederic belonged to me first. I’ve shared his bed more times than you and Colette combined. Very soon, he will realize I did what I did for him, our son, and our undeniable love.

  Saturday, August 25, 1838

  Paul scoffed down a light dinner and had retired to his study when the door banged open. His mother stood silhouetted in the low lamplight.

  “Frederic?” she asked timidly. “Is that you?”

  She stepped deeper into the room, and the light illuminated her face. Her cheeks were pale, her eyes vacant, yet searching, as if he weren’t there.

  Paul stood. She attempted to compose herself, sweeping the disheveled hair from her brow, smooth
ing the wrinkles from her robe.

  “Frederic,” she sighed, “it is you.”

  “No, Agatha, it’s not Father, it’s me—Paul.”

  “Frederic—I need to tell you, I need to explain. You’ll understand—”

  “Agatha, you’re still asleep. Let me—”

  “—I’m going to explain everything. Then you will love me again … ”

  Chapter 6

  Sunday, August 26, 1838

  THE house was quiet. Everyone was at Mass, and John was catching up on paperwork. He couldn’t put off a trip to Richmond much longer, but he didn’t have the heart to tell Charmaine. She still suffered from morning sickness, but intuition told him she was avoiding Richmond because of her fugitive father. Still, he’d have to leave soon if he hoped to be back before she delivered.

  The study door opened, and John looked up, astonished to see Paul. He’d only visited Charmantes once since their confrontation in the stable: for George’s wedding. He’s grown tired of Agatha and is returning her to Father, John snickered to himself.

  Paul took the chair opposite the desk, his face somber.

  “What brings you back here on a Sunday morning, Paul?” John asked, refraining from a barb about not being able to make a go of it without Father.

  “John … ”

  Something was wrong. The man was perturbed: his face ashen, his eyes turbulent, his demeanor shaky.

  “What is it?” John demanded. “You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.”

  “Agatha,” he began. “It’s Agatha. She’s deranged—gone mad.”

  “You’re just now realizing this?” John quipped.

  “I’m not joking, John. She’s been grief-stricken since Father cast her out, and last night, she snapped. She’s in a state of delirium— she thinks I’m Father. She makes little sense, but she’s saying things … ”

  John’s eyes narrowed. “What has she been saying?”

  “She goes on and on about meeting Father before your mother did. She rants about Elizabeth stealing him away.”

  John sighed. “We know all this. Why is she still crying about it. She managed to bring Father around to her way of thinking. You have your fair share now, so what else does she want?”

  “She wants Father! She’s insane, I tell you! She’s confusing your mother with Colette, and she’s been saying things. I don’t know if they’re true, but … ”

  “What has she been saying, Paul?” John reiterated.

  “Things about Colette,” Paul replied, his eyes searching John’s.

  “What about Colette?”

  “She claims she and Robert saw to it Colette was—removed.”

  Dumbfounded, John leaned back in his chair. “Removed?”

  “John,” Paul murmured, dreading what he was about to say. “That last year when Colette was so ill … Agatha set herself up as Colette’s personal companion, maintaining she was not well. She had Robert here treating Colette every week, then twice a week, and finally, every day. In the beginning, Colette tried to avoid him, complaining about feeling worse after he left. He changed his compounds, or so he said, and she seemed improved. After Christmas, I was away, and I assumed I’d find her completely recovered when I returned. But Charmaine contends she only grew worse. Blackford blamed it on a lung infirmity, but now, now I don’t know … Colette’s death enabled Agatha to become Father’s third wife. John—” Paul’s face went white, and he hesitated to state his next horrific speculation. “Pierre was in Father’s will. He was named as successor to the estate after you. Agatha found out and was very upset, probably furious.”

  Like the light rushing into a darkened room, comprehension dawned, and Paul’s words melded with a kaleidoscope of incidents that were suddenly most logically connected: Agatha’s persistent efforts to alienate him from Frederic, her triumphant face when he’d removed himself from his father’s will, Blackford’s abrupt departure, a demonic Phantom escaping his stall, Pierre getting past all eyes to make it to the lake—even his nightmares! I followed Auntie … She gave him a pouch. I think there was jewelry inside …

  John jumped to his feet and headed for the door, but Paul caught his arm before he reached it. “Where are you going, John?”

  “To church!”

  The Latin phrases of the consecration echoed in monotone off the walls of the chapel. The coolness was rapidly dissipating as the heat of summer penetrated the sanctuary on beams of sunlight plunging down to the nave and altar. With the small congregation behind him, Father Benito sped up his lengthy recitation. Grasping the host, he held it up to the crucifix before him, uttering the Latin intonation: “Hoc est enim corpus meum … ”

  The chapel doors banged open, and though he held a reverent silence as he cast the bread heavenward, he cursed the inopportune interruption at the pinnacle of the holy celebration. Footsteps echoed hollowly on the floor, but Benito resisted the urge to look back, lowering the bread to the plate. He raised the chalice when a shadow loomed behind and his arm was violently wrenched away from the altar, knocking the cup from his hands. It spiraled off the table and clattered to the floor, splattering wine across the white linens. He was brutally twisted around and came face-to-face with a livid John. “What do you know, old man?”

  Charmaine cried out as Benito’s vestments were abruptly gathered in two balled fists, his face pulled up close to John’s. From the corner of his eye, the priest saw Paul draw up behind his brother. “What do you know?” John demanded full-voiced.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about!” Benito sputtered.

  “You know goddamn well what I’m talking about, and let’s have it out before I choke the life from you right here and now!”

  Charmaine jumped to her feet, but Frederic grabbed her arm, holding her to the spot, his eyes riveted on the scene unfolding in front of the altar. “What are you doing, John?” she cried. “What is going on?”

  But John’s eyes were locked on the petrified priest, his grip tightening around his neck. “You were taking payments from my aunt! Why?”

  “They were contributions for my mission for the needy,” Benito croaked.

  “Do you want to die, old man?” John shouted, his hold so fierce Benito’s eyes were beginning to bulge from their sockets.

  “John, stop it! Stop it!” Charmaine screamed, her horror increasing. She looked to Paul. Why is he here? Why isn’t he intervening?

  “You have one choice right now,” John snarled. “Tell me what happened, and I won’t kill you. Understand?”

  Benito’s face took on a bluish hue. The tableau held for what seemed endless minutes, the clergyman’s cyanotic complexion now ghastly. Charmaine’s desperate gaze traveled helplessly from Frederic to Paul; both were equally bent on facilitating this inquisition, refusing to intervene. The gaping congregation was standing, frozen, the chapel deadly silent. Just when Charmaine thought the priest would pass out, he rasped, “Your aunt and uncle poisoned Colette … ”

  Benito’s eyes rolled back in his head and his eyelids fluttered shut.

  “The rest, Benito!” John seethed, adjusting his grip enough to revive him. “Speak up, you bastard!”

  “Blackford … abducted the boy … and drowned him … in the lake.”

  The terror on the priest’s face climaxed as John, insane with fury, twisted the garments ferociously, lifting Benito St. Giovanni up and off the floor.

  Charmaine screamed again, but Paul had already grabbed hold of his brother, and George was charging the altar. John shoved Benito away, the man tumbling backward to the floor. “I should kill you, you greedy charlatan!”

  Paul was between them now, allowing the gasping Benito to rise to his feet. “George,” he directed, “take Bud with you and lock Benito in the bondsmen’s keep.”

  “No!” Frederic countermanded. “Take him to the stable and wait for me there.”

  George shoved Benito toward the back of the church. The grooms who had attended the service fell in alongside him, then they w
ere gone.

  Jeannette had begun sobbing uncontrollably, her arms flung around Charmaine’s waist, her head buried in her bosom. Yvette remained silent, standing ramrod straight, her eyes clouded in disbelief.

  “John!” Charmaine implored desolately, rushing to his side when Frederic released her. “Oh, John!”

  But he wasn’t hearing, his mind racing. He headed toward the chapel doors.

  “Where are you going?” she called after him.

  He didn’t answer, and she looked helplessly to Paul again.

  Paul chased after him. “Where are you going, John?”

  “To see Westphal,” he replied. “Come with me.”

  When Paul did not return, the austere company migrated to the drawing room. Frederic settled into an armchair and cradled Jeannette in his lap. She buried her face in his shirt and whimpered pitifully, hugging him fiercely. He stared beyond the walls, stroking her hair and patting her back until the tears subsided.

  Charmaine closed her eyes to the piercing pain in her heart. It was as if Colette and Pierre had died all over again. Poisoned! How had she not seen it? No wonder Colette had been so ill! All the signs were there. And Pierre! His death had not been a horrible accident! Charmaine groaned. I didn’t protect him! Dear God, I didn’t protect him! But why murder an innocent, beautiful boy? Agatha had much to gain from Colette’s death, but Pierre—why?

  “Why, Papa?” Yvette asked, her voice quivering. “Why did they kill Mama and Pierre?”

  “Because they are evil,” he said quietly, his voice hard and heavy. He nudged Jeannette’s chin off his chest so she would look at him and gently wiped away the tears that smudged her cheeks. “Better now?” he tenderly asked.

  “I think so,” she heaved.

  “Good. I have to speak with Father Benito. Will you be all right if I leave you with Charmaine and Nana Rose?” When she nodded, he kissed her forehead and rose, setting her back into the chair. He patted Yvette’s head. “They will be punished, Yvette. I promise you that.”