Forever Waiting

by DeVa Gantt

  She smiled up at him mournfully. “Be careful, Papa,” she warned.

  “I shall.”

  He looked across the room at Rose and Mercedes. The old woman shook her head sadly. He walked to the doorway where Charmaine stood. “I won’t be long,” he told her. He squeezed her shoulder and was gone.

  The greater the wealth, the deeper the pain …

  John and Paul rode into town together. Westphal’s house was directly across the street from the bank. They dismounted, and John rapped on his door. Finally, it opened.

  “What is it?” Stephen asked, astonished to find both Paul and John there.

  “Get your keys and open the bank,” John stated flatly.

  “Open the bank? It’s Sunday!” Stephen objected. “I’m eating right now!”

  “Open the bank.”

  The banker looked at Paul.

  “Stephen, do as he asks,” Paul said.

  They waited at the doorstep as the man went inside to retrieve his keys. They crossed the street to the bank.

  “What is it you want?” Stephen queried, clearly annoyed as he fumbled with the lock.

  “I want to see Blackford’s account,” John answered.

  “I can’t do that!” Westphal roared. “It would be a breach of privacy!”

  “Blackford is a murderer,” John replied. “He left the island in April, and he’s not coming back. He had to have taken all his money with him. I want to know how much and to which bank you endorsed his money.”

  “You can’t be serious!” Westphal objected.

  John considered him for a moment. “Westphal, what I’ve told you is true. Benito Giovanni corroborated it. Now, I’m losing my patience. Will you give me Blackford’s file, or do I have to get it myself?”

  Westphal’s eyes went helplessly to Paul. “It is true, Stephen. We need to find out where he headed after he left in April.”

  Shaking his head, Westphal entered his office. He retrieved the file and handed it to John, who flipped it open and settled into the desk chair to study it.

  After a few minutes, John looked up at Paul. “Agatha paid her brother well for his work. He made a few hefty deposits, starting in April of ’36. I would imagine that’s when the poisoning began. But the big payoff didn’t come until the week after Pierre’s death. That’s when she signed Thomas Ward’s entire estate over to this account.”

  John paused, rubbed his forehead, and turned to the banker. “This shows Blackford drew all his funds in a voucher, signed by you, Westphal, to the Bank of Richmond. I doubt he remained in Virginia. Did he tell you where he was headed?”

  “No,” Westphal replied. “He only said he planned on retiring comfortably. But perchance this will help.”

  John was surprised when the financier handed him a letter from Benito Giovanni. “Benito entrusted it to me for safekeeping,” Stephen explained. “I was told to pass it on to your father should anything happen to him.”

  John didn’t need to read the letter to know it was the clergyman’s insurance against an untimely death.

  George and Gerald stood guard over Benito, who sat on a crate with his hands bound behind his back. Both men were scowling at him when Frederic entered the stall. “Leave us alone,” he ordered.

  “We’ll be outside,” George said.

  Frederic waited until the stable door closed, then he lifted a horsewhip off the peg from which it hung and stepped closer to the priest. Benito’s head lifted for the first time, and he cringed.

  “Now, my good man,” Frederic growled, slapping the butt of the whip across the palm of his hand, “I am going to ask you a few questions, and unlike the last time, you are going to answer every one of them, or you will hang for your corrupt deeds before sunset. Do you understand?”

  The priest nodded slightly.

  “Good. Now, how did you come by the information you just revealed?”

  “Overcome with guilt, Agatha confessed her sins, then sought to appease her conscience by offering me money for the needy.”

  Frederic’s eyes narrowed. “One more lie, Benito, and I’ll tie the noose myself.”

  Benito swallowed, the seconds accumulating. He had run out of options. “When you called me to your chambers that night, after Colette’s death, I realized lies were being spread about her.”

  “Lies?”

  “Although years ago she had confessed her affair with John, on her deathbed, she did not confess any other adulterous liaisons. Therefore, I concluded she had not been unfaithful to you.” He hung his head and waited.

  “And yet, you led me to believe otherwise!”

  “I never claimed she had committed adultery,” Benito objected obliquely. “If you think back on that night, I merely refused to reveal her private confession.”

  The whip whistled through the air, missing its mark by inches. “Liar!” Frederic shouted, outraged. “You led me to believe there was a secret to keep, and when you escaped my chambers unscathed, you used that information to extort payments from Agatha and Blackford! Now—be truthful.”

  “On the contrary,” Benito whispered to the floor, “I didn’t request money from Agatha until she had married you.” When the whip did not crack again, he bravely looked up. “It was only after she succeeded in bringing you to the altar that I surmised her motives. Until then, I thought she and her brother had lied to you to save your life!”

  “Really? And I suppose you, too, meant to save me by guarding that lie?”

  “Actually—yes. If it could bring you to your senses—”

  “Don’t!” Frederic snarled. “If you want to live, you’d be wise to drop the act, Father. Your pretense at piety is revolting. Now—when did you find out Colette had been poisoned? The truth man, I want the truth!”

  “I only guessed that,” he admitted. “It was strange Agatha paid as willingly as she did, despite her protests. It became clear she had something more important to hide. So, I was prepared for the day she told me it was her last visit, claiming you knew the truth—that Colette had not been unfaithful. I gambled on my speculation and told her I knew Colette had been poisoned. Agatha accused me of not having proof, but she didn’t deny it. When I said Pierre’s death was a strange coincidence, her face went white. Only then did I realize how unscrupulous and heartless they were.”

  “You are an evil beast,” Frederic sneered, appalled by the man’s candor. “If you had come to me with this information, Pierre would still be alive.”

  “No, I wasn’t certain! Not until it happened—after the boy’s death.”

  “But you had your suspicions. You enjoyed the luxuries my money could buy at the expense of two innocent lives!”

  The priest eyed him meekly, his brow raised in contrition, fanning Frederic’s ire. “How dare you attempt to excuse yourself now?”

  Frederic jerked the crop back and delivered a blistering thwack across Benito Giovanni’s face, slicing open his cheek and the bridge of his nose.

  The priest yelped in agony. “I’m sorry!”

  “How much did she pay for your silence?” Frederic demanded.

  When Benito didn’t answer, Frederic launched the whip again, the bloodied thong lashing across his shoulder and neck this time. “Was it worth this?”

  Again, the priest screamed. “Mercy! Please, have mercy!”

  “My sons saved your life, you ungrateful, despicable bastard! What kind of priest are you? Or have you been pretending all these years?”

  “No, I am a priest. I swear, I am!”

  “Worse for you, you demon!”

  Frederic raised the whip again and Benito winced, curling into a ball. “Please, no more!” he implored.

  “Where’s Blackford now?”

  “I don’t know—he just left!”

  “Why? Why did he leave? Was he afraid of you? Was he unable to pay? Did you push him too far?”

  “No—I mean, I don’t know! Agatha was paying for both of them,” he attempted to mollify. “I don’t know why he left Charman
tes! He just did!”

  “You know more than that!” Frederic countered. “You’d better tell me something, man! Why was Blackford involved? His sister had plenty to gain, but what was in it for him?”

  “Agatha said he despised you for blaming him all these years.”

  “Blaming him?”

  “For your first wife’s death.”

  “Retribution? He was driven by retribution? No, that’s not it,” Frederic refuted. “Why harm the boy? Why?”

  Benito was quaking. “I—I don’t know. He didn’t say anything else. I only know he was receiving money from Agatha as well.”

  “Yes, Agatha was behind it all, but what hold did she have over her brother that he was willing to murder for her? He was well established on Charmantes. Why did he risk everything for her?”

  “I don’t know, I tell you!”

  “And you weren’t interested in finding out? I find that hard to believe!”

  “Believe what you will, but I don’t know!”

  Frederic coiled the thong again and Benito quickly added, “It must have been for the money!”

  Frederic’s eyes narrowed with his lame reasoning. “Then why flee?”

  “I swear, I don’t know! Perhaps he was frightened it would come to this.”

  “Come to what, Benito, the moment of truth?” He studied the crop, then disgusted, flung it into a stall.

  Benito looked up, an ugly welt running down his forehead and joining the blood that oozed from the bridge of his nose and his right cheek. “What will you do with me?” he beseeched.

  “John saved your life. I think he should decide how it will end.”

  Frederic called for George and Gerald. “Take him to the bondsmen keep and make certain he’s well guarded. John can visit him later.”

  John was a maelstrom of emotions: despair, helplessness, guilt, anger, and loathing. Colette and Pierre were murdered. I didn’t protect them. Blackford’s tidy escape fed his torment. How had his father allowed this to happen? Paul had an excuse. He had been toiling and then was abroad, but his father had been there—right next door—as the sinister plot was being executed. His hatred for his uncle did not rival his searing contempt for Frederic.

  They rode home in silence. Paul knew what John was thinking and fearlessly said, “John, I know you blame Father, but he was as ignorant of what was happening as we all were. He had no idea Colette was being—”

  “Really?” John bit out, not allowing him to finish, looking him in the eye. “Would it have happened if either you or I were married to her?”

  Paul inhaled. John loved her—had loved her deeply.

  “Would it have?”

  “I don’t know, John.”

  “Don’t you? Well, you keep making excuses for him—protecting him. I, on the other hand, will remember everything I’ve suffered at his hands, to this very day. I’ve been a fool these last months,” he said self-deprecatingly, “pretending the past was behind us. But here it is—right in my face again.”

  “John, he’s tried to right those wrongs.”

  “Has he?” John growled. “How— by throwing me a bone now? What about last summer, when it would have made a difference? No, Paul. He was jealous of my love for Pierre, and he was out to destroy it. He set me up to abduct Pierre—to tear him away from his sisters and Charmaine, just so the boy would grow to hate me. By proving I was as terrible a father as he, he could feel vindicated. That was his objective, nothing more and nothing less.”

  “You’re wrong, John. I know there are some things Father can never change, but he didn’t want to hurt you anymore. When he realized you were leaving, he wanted to make amends. He signed custody of the girls and Pierre over to you the morning you were to leave. I saw the papers—signed before Blackford ever laid a hand on Pierre.”

  John’s eyes betrayed great surprise, but before he could retaliate, Paul pressed on. “During the ordeal with Pierre, Father stayed away out of respect for you and your grief, not because he didn’t care. I went to see him each time I left Pierre’s bedside. He didn’t eat or sleep. He was suffering as much as you were—was beside himself with guilt. He loved Pierre and still blames himself for what happened.” Paul turned away, his anguish poorly concealed.

  The minutes gathered, the only sound the clip-clop of horses’ hooves. Paul wrestled with his thoughts, wondered whether it was wise to voice them. “Father loved Colette, too, John. You may not believe that, but it’s true, and though you may not want to hear it, she loved him as well. She told me so. The last thing Father wanted was to see her suffer. He was devastated when she died.”

  John clenched his jaw in renewed rage. Is this what he allows to happen to those he loves? But his rebuttal withered away when he read the desolation in his brother’s eyes and realized Paul was only stating the facts as he saw them.

  “I don’t know what tore them apart, John, but I realize now, it transcended you and Colette. I suspect my mother was involved in that, too.” Bearing his own burden, Paul could say no more, and they rode the rest of the way home in silence.

  “You cannot be serious!” Charmaine exclaimed. “You cannot mean to leave me alone here when our baby is on the way!”

  Her eyes followed John around the dressing chamber, as he pulled clothing out of drawers and threw them into a knapsack on the floor. He did not respond and doggedly continued packing. She couldn’t stand his silence and stepped in front of him to block the path he was beating.

  “This is pure folly!” she protested. “It is far too dangerous!”

  “The man murdered my son, Charmaine,” he replied, stopping to regard her. “He is not getting away with it.”

  “You will never find him! He is long gone!”

  “I will find him. If it’s the last thing I do, I will find him.”

  “John, it could take years to hunt him down. Why won’t you let the authorities apprehend him? They are better equipped to do this than you are!”

  “Like they apprehended your father, Charmaine?” John asked derisively. “If you could find your father and make him pay for what he did to your mother, what would you do?”

  His question left her momentarily mute. “And what of the life we’ve made together?” she murmured. “You can walk away from it that easily?”

  He strapped the knapsack shut. “There is no life if I do nothing.”

  She turned away, head bowed, tears stinging her eyes. “I will be alone here, worrying for your safety.”

  “You won’t be alone. You have the twins, you have Rose, George, Mercedes. You will be fine. I will be fine. I will send word.” He came up behind her, placing his hands on her shoulders, but she pulled away.

  “You love her more than me,” she choked out, “still—you love her more.”

  “Don’t do this, Charmaine … ”

  “If you loved me more, you wouldn’t leave!” she cried.

  “Don’t make this a choice between you and a dead woman, Charmaine.”

  “Then don’t leave,” she whispered.

  John reached out and turned her in his arms to embrace her, but she pulled away again, setting her face in stone as he bent down to kiss her cheek. He stepped back and considered her for a moment longer. He grabbed his cap off the dressing table, placed it squarely on his head, and left the room.

  Charmaine ran into the bedchamber and threw herself on the bed, burying her face in her pillow, fighting her tears, swearing she would not allow herself to cry over him. She lay there for minutes on end. The reality he had left consumed her. He will be in great danger. Will he return unharmed? I may never see him again!

  She sprang from the bed, flew out of the room and down the stairs, through the foyer and across the lawns to the stable. She entered the dim enclosure and ran headlong into Gerald.

  “What is it, ma’am?”

  “John—is he still here?”

  “He’s already left, ma’am—gone a good five minutes now.”

  Travis had just finished packing
Frederic’s trunk, saying, “That should do it, sir,” when Frederic’s outer chamber door banged open. Charmaine stood in the archway, out of breath, tears streaming down her cheeks.

  “He’s leaving!” she sobbed, casting beseeching eyes to Frederic, then Paul. “Please stop him!”

  “This ship is setting sail for Richmond in thirty minutes,” John pronounced, as he boarded the Raven.

  One look at John’s face and Captain Wilkinson knew there was no point in objecting. “May I ask why?” he queried, wondering when his cargo would ever reach England.

  “I’ll explain later,” was all John would say.

  Taking heed, Jonah began barking orders to the crewmen who were milling about. Grumbles went up, unhappy they were returning to the States without so much as a layover on Charmantes. But Jonah brooked no resistance, and they dutifully fell in with John, preparing the ship for departure.

  When the last of the staples had been hastily loaded, Jonah gave the order. The mooring was released, and the vessel pushed off.

  A shout from the quay brought all eyes around. Jonah frowned in consternation when he saw Paul, running down the pier, frantically waving both arms at the ship. The men standing on the boardwalk began to shout after the Raven as well. John came to the railing next to Jonah.

  “We’d best throw out the ropes,” Jonah said.

  But John only called to his brother, “What is it?” thinking Paul had uncovered something pertinent relating to the monstrous revelations of a few short hours ago.

  “Bring the ship back in!” he called. “Bring her back in!”

  As Jonah looked from John to Paul, he caught sight of Frederic, laboring down the wharf. “Bring her back in!” Frederic demanded.

  John had seen him, too. Swearing under his breath, he turned on the captain. “Keep going! Do not turn back!”

  “But, John—” Jonah faltered.

  “Go! Just go!”

  Jonah Wilkinson looked across the water to Frederic, who was ordering him to return, then back to John. “Throw out the lines!” he commanded.

  The crew scrambled to do his bidding.

  “Damn him!” John swore, punching the railing. His rage smoldered when the ropes were cast to the dock and secured round the pilings on the quay. The ship clapped against the pier, the gangway was lowered, and Frederic boarded.