by DeVa Gantt
“What are you doing here?” John snarled in his face.
“Charmaine sent me,” he replied. “She doesn’t want you to leave, John. She’s frightened for you.”
“This is something I must do. I’ve explained that to her.”
“She’s your wife. You shouldn’t be leaving her, not now.”
“Don’t you dare tell me what I should or shouldn’t do!” John shouted. “Now, if you’ll get off this ship, I’ll be about my business.”
“Don’t do this, John. No good will come of it!” Frederic implored.
“Do you really think I could live knowing the man who killed my son and your wife is out there—living, breathing? What kind of man are you, Father? How can you let him get away? Did Colette mean nothing to you at all? And what of Pierre? He was an innocent child who had the lousy luck of being born into this rotten family.”
“You are right,” Frederic breathed dolefully, startling John and momentarily quelling the fire in his eyes. “I want you to stay here and allow me to do this—on my own.”
“What?”
“You heard me. You have a new life, John. Charmaine doesn’t deserve this. She’s carrying a child—your child. She needs you by her side right now. I have nothing to tie me to Charmantes. I will see to it Robert Blackford is apprehended. I promise you that.”
“No!” John stated vehemently. “This is something I have to do. Someday Charmaine will realize it’s the only way to bury the past.”
Frederic sized his son up and nodded in understanding. “Very well, we’ll do it your way.”
“We’ll?”
“I’m coming with you.”
“No, you’re not,” John refuted.
“Then we are at an impasse. This ship is not sailing without me.”
Frederic ordered his trunks carried below deck.
John turned away in chafing frustration; as usual his father held the upper hand. No matter. He would dump the man when they reached Richmond and pursue Blackford on his own.
“Set sail, Jonah,” Frederic commanded. Then he shouted to Paul who waited on the pier. “Tell Charmaine I will bring him home safe and sound.”
With Paul’s dismal nod, the Raven cast off a second time.
Yvette and Jeannette watched Charmaine pace the portico, arms crossed, brow knitted, and tears still smudging her cheeks. Yvette looked to her sister in silent communication. Jeannette shook her head when it seemed she would speak.
“Johnny will be all right, Mademoiselle,” Jeannette comforted, “you’ll see.”
“Only if he drops this foolhardy idea and comes home!” she agreed hotly.
“He’s got to find Dr. Blackford,” Yvette declared. “I hope he kills him for what he did to Mama and Pierre!”
Charmaine was aghast. “And if Dr. Blackford kills him first … ?”
Neither girl had considered this. Earlier, when they were alone, Yvette had accused Charmaine of not loving Pierre or her mother. “Why else would she be angry with Johnny for what he wants to do?” Now she felt ashamed and grew concerned.
Jeannette was more optimistic. “Don’t worry, Mademoiselle Charmaine. Papa will protect him. Please don’t be upset.”
A rider approached, and they soon recognized Alabaster. Paul rode directly to the house, dismounted, and climbed the portico steps. He shook his head to Charmaine’s unasked question. “They’re gone— both of them.”
She turned her back on him, her rage caving in to anguish, her anguish rekindling her rage.
“Charmaine,” Paul placated. “He’ll be fine. Father is with him. He promised to bring John home to you.” When she didn’t answer, he continued. “It’s something John felt he had to do. Surely—”
“No, Paul,” she bit out over her shoulder, “you were right. He will never love me as he loved her. That’s why he’s gone, and I hate him for it!”
Yvette and Jeannette stole quizzical glances at each other. One look at their faces, and Paul spoke sharply. “This is neither the time nor the place to discuss it, Charmaine. You’ll feel differently when John gets back.”
She began to cry. “He’s never coming back! I feel it—I just feel it!”
Paul came up behind her and turned her in his arms. He held her until she calmed down, his head resting atop hers. “Dwelling on this cannot be good for the baby,” he said. “Come, let us find a distraction.” He led them into the house.
Monday, August 27, 1838
The ocean was so blue Frederic could not distinguish it from the sky. It was the color of Colette’s eyes. How had he allowed this to happen to his beautiful wife? To sweet, innocent Pierre? With an aching heart and paralyzing remorse, he looked at John. Like yesterday, his son had not moved from the bow, his eyes fixed on the sea ahead, as if he could spur the vessel on simply by staring into the distance. Frederic knew they must talk, and breathing deeply, he joined John at the railing. They stood silently for many minutes.
“What are you thinking about?” Frederic asked.
John gritted his teeth. He had no intention of talking with the man. Their camaraderie of the past four months had been a farce. They’d only turned a blind eye to their hatred for each other, but it was there, would always be there. Today, John loathed him more than ever.
“John?” his father pursued.
John dragged his eyes from the cerulean sea and, wearing a twisted, satanic smile, turned on Frederic. “Thinking about? You want to know what I’m thinking about? I’m thinking about my aunt and uncle, and how it took them nearly a year to poison and kill Colette. And I’m thinking about her husband, who stole her from his son, loved her so dearly he set her up for a love affair, and then punished her for being unfaithful, yet didn’t suspect a thing.” John shook his head in revulsion. “Your own daughter sensed what was taking place.”
Seeing Frederic’s surprise, John pressed on, all the more disgusted. “That’s right. Yvette told me her mother always seemed worse after her visits with the good doctor. She was so suspicious she even took to spying on him and Agatha. But her father—my father— no, he didn’t suspect a thing—had no idea anything was amiss. Or did you? Was that how you punished her, Father? By offering her up to the executioner?”
The heated remarks, raised to near shouting, had caught the ears of the crew, and they began milling nearby, pretending not to listen.
“Is that what you think happened?” Frederic queried plaintively.
“Not what I think—what I know!”
“John, I had no idea—”
“Shut your goddamn mouth! There will never be an end to your evil! I blame Agatha and Blackford, yes. But I blame you more!”
His agony increasing, unbearable now, Frederic exploded. As John turned away, he grabbed his shirt and threw him back into the railing. John gaped at him, unable to react. “Let’s get one thing straight,” Frederic growled, “Colette was my wife. Accuse me of turning a blind eye to what was happening, but you were just as blind! Where were your eyes when Pierre was snatched from the house? I’ll tell you where: on that damn horse of yours!”
“I should kill you for that!” John snarled, fists at the ready.
Frederic stepped forward, his face inches from his son’s. “I’m sick and tired of your self-pity—your vicious ridicule— your tantrums!”
John laughed diabolically. “Tantrums? Ridicule? Self-pity? You wrote the book, Father! They’re the only reason Colette didn’t leave you!”
“You’d like to believe that!” Frederic fired back. “But if she really loved you, she wouldn’t have given me a backward glance when you begged her to leave!”
“Damn you! Damn you to hell!”
John lunged at him, but Frederic caught him by the wrists, warding off the assault. John shoved harder, and they staggered across the deck, crashing into the capstan with such force the gears shuddered.
“Enough!” Jonah Wilkinson shouted, jumping into the escalating brawl. The sailors took his lead and pulled them apart. “Are the two of
you mad? Save your fight for the murderer!” he admonished, planting himself squarely between the two men, knowing they’d go at each other again if he stepped aside. “What’s gotten into you?” he demanded of Frederic. “He’s your son, man. And you—” he said, turning his eyes on John in a deep scowl “—this is your father. You’d best respect him.”
“He’ll never gain my respect,” John vowed tightly, “not while there’s a breath left in my body!”
They stared each other down, and not another word was spoken that day.
John fumed over his father’s declarations, and they turned his mind inside out. If she really loved you, she wouldn’t have given me a backward glance … He picked up the chair in his cabin and slammed it into the wall, wood splintering in all directions. His anger spent, he studied the rungs he clutched. Your vicious ridicule, your tantrums … He sat hard on the cot and put his head in his hands. Damn the man! He will not have the final say!
The sky was dark when he left his cabin, but the deck was bathed in moonlight. He couldn’t sleep, and the sea breeze might clear his churning mind. At the stern, a skeleton crew cast lots while they kept vigil under the star-studded sky. Their banter and the serenity of the ocean provided a peace he’d not enjoyed for two long days. Leaning on the rail, he contemplated the choppy water, the small waves catching the moonlight and sparkling brilliantly as they clapped together.
He was surprised when Jonah Wilkinson drew up alongside him. He respected the man and made an effort to smile.
The minutes gathered before Jonah spoke. “Why do you hate him, John?”
“You know why, Jonah.” John swung round and leaned back. “Some things will never change.”
“But you have a wife now and a baby on the way, possibly a son. Isn’t it time to bury the past?”
“If only it were that simple,” John murmured, his chin tucked to his chest, arms folded. “You know what’s gone before and what’s happened over the past two days. The wound has been opened again. It was left untended, and now it festers with poison, waiting for the kill.”
“The two of you have made it so,” Jonah said. “Why can’t you accept the fact your father loved this woman—deeply—and she loved him as well?”
John’s head came up. “Why is everyone trying to convince me of this? She didn’t love him—not ever.”
“That’s not how I saw it,” Jonah countered. “When I returned to Charmantes after they were married, I watched them together, in town and at the estate. Frederic invited me to dinner, as he always did back then. Colette was radiant; there was no doubt she was in love with him. And your father, he doted on her as if she were a princess—acted like a young man again.”
John’s turbulent eyes did not faze Jonah. He had known John since he was old enough to climb the Raven’s gangplank and had weathered this expression before. Suddenly, it became imperative to make the younger man see reason. The resentment that ate away at his heart would destroy him if he didn’t let it go. “I know you loved her, John,” he continued, “and perhaps she loved you. But she loved your father as well.”
“If she loved him,” John ground out, “why did she turn to me?”
“I don’t know,” Jonah replied. “Why don’t you ask your father? But when you do, listen to his answer. Your father is a good man, John. It would be a shame if you left this world not knowing that.”
Tuesday, August 28, 1838
Paul swore under his breath as he dumped out the last drawer and tossed it to the cabin floor. George kicked a stool aside and, wiping his hands together, said, “That’s it. He must have spent it all, like he said.”
Paul shook his head and rubbed the back of his neck. “I doubt it. Yvette said Agatha handed him jewelry. He wouldn’t have been able to pawn that so easily—not here on the island.”
George sighed. “Well, there’s nothing here.”
“I don’t trust him, George. I’m going to move him out of the bondsmen’s keep to a place where he’ll be isolated, where it will be difficult to escape.”
“What do you think your father will do with him?”
“I don’t know. But I want him alive and well when he and John return.”
Paul strode to the window and stared at the wooded grounds beyond. “I can’t go back to Espoir,” he murmured. “If I do, I might strangle her.”
George walked over to his friend and placed a reassuring hand upon his shoulder. “It’s not your fault, Paul. None of this is your fault.”
Paul nodded, tears stinging his eyes. “I know it’s not. But I’m so goddamn angry, I feel like—”
“We’re all angry, and we all feel helpless,” George reasoned. “Give it some time. We’ll recover. You’ll recover. As for Agatha, Jane Faraday will keep an eye on things there. And, if you’d like, I’ll venture over every so often.”
Paul faced him. “You’re a good friend, George. I’m lucky to have you here.”
John found his father at the rail, leaning forward, contemplating the vast Atlantic. He steeled himself for another confrontation. He doubted Jonah’s words. His father had raped Colette. How could she have loved such a man?
“So, Father,” he said as he came abreast of him, “she didn’t love me?”
Frederic turned around and folded his arms across his chest. “I shouldn’t have said that to you.”
John was not happy with his answer. “So, you’re saying you were wrong.”
“No. I’m saying I shouldn’t have said that to you.”
“If she didn’t love me, Father, why did she come from your bed to mine?”
Frederic didn’t answer, and John pressed on. “And unlike you, I didn’t have to force her. She came to me of her own volition.”
Frederic bowed his head, and John reveled in the delicious pain he was inflicting. “So what was it, Father?” he smiled crookedly, virulently, “you tired of forcing her or—”
“You’re not ready for the truth,” Frederic cut in.
“Try me.”
Frederic eyed him speculatively. “Colette chose you because I hadn’t made love to her for five long years. She was lonely.”
John laughed outright, the comment insane, but his father’s sober eyes gave him pause. Shaken, he blurted out, “I loved Colette!”
“That is where you and I are different, John. For I love her still.”
“How touching!”
“But true,” Frederic responded, turning back to the ocean. “I was also hurt.”
“You brought it down upon all of us—not I!” John accused.
“Yes, I did,” his father ceded, “but not for the reasons you think.”
“Then why?”
Frederic inhaled deeply, held the breath, then released it, all the while staring across the water as if he could see beyond the barriers of time. “The moment I saw Colette, I was struck by her resemblance to your mother—not in her looks, but in her mannerisms: the way she walked into a room, her self-confidence, her smile, the mischievous fire that lit up her eyes. Even the small things: the sweep of her hand and the lilt of her voice. They disturbed me, and though I struggled to ignore the similarities, the attraction only grew.”
“So, because she reminded you of my mother, that gave you the right to rape her?”
“No,” Frederic replied softly.
“Then why did you force her? Why did you steal her away? Do you really hate me that much?”
“I don’t hate you, John!”
“No?” John cried, spurred on by the malice he’d endured and suppressed the whole of his life. “Were you so angry I took Elizabeth from you that you took Colette from me? I loved her, couldn’t you see that?”
Frederic stood stunned, moved by his son’s unmasked torment. Dear God, is that what he thinks?
“How could you do that to me?” John demanded.
“I didn’t do it to you, John,” Frederic refuted. “And though you may never believe it, I am sorry.” He paused, at a loss, fearful of saying more. John continued t
o stare at him, his disbelief and misery increasing, an awesome front. For Frederic, it was now or never. “I misjudged Colette,” he began hesitantly, his chest constricting. “I was certain she was playing you for the fool—me for the fool. I’d overheard a few conversations between her and her friend and could see her mother’s fear of poverty. So I assumed Colette didn’t love you at all, that she was simply out for a rich husband. That night, I only thought to confront her, to make her realize she was playing with fire. But that fire got out of hand. Once I’d kissed her, the years fell away, and it was as if I had your mother back in my arms again. I know it’s not an excuse, but I was lost to desire.”
Frederic breathed deeply, the ache in his breast acute now. “She didn’t fight me. I realized later she was too frightened to fight. But when it was happening, I believed I was right about her: she had had other lovers. I couldn’t stop. I didn’t want to stop. I didn’t hurt her, John, not physically, anyway.”
He gulped back his pain. “When it was over, I realized my mistake. She was pure and innocent, and I was ashamed over what I had done. At the same time, I was elated my speculations had proven wrong. The next day, I couldn’t concentrate for thinking about her. That night, I went to her and offered marriage. I promised to help her family. Yes, I wanted to set things right, but more than anything, I wanted her to be my wife. I convinced myself what happened between us was destiny: she belonged with me and not you. You were young, I reasoned, too young to be married. You weren’t in love, merely infatuated. Eventually, you’d find another. So, I brushed your feelings aside.” Frederic closed his eyes, struggling valiantly to rein in his rampant emotions. “I convinced Colette this was true and warned her she might already be with child, my child. She realized she couldn’t go to you a soiled bride and agreed to marry me.”
He regarded his son, wondering how his words had been received. The ignominious story had to be as difficult to hear as it was to tell. “It wasn’t planned, John. It just happened.”
