Forever Waiting

by DeVa Gantt

  “I don’t want to hear any more,” John sneered.

  “Very well,” Frederic rasped, grabbing hold of John’s arm before he could walk away. “Answer me this: If I am willing to accept your love for Colette—forgive your affair—why can’t you consider that I loved her, too?”

  John yanked free, unmoved by his sire’s beseeching voice. “I’m not asking for your forgiveness, Father! I didn’t do anything wrong. I took what belonged to me in the first place.”

  Frederic shook his head, knowing John couldn’t possibly believe that. “I should have released her,” he murmured. “I tried to deny loving her for those five years. It would have been easier to let her go.”

  “Then why didn’t you?”

  “Because I loved her,” he said simply. “I loved her, and I couldn’t bear to see her walk out of my life. Having her there, even without her love, was preferable to never seeing her again.”

  “So, you admit she didn’t love you,” John rejoined.

  “I thought she didn’t love me,” he corrected softly. “The first year we were married, we were happy—I was happy, happier than I’d been in a very long time. I had a reason for living again. I thought Colette was happy, too. Though she never said it, I felt in my heart she’d grown to love me.

  “Then she was expecting and we were overjoyed, until the night the twins came into the world. It was a terrible ordeal, the labor long and hard. Blackford gave her something for the pain. I stayed with her, frightened I was going to lose her all over again, as I did the night you were born. Then the laudanum took effect and she became delirious. She called for you over and over again, leaving no doubt as to whom she really loved.”

  Frederic bowed his head with the painful memory, and John recalled the fierce argument he’d had with Colette that night, one that had induced her labor, perhaps ravaged her mind.

  “I begged God to spare her, John— vowed I’d never touch her again if He’d just let her live. And so, when she recovered, I stayed away. At first, I was able to accept my promise, but as time passed, I began to pray she would come to me. When she didn’t, I ached with the belief she had never loved me.

  “I threw myself into work—first on Charmantes, then on Espoir. Then you came home, and things went from bad to worse. I don’t blame you, John, and I don’t blame Colette, I blame myself. At that time, however, I wanted to blame everyone but myself.

  “After the stroke, I prayed to God to take me, so you and Colette could be together. But death never came.

  “The years passed, and suddenly, she was gravely ill. I was going to lose her all over again, and I damned myself for the pain I had caused her, the time I had wasted. I bared my heart to her—told her I had always loved her and asked her to forgive me. She said she’d forgiven me years ago—said she loved me, but thought I hated her for what she had done—thought I no longer wanted her. Dear God, how could she think I wouldn’t want her?”

  His eyes grew glassy, his hoarse voice nearly inaudible. “She died in my arms that night, John. When I awoke the next morning, she was gone. She died in my arms … ”

  Frederic’s tears fell freely now, and John, with eyes stinging, walked away.

  Wednesday, August 29, 1838

  In less than four days, the Raven reached Richmond. John threw his knapsack over his shoulder and rushed down the gangplank, bent on abandoning his sire. He glanced back to see Frederic laboring far behind him, trying his level best to keep up. It wasn’t planned—it just happened … That’s how it starts—with a slip, an innocent slip …

  “Shit!”

  John hailed a carriage, then turned back to his father, grabbed his bag, and helped him into the conveyance.

  “Good luck!” Jonah Wilkinson shouted after them.

  “Don’t leave port until I speak with you tomorrow!” John called back. “We may need the packet.”

  The bank was busy for a Wednesday, but John and Frederic went straight to the platform and inquired for the bank manager, Thomas Ashmore, an acquaintance of John’s. “I need some information on a Robert Blackford,” John stated, once his father had been introduced and handshakes exchanged.

  “Well, John,” the bank manager proceeded cautiously, “what kind of information are we talking about?”

  “Robert Blackford left Charmantes four months ago,” he offered. “At that time he had closed out a sizable account with the island’s bank and had a promissory note drawn up payable to this bank. We are trying to track him down. Therefore, I need to find out when he deposited that note, if, in fact, he still holds an account here, or whether the money was endorsed to another bank.”

  “Well, John,” Thomas Ashmore replied, “you’re asking for personal information. Can you give me a good reason why I should release it to you?”

  “The man is a murderer.”

  “Well, John, why don’t you go to the authorities?”

  “Because I want to track him down myself, Ash-hole,” John replied through clenched teeth, missing Frederic’s snigger.

  “Well, John—”

  “Is ‘well John’ the only thing you know how to say?” Frederic interrupted.

  Thomas gave Frederic a sidelong glance. “Well, sir—”

  “Obviously, it is,” Frederic bit out. “Mr. Ashmore, this institution was one of the few unscathed by last year’s bank panic, was it not?”

  Thomas nodded, but his eyes grew wide as saucers.

  “I daresay, I had a lot to do with that, considering my substantial backing here. Now, if this bank wishes to avoid another such panic today, you had best go and find the information my son has requested. If you are not back here in ten minutes’ time, information in hand, I will close out every account I have in this establishment, and demand each balance in cash. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir,” Ashmore gulped out before fleeing his desk.

  Very good! John thought.

  Joshua Harrington overheard the dispute at Thomas Ashmore’s desk and was taken aback when John Duvoisin turned around and flopped down in the nearest chair as the banker scurried away.

  “Mr. Duvoisin?” Joshua inquired, determined to speak to him.

  John looked up and, canting his head, tried to place name to the man’s face.

  “Mr. John Duvoisin?” Joshua asked again.

  “What can I do for you?” John responded. Frederic looked on in interest.

  “I’m Joshua Harrington. We met quite a few years ago … I was wondering if your wife was with you—here in Richmond?”

  “Charmaine?” John asked in bewilderment. Who is this man? His name sounded familiar.

  “Yes, Charmaine lived with my wife and me before becoming governess on Les Charmantes.”

  John rubbed his forehead. Of course!

  “We are concerned about her,” Joshua rushed on. “Her last letter— well, we’d love to see her and make certain she is—in good health.”

  “Yes,” John breathed, irritated by the tacit message Charmaine was in peril married to him. “Unfortunately, she did not accompany me. I had urgent business to attend, and she wasn’t able to make the voyage in her condition.”

  Joshua’s brows raised in what appeared to be ghastly comprehension.

  “She is fine,” John quickly added, “but preferred to stay behind.”

  Thomas Ashmore returned, and with a nod, Joshua retreated.

  Frederic and John left the bank with the information they needed. Blackford had deposited the monies on the fifteenth of April and drawn on the new account immediately. The family’s finances had facilitated his escape: The Charmantes’ seal guaranteed the note and the Duvoisin funds were held against it. He had taken a quarter of the money in cash and the remainder in another note payable to a New York bank.

  They headed back to the harbor to check the ships’ manifests for the month of May and ascertain exactly when Blackford had headed to New York City.

  The carriage was quiet. John stared out the window. Frederic watched him. “Do you love
Charmaine?” he abruptly asked.

  John faced him, brow creased. “What do you mean, do I love her?”

  “It’s a simple question, John.”

  “Yes, I love her.”

  Frederic turned and looked out his window.

  “That’s it, Father?” John queried. “That’s all you wanted to know? I know you better than that. What was your real reason for asking that question?”

  “You certainly didn’t give Mr. Harrington the impression you love her,” Frederic replied, ignoring John’s dismissive grunt. “The man was obviously concerned. You did nothing to alleviate his disquiet. In fact, he appeared more worried when he walked away.”

  “He’ll get over it,” John replied dryly.

  “Yes, but what of Charmaine? Do you think she’ll get over it?” He gave John a moment. “You may have told her you needed to do this for Pierre, and I understand that. But on the ship, your anger was about Colette.”

  “My anger, Father,” John ground out, “was directed at you, no one else. Do you want to hear how I hate you for robbing me of the three short years I could have spent with my son? If you had seen Agatha for what she was, Pierre would still be alive, wouldn’t he?”

  “Yes, he would,” Frederic capitulated softly. “But Charmaine sees only one face when she thinks of you running off and leaving her, and that face is not Pierre’s. You should go back home and allow me to find Blackford.”

  “No,” John snarled. “You’re not going to deprive me of the satisfaction of seeing his face when I confront him. He will wish he had died and gone to hell.”

  “We’re of a similar mind, but are you willing to forfeit Charmaine for that?”

  “Charmaine has waited for me before, Father. She will wait for me again.”

  “Are you certain?” Frederic probed. “Your brother loves her, too, you know. I’ve seen it in his eyes.”

  John grunted again, and again Frederic paid him no mind. “Your eyes, when you looked at Colette after I married her.”

  “My eyes were filled with loathing.”

  “And deep pain and longing,” Frederic finished. “Strange how one can desire something the most when it is no longer his to claim.”

  “Charmaine doesn’t love Paul,” John reasoned, “or she would have gone to him long before I returned.”

  “I pray you are right. But she has a woman’s heart now, one that you’ve broken. In her pain, she may turn to the nearest arms that offer her solace.”

  John was ill at ease with Frederic’s words, but as the carriage drew near the docks, he refused to be deterred. He resolved to write Charmaine that night and let her know he loved her despite their strained good-bye.

  Charmaine sat at the piano, absentmindedly picking out a disjointed melody. Mercedes and George had taken the girls into town, for she had been dismal company the past five days. Even the news of Mercedes’s pregnancy had not lifted her spirits. In the quiet solitude, her mind wandered to the sea and Richmond. Any hope John would change his mind and turn back dwindled by the day. She had been a fool to ever love him—a stupid fool! She did not hear Paul step into the room.

  He considered her momentarily, her sorry state. Nobody could make her see reason. His assertion on her wedding night had met its mark. How easy it would be to exploit it now, to side with her and bolster her doubts. He walked over to the piano and put his hands on her shoulders. “It is quiet now,” he said when she turned to face him. “We need to talk.” He drew up a chair and took both of her hands into his. “Charmaine, I know you’re angry with John, but you can’t go on like this. He and my father may be gone for weeks. Do you really want to be miserable the entire time they’re away?”

  “You are right,” she said. “Why should I sit here pining for John, when I know he hasn’t given me a second thought?”

  Inspired, Paul agreed. “Exactly! I told you I’d always be here for you, Charmaine. When you’ve had enough of this, my arms are wide open.”

  She was aghast and jumped to her feet. “If you think I could forget John that easily, you insult me! I may be angry with him, but—”

  Her anger instantly ebbed, for Paul’s eyes were laughing up at her. “I thought you hated him,” he said.

  “I do,” she sputtered, sinking back down to the bench. “I do hate him and when he gets back, he’s going to hear it! But—”

  “—you love him, too,” he finished for her, “so much so you hate him for leaving you in pursuit of Blackford. And there’s nothing wrong with that.”

  “But what if he doesn’t come back, Paul?” she implored, voicing her darkest fear. “I’m so worried for him.”

  “Charmaine, nobody is as slick as John. He knows what he’s doing. If he can’t find Blackford, no one can. And Father is there to watch out for him. I doubt anything will happen to either of them.” He paused for a moment and added thoughtfully, “Don’t you find it strange they’ve been thrown together to set this terrible thing right, as if it is meant to be? Providence perhaps. Maybe they will come home reconciled, not only with the past, but with each other.”

  Charmaine listened quietly, wishing his wisdom true. Clearly, he had been pondering the nefarious events almost as much as she and cared enough about her to offer comfort. She lifted her hand to his rough cheek. “I pray you are right,” she said softly. “And I promise not to be so very miserable from now on.”

  He took her hand and pressed her palm to his lips. “I want you to be happy, Charmaine.”

  The Duvoisin ship manifests revealed Blackford had left Richmond on the Seasprit on the sixteenth of May, which put him in New York by the eighteenth. He’d had over three months to dissolve into the hubbub of the burgeoning city.

  With Frederic waiting on the wharf, John boarded the Raven and spoke to Jonah. They would set sail on the morrow, and the cargo of tobacco and sugar intended for England would be sold at auction in New York instead.

  They settled back in the cab, and John turned to Frederic. “I would like to make one last stop. It won’t take long.”

  Frederic nodded, wondering what John had in mind.

  Joshua Harrington arrived home, heavy of heart. He entered the front parlor with head down, wondering how he would tell his wife what he had learned.

  Loretta immediately knew something was wrong. “What is it?”

  “I encountered John Duvoisin at the bank today.”

  Her face lit up. “Was Charmaine with him?”

  “I’m afraid not, my dear, and I fear things are not good between Charmaine and her husband. She was left behind because she is expecting. I knew no good would come of this.”

  Loretta wondered if he meant Charmaine’s marriage to John or her idea to send Charmaine to Charmantes. Over the last two years, the letters they’d received from Charmaine often conveyed a disconcerting gloom. She wrote of Colette’s death, Frederic’s marriage to Agatha, the prodigal son’s return, and little Pierre’s terrible drowning accident. Both Loretta and Joshua surmised something more dreadful than Pierre’s death had happened to this family, and they had second thoughts about Charmaine living there. Yet, she gave no indication she wanted to return to Richmond. Instead, she wrote of her resolve to stay by the twins’ side, John’s departure, Frederic’s slow recovery, and Paul’s preparations for the unveiling of his fleet of ships and island. Obviously, she was spending a great deal of time with Paul, though she never mentioned her feelings, nor speculated where that relationship might lead. Loretta worried often, but Charmaine was a woman now, twenty years old, certainly old enough to make sound decisions.

  Michael Andrews’s peculiar visit nearly five months ago rekindled their concern. Not two weeks later, Joshua and Loretta entertained Raymond and Mary Stanton, just returned from Charmantes and Paul Duvoisin’s commercial debut. Mary was burning to recount the most unexpected and quiet wedding that had capped the week’s events.

  “You knew nothing about this, Loretta?” Mary had exclaimed, reading Loretta’s surprise, ravenous for more go
ssip. “Surely Charmaine wrote she had feelings for this man—that he was courting her? No?”

  When Loretta remained speechless, the woman rushed on, tickled to tell what she knew. “It was so strange—the whole thing.” Then she paused, reliving the grandiose event. “Oh, it was a most impressive affair. Charmaine, however, was there in the capacity of governess, nothing more. I spoke with her before the ball. She was plainly dressed, with the children at her side. She said nothing about having an escort for the evening and disappeared not two hours later, settling the girls for the night, no doubt. I can assure you no one expected her to return—certainly not on John Duvoisin’s arm, anyway, and so elegantly garbed! She remained at his side for the rest of the evening, danced nearly every dance with him. As for Paul—he may have squired the widow London to the festivities, but everyone could see he was preoccupied with Charmaine. He appeared highly agitated. Either he did not want her there or he disapproved of her partner.” Mary shook her head as if she could not fathom it. “My, you should have heard the talk when he danced with her! Something was amiss to be sure!”

  Loretta shuddered, displeased Charmaine was the subject of much Richmond gossip. Though she dreaded the rest of the scandalmonger’s narrative, her desire to know was greater than the woman’s humiliating glee, and so, Loretta allowed her to prattle on.

  “I heard that, at Mass the following morning, John was seated beside her again, a most unexpected sight, as everyone who is anyone knows he never attends church services. They say Charmaine’s head remained bowed for the entire time, feeding speculation as to her involvement with the heir to the Duvoisin fortune. But nobody was prepared for the announcement John made at the conclusion of the service. They were wed not two hours earlier! And I have it on good authority Paul was furious.”

  “What of Charmaine?” Loretta probed worriedly. “What was her reaction?”

  “Anne London maintains she couldn’t stop blushing, as if—” Mary lowered her voice to a whisper “—as if she had something to be embarrassed about.”

  “Mary,” Loretta chided sharply, “you don’t know that. After all, Mr. Duvoisin must feel strongly for Charmaine if he proposed marriage to her.”