by DeVa Gantt
“Really?” Mary rejoined. “Well, if he feels strongly for her, why didn’t he arrange a proper ceremony and celebration? He can well afford it, can he not?”
Why indeed?
For weeks, Loretta and Joshua fretted over Mary Stanton’s news.
Eventually, they received word from Charmaine, the correspondence lively and gay. She had married John. I know this will come as a shock to you and Mr. Harrington, she wrote, but nearly two weeks ago, I married John Duvoisin. Tell Mr. Harrington not to worry. I am very happy. As I insisted some months ago, John is not the man I thought him to be when first we met.
Though Loretta remained confused, she was at ease with Charmaine’s decision to wed. She had no reason to feel otherwise. The young woman had, in fact, done very well for herself, even if the man she had chosen was notorious.
But today, all of Loretta’s concerns were revived. She was dismayed Charmaine was already pregnant and left behind while her spouse traveled abroad. She considered her husband woefully. “What has happened, Joshua?” she whispered. “What do you suppose has happened to our dear Charmaine?”
“I’m afraid to guess,” Joshua bit out, “but I intend to find out.”
“How?”
“I will book passage to Charmantes,” he said determinedly. “And if you’re willing to brave the voyage, my dear, you are welcome to join me.”
“Do you think I’d allow you to travel there without me?”
The carriage pulled to a stop in front of the St. Jude Refuge, and Frederic allowed John to help him down to the cobblestone. “What are we doing here?” he queried in surprise.
“A bit of investigating,” John explained, as they entered the sanctuary. “I have a friend here who may have the means to provide information on our good Father Benito. We mustn’t forget the part he played in this atrocity.”
A nun opened the door. John pulled off his cap, and she led them into a tiny interior room, a makeshift office with sparse, worn furniture. They were seated for only a few minutes when a tall priest entered. His face brightened when John stood to greet him with a handshake. “John,” he breathed, belatedly noticing Frederic. “This must be your father.”
Frederic read the priest’s stunned expression and surmised he knew of their stormy relationship. As John introduced them, Michael stepped forward to shake hands. Something in his manner, his directness perhaps, put Frederic at ease.
“Please, have a seat,” Michael offered, pulling up a chair close to them. “I’m glad you decided to stop by. I’ve tried to get in touch with you for months now.”
“We’ve just arrived in Richmond,” John said.
The priest’s eyes returned to Frederic. “I gather your visit went well?”
“At the onset,” John answered grimly, “but this is not a social call, Michael. We learned the deaths of my son and Colette were not accidents. They were murdered.”
He recounted the evil plot that had taken the lives of Colette and Pierre. Michael listened without a word, reading the pain on each man’s face. “May God rest their souls,” he murmured compassionately when John had finished. “I’m very sorry. What can I do?”
John marshaled his emotions. “We’re seeking information on a Father Benito St. Giovanni. He shipwrecked on Charmantes almost twenty years ago and, when he recovered from nearly drowning, was asked to stay on as the island priest.”
“He claimed to be a missionary,” Frederic explained, “his destination another Caribbean island. During his recovery, he grew adamant about ‘converting’ Charmantes, assuring me the Vatican would approve such a mission, eventually boasting he’d received papal blessing from Rome. Of course, his work on my island could hardly be called missionary, but suggesting it afforded us a priest.”
John snorted. “If you could call him a priest.”
“Why do you say that, John?” Michael queried.
“He knew of the murders and was blackmailing my aunt.”
“Are you certain?”
“Oh, I’m certain,” John affirmed. “He confirmed all of Agatha’s mad ranting and raving. We even have a letter, penned in his own hand, as proof.”
“Dear God,” the priest sighed. “I’ll do what I can. It may take some time to receive word, but I’ll write to the Vatican and find out whatever I can about Father Benito St. Giovanni of Italy. When do you think you will return to Richmond?”
“That depends on how long it takes me to find Blackford in New York and—” John stopped short, but his manner and the fire in his eyes shook the priest.
“And?” Michael pressed, but John would say no more. “You don’t intend to take the law into your own hands, do you?” The silence collected and Michael looked to Frederic. “You’re not planning to murder this man, are you?” With Frederic’s muteness, Michael grew alarmed. “John, you must not do this! You may think retribution will satisfy you, but I promise, it will not. Please tell me you will not seek revenge on this man.”
“I can’t promise you that, Michael.”
Michael shook his head fiercely. “John—track him down, call the authorities, but leave it in their hands and in the hands of the Good Lord.”
“The Good Lord,” John bit out venomously, “allowed that man to take my innocent son, hold his head under the cold water and callously watch his arms and legs flail in unfathomable distress until the life was snuffed out of him.” Suddenly, he was crying. “Don’t tell me seeking revenge won’t satisfy me—bring me peace—because, goddamn it, I won’t know peace until the very last breath is snuffed out of him!”
Again Michael looked to Frederic. “You have to talk him out of this. He’ll be a wanted man—a murderer!”
“I can’t,” Frederic stated solemnly. “I want to see Blackford suffer as much as he does.”
“You are not in your right minds! Can’t you see this man is not worth your own souls? He’s already damned. Do not damn yourselves!”
Silence.
When the answer congealed into a knot of cold dread, Michael implored, “Is there nothing I can say to change your minds?”
“Pray for us, Father,” Frederic replied.
Michael shook his head, and John hurriedly stood, wanting only to end the meeting. “Depending on how long we’re in New York, we may head directly back to Charmantes. When you receive word from the Vatican, I’d appreciate it if you would send it to Stuart. He’ll make certain it gets to me.”
“I may deliver the correspondence myself,” Michael said softly, still shaken.
The statement piqued John’s curiosity. “Why?”
“I need to check on someone there,” Michael replied. “Actually, someone in your employ, Frederic.”
“Who?” Frederic asked, equally befuddled.
“The governess to your daughters—Charmaine Ryan.”
Though Frederic was surprised, John’s confusion ran rampant. “Charmaine?” he queried. How does Michael know her?
The priest was smiling again. “I took your advice, John, and contacted Loretta and Joshua Harrington shortly after you left for Charmantes. Charmaine was working for them when Marie passed away.”
Michael had never seen John speechless, let alone dumbstruck. “John, are you all right?”
“He’s in a bit of shock,” Frederic interjected. “You are the second person today who has inquired about his wife.”
“His wife?” Michael uttered. Impossible! The incredible coincidence had instantly grown fantastic. “But you never told me you knew her!”
“You never mentioned her name!” John rejoined.
“But surely you knew she was Marie’s daughter?” the priest pressed.
“I never knew,” John murmured, his memory jarred. That first morning he had come home, Charmaine had looked familiar. Marie—Charmaine was Marie’s daughter! His mind raced—John Ryan had killed Marie! His eyes darkened once more. “My God,” he breathed as all the pieces fit together. John Ryan isn’t Charmaine’s father! The insanity of it all hit him full force,
and quite abruptly, he threw back his head and laughed. “Wait until Charmaine hears this!”
“No, John,” the priest warned, eyeing Frederic, intent upon keeping the story confidential. “You mustn’t tell anyone! I want to see her first.”
“Not tell her?” John queried in waxing glee. “Of course you’ve got to tell her! She hates the man she thinks is her father.”
“John, please,” Michael cut in, searching Frederic’s face.
John’s eyes traveled to his father as well. “Your little secret won’t shock him, Michael. He’s done plenty of things of which he’s not proud. Believe me, he keeps secrets better than you keep confessions.”
Later, as John and his father traveled to his town house, Frederic asked him about Charmaine’s mother.
“I met her a few years ago. She was working at St. Jude’s and came to my aid when I no longer wanted to live. Like Charmaine, she was my savior of sorts, and through her, I befriended Michael. Together, they turned my life in a new and, I think, better direction. If I had known about Marie’s hardship, I would have helped her. But I’m ashamed to say we only spoke of me.”
He looked out the window, introspective with the wrenching revelation. He thought of Charmaine and realized how much he missed her.
They spent a quiet evening together. After dinner, John withdrew to his desk and wrote to her, carefully choosing the words he put to paper, telling her he loved her and longed to put this ordeal behind him. He then penned a quick letter to Paul. When he was finished, he said goodnight to his father.
Frederic stayed awake long into the night, contemplating all that had gone before, all that had been revealed today, and all they had yet to face. He walked to the hearth and studied a small sketch tacked there. It was a picture of a black horse rearing high in the air with the words: Fantom misses you, Johnny! So do we! Love, Yvette. With a sad sigh, he traced a finger over the drawing. It was faded and curled at the edges. What was I thinking when I tore this family apart? He retired, praying to God that, for once in his life, he was doing the right thing.
Michael prayed fervently that night as well, kneeling before the crucifix that hung above his bed. By dawn, he had come to a decision, inspired by his prayers. He found Sister Elizabeth, told her about his plans and, throwing some clothing into a threadbare satchel, left St. Jude’s.
Silence stalked the halls, cloaked the rooms, and seeped into the cracks and crevices, joining the darkness in an eerie, unholy communion. It was near midnight. Agatha crept up the staircase, her head cocked to one side, listening, groping, grasping the balustrade. “Frederic?” she whispered. “Is that you? Robert! Where are you? Is it accomplished?”
She found a lamp on a table and blindly lit it, chasing the dark away to lurk with the shadows. “Who is it?” she cried. Sensing a movement far off to her left, she whirled around. “Elizabeth—is that you?” Undaunted, she stepped closer. “I told you never to come back here! Frederic is mine now!”
A cold gust of air swirled about her lithe form, carrying upon it a whisper. “He’s gone now … never to return … ” Her eyes darted about the corridor, tracking the breeze back down the cavernous flight. It was true; Frederic had left days ago, hadn’t returned since she’d explained everything to him. She thought he would understand, but now, she was apprehensive.
Paul hadn’t awakened. He should be hungry by now, should have wanted to nurse. Panic seized her. Had Frederic taken her babe away? Or had Robert taken him again? She’d told him to take Pierre! The air whispered from below, as if reading her thoughts. “Pierre, mon caillou … ”
Agatha flew down the stairs, tripping on her robe and nearly dropping the lamp. She followed the wraith into the drawing room, her eyes distended in recognition. There stood Colette, grasping the hand of her small son.
“You!” Agatha hissed. “Where is Robert?” she demanded, searching the room. “He was supposed to take your boy away!” She laughed truculently. “Frederic will now know how it feels to have a child ripped from his arms!”
“My boy is safe,” Colette whispered, “with me.”
Again Agatha’s eyes darted about. “Where’s Robert? Where is he?”
Colette smiled. “He’s gone … with the other babe … ”
“Elizabeth’s bastard?”
“No, John is with Frederic … is safe with his father.”
Fear seized Agatha. “Paul?” she cried, flying to all corners of the room and out to the foyer. “No! Robert promised me! He promised to make me happy—promised he’d never take Paul from me again!”
“But you didn’t make him happy,” Colette breathed. “He’s angry with you.”
It was true; Robert hated her now. Agatha had used him, and he knew it.
The front door flew open and the night air beckoned to her. “Where did he go?” she pleaded. “Where did he take my baby?”
Colette led the way. “You told him to drown the boy … ”
Instantly, Agatha knew. Desperate, she ran after the apparition that remained out of reach. “Oh God!” she sobbed.
“Agatha … you deserted Him long ago … ”
“Please!” she shrieked. “Not my son! Please, not my son!”
The dock was just ahead, and Agatha flew across it, possessed. She could see a dinghy bobbing in the waves. “Robert! No! Please! You have the wrong boy!”
There were cabins near the wharf. The men inside thought they heard a cry, but they stepped out too late, rubbing sleepy eyes. They heard a splash. Or was it the clapping waves? They shrugged and returned to their quarters.
Thursday, August 30, 1838
The Richmond harbor was already buzzing when John and Frederic arrived at the Raven. Jonah was on the quay with Stuart Simons, and John was pleased. He thought it would be months before he saw Stuart again.
“John,” he greeted, “I was expecting the Destiny to land today, but certainly not the Raven and you.” He noticed Frederic and politely extended a hand. “You must be Frederic,” he said jovially. “I’m Stuart Simons.”
John let Frederic reply, then took Stuart aside, walking the length of the boardwalk with him.
“Jonah told me what happened,” Stuart said. “I’m sorry, John.”
“I’m dealing with it,” John replied, abruptly brushing the matter aside. “Remember when you made inquiries about John Ryan?”
“Yes. What about it?”
“Have any of the longshoremen seen him?”
“I don’t know.” When John frowned, Stuart added, “I never really pursued it, so he may have been around.”
“Spread the word I’m offering a reward to anyone who can identify him. When you know who he is, pay him so well he can’t wait to come to work each day.”
“Why?” Stuart asked in bewilderment.
“Once he’s consistent about showing up, promote him to a better paying job on board a Charmantes-bound packet. When he’s on that ship, notify me.”
“But how am I to know where you are?”
“Send the information with the cargo invoices. If I’m not on the island, Paul will be there and know what to do. I’ve written to him.” John pulled two letters from his shirtfront. “Make sure these are on the Destiny.”
“But she’s headed for Liverpool. We’re packing her hold with tobacco.”
“Load only half,” John directed. “The Raven will return to Richmond by next week, ready to take on a full cargo. As for the Destiny, Paul can fill her hold with sugar.” He handed Stuart the letters. “It’s important these get to Charmantes.”
John didn’t know Michael Andrews had boarded the Raven. Frederic told him to stay below deck until they were far from port. When he did emerge, John was annoyed. “What’s this?” and he looked from his father to Michael. “Now I have two fathers with whom to contend?”
“You’re stuck with me,” Michael said, casting his eyes heavenward. “Rant and rave all you like, but I’ve been sent by a higher authority.”
“I hope you can walk on
water, Michael. Any preaching, and I’m throwing you overboard.”
The news of Agatha’s death reached Paul when he arrived in town early that morning. In less than an hour, he stepped onto Espoir. The corpse was left as it had been found on the beach, with a blanket draped over it. With a mixture of disgust and guilt, hatred and sadness, he looked down at Agatha’s bloated body. His heart heavy, he ordered two men to construct a pine box for the burial.
That night, he sat in his grand mansion, alone and lonely. So this was what commercial success meant. In the past four months, three vessels had departed his island; their cargo would fetch tidy purses. Yet today, he didn’t feel the deep satisfaction he’d always experienced when he’d worked hard for his father. He retired, the empty hallways echoing his desolation. He could not sleep.
Michael knocked on John’s cabin door, then entered the cubicle on an indrawn breath and a prayer. John was seated at a small desk, his brow furrowed. “I’m not here to preach,” Michael promised. “I’d like to talk about Charmaine.”
John leaned back and propped his feet atop the desk, inviting him to sit on the small cot. He was smiling now. “I love her,” he said decisively.
Michael returned the smile and asked, “How did this happen?”
“God, Michael, I don’t know. When I returned home to find Colette had died, Charmaine was already there caring for the children. I didn’t like her at first. Actually, I misjudged her.” I misjudged Colette … John frowned with the unbidden thought, rubbed his brow, and addressed Michael again. “We were thrown together day after day. I wanted to spend as much time as possible with Pierre, and of course, she was always there. She was a mother to him. When he died, she was as devastated as I was, and yet, she comforted me. Looking back on it now, I know I was in love with her when I left last fall, but with everything that happened, I wasn’t ready to admit it until I went back home last April and saw her again.” He grinned with the heady memory. “It was a taste of heaven to find she felt the same way about me.”
John grew thoughtful. “If your God is out there, Michael, he planned this one pretty well, didn’t he? And I promise you this: we couldn’t protect Marie, but you needn’t ever worry about Charmaine.”
