Forever Waiting

by DeVa Gantt

  The last remark brought her shame, and she turned away, glad when another knock fell on the outer door.

  Paul followed her out of the bedroom, somewhat contrite. He, too, was grateful for the distraction. George was standing on the threshold.

  “Where have you been?” Paul demanded.

  “Looking for you,” George replied. “When Wade sent word he wouldn’t be going to the mill, I figured one of us would have to oversee his work. You left the house before me. I missed you at the tobacco fields, then I went to the mill—”

  “All right, George, I understand,” Paul ceded. He rubbed the back of his neck, the day’s work less pressing than Wade.

  George volunteered to fetch Dr. Hastings, and before Paul knew it, he was once again alone with Rebecca. Her face remained stern.

  “You were far more fetching at the ball,” he commented with a lazy smile. “Remember—in the kitchen—when you were in love with me?”

  “Mr. Duvoisin,” she responded flatly, feigning disinterest in his flirtatious compliment, “I told you my brother won’t waste his money on a doctor. Thanks to you, he has a fever. With a bit of rest, he will heal all on his own.”

  “Thanks to me?”

  “Yes. You see, Wade kept on working in the pouring rain last week—to make things easier for you. He caught a chill, and now he’s paying for it.”

  Paul ignored her statement. “Why didn’t you tell me you had sent word?”

  “I thought that was the reason you were here.” When he seemed confused, she continued, “I thought you were going to force him to work, anyway.” She bowed her head. “I love my brother. He’s all I have.”

  “And that is why George is fetching Dr. Hastings,” Paul interjected. “You needn’t worry about his fee. I’ll take care of it.”

  “Wade wouldn’t like that,” she argued, her head jerking up, eyes flashing again. “It would be like taking charity.”

  “Miss Remmen,” Paul countered, “if your brother remains ill for days on end, I will lose a great deal more money than the cost of a doctor. Right now, I’m shorthanded. I need Wade up and about. He’s invaluable.”

  She looked at him quizzically, and it occurred to him she didn’t understand. “I can’t do without him,” he explained, distracted by the sparkling green eyes that changed on a dime, speaking volumes.

  Apparently, his reasoning met with her approval, for she was smiling now, the orbs even more captivating with this new expression. She was lovely.

  “Would you like a cup of coffee or perhaps tea?” she offered, grabbing the kettle and swinging it over the embers in the hearth.

  “That would be nice. I’d like to hear what the doctor has to say.”

  Rebecca grew dismayed. “You don’t think it is serious, do you?”

  “No, you are probably right. Wade will mend all on his own.”

  She sighed, her smile returning. Then, as if suddenly shy, she began to stoke the fire. Paul sat back and watched her.

  Dr. Hastings’s diagnosis was similar to Rebecca’s: overwork and a chilling rain had brought on the fever, bed-rest and nourishment, the cure. Paul told her to keep Wade home until Monday and he wanted to know if there wasn’t an improvement. Then he and George were saying their farewells.

  As they turned their horses onto the main road, George spoke. “Rebecca is smitten with you.”

  Paul snorted.

  “It’s true! You should have seen her at the ball. I danced with her once, but she couldn’t keep her eyes off you the entire evening. If you hadn’t been so damn busy, I would have introduced you.”

  Again Paul snorted. He didn’t tell George Rebecca had introduced herself.

  George pressed on. “Whenever I go to the cottage, she always brings the conversation around to you.”

  Paul’s brow arched, and though he tried not to, he smiled. “She wasn’t too happy with me this morning.”

  “She can be a regular spitfire,” George confirmed. “She bullies Wade like no man’s business. But she is quite lovely.”

  “And young—she can’t be more than sixteen.”

  “Just seventeen, I believe.” He paused for a moment. “You know, Paul, a bit of a diversion is what you need—take your mind off things.”

  Paul scoffed at the idea. “The last time I had a ‘bit of a diversion’ I lost the one thing that meant the most to me.”

  “Maybe Charmaine wasn’t yours to find,” George replied evenly. He let the remark sink in before saying, “John will be home before long. And when that happens, you’ll be nursing a broken heart— again.”

  Paul looked away. “Is it that obvious?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  Paul shook his head. “When did things become so complicated, George? I remember when we were young. Everything was so very simple. We enjoyed life, and the women were free for the picking.”

  “I guess we grew up,” George supplied.

  “I guess we have.”

  Another knock resounded on the Remmen door. Rebecca collected herself and walked slowly to the door. Perhaps it was Paul again. She lamented his departure, treasuring the private moments she’d had with him. But when she opened it, she frowned in disappointment. Felicia Flemmings stood in the doorway. “What was Paul Duvoisin doing here?”

  “My brother is not well,” Rebecca answered. “Paul was checking on him.”

  “Paul is it?” Felicia asked as she pushed into the cottage.

  Rebecca eyed her speculatively. She didn’t think she liked the older girl, though Felicia had tried to ingratiate herself with Rebecca from the moment she’d moved back into her parents’ home next door. Rebecca suspected it was because Wade was so good-looking. But she had allowed Felicia her visits over the past few days because the older girl was willing to divulge a plethora of information concerning the goings-on in the Duvoisin mansion, details about Paul the most interesting of all. Felicia had told her she’d quit her domestic job at the manor because she couldn’t tolerate John’s new wife, Charmaine, an opportunistic trollop, who was intent on ensnaring Paul in her husband’s absence. “I couldn’t watch it any longer,” she had complained. “Poor John!”

  Poor Paul, Rebecca had thought.

  Presently, Felicia was assessing her, chuckling perspicaciously. “You have your sights set for Paul, don’t you?”

  “I’m going to marry him.”

  Felicia guffawed until she realized Rebecca was serious, the girl’s tight expression giving her pause. When Wade didn’t appear, she wished her luck with another flippant chuckle and promptly left.

  Rebecca tucked the woman’s ridicule in the back of her mind and indulged in memories of Paul: his rough hands on her, strong arms lifting her up, carrying her … She was alone; her brother slept soundly. Intoxicated, she entered her bedroom and, with heart accelerating, closed the door.

  Friday, September 28, 1838

  Yvette and Jeannette’s tenth birthday dawned bright and warm. But the brilliant day did not lift Charmaine’s spirits. She left her bedchamber with a heavy heart, dwelling on cherished memories of last year. She wondered where John was and what he was doing. Did he remember what day it was? Was he thinking about their wonderful picnic one short year ago?

  The girls were sad, too, making no inquiries about gifts when they reached the dining room.

  Mercedes and George were there. “Why the glum faces?” George asked. “I thought everyone was happy on their birthday.”

  “We don’t feel like celebrating,” Yvette grumbled. “Not without Johnny.”

  “Is that so?” he queried. “Mercedes and I thought the two of you would like to try out the new saddles and tack Paul purchased for your ponies.” He was smiling now, noting their faltering sadness. “That’s right. Mercedes placed the order. And I’ve taken the day off so we can go riding.”

  Sparks of happiness lit the girls’ eyes. Soon they were departing. Charmaine couldn’t join them in her condition. Instead, she sat with Rose on the portico and thought about
John. Tomorrow, he’d be spending his birthday with his father …

  Monday, October 1, 1838

  The days melted into weeks. Frederic and Michael spent them visiting the city post office and the shipping offices, combing address listings and immigrant registers for Blackfords. Though common sense suggested the man had changed his name, they couldn’t be certain, and with nothing to go on, they were compelled to track down every Blackford, Black, Ford, and eventually Smith, Jones, and Brown they came across. Frederic exerted his influence on the owners of other shipping lines to gain access to passenger manifests. Not one listed a Blackford leaving New York recently, but they found a number of Blacks and Fords in the post office registry. Though it did not provide a street address, the public roll did help narrow down the neighborhoods where these men lived. Frederic and Michael passed hours scouring the streets and visiting places of business in the hopes of turning up the fugitive doctor. Even with the most remote of leads, they often waited an entire day for the resident to return, only to head home disappointed.

  John wore street clothes like the immigrant factory workers, making the trip every day to the shipping wharfs downtown, the mercantile exchanges on South Street, or the textile factories on the lower East Side, talking to dockworkers, visiting taverns, and casing houses of ill-repute. He asked passersby if they’d seen anyone meeting Blackford’s description, or if they knew anyone who went by that name. He’d inquire of local doctors and mention the names Black and Ford, Smith and Brown. He’d walk the residential avenues of redbrick row houses and meander through the slums south of Wall Street, hoping to get lucky and spot his uncle.

  He liked this face of the city: the immigrants pouring off the merchant ships, longshoremen heading home for dinner after twelve hours of grueling labor. He watched children playing in the streets and mothers doing laundry in wooden tubs and hanging the clothes out to dry. New York was where they all wanted to be, and he enjoyed being in their midst, even though his own privileged life was so different from theirs. As hard as the labor was, they all tarried with such purpose, leaving hopeless existences in Europe for the chance at something better. John was sure the city would one day be the jewel in the crown of the nation, for the Erie Canal had made the city the gateway to the West, a merchant’s magnet.

  Tonight, he sat at the desk writing a letter to Charmaine. In his rush to press on to New York, he hadn’t given her the address where he could be reached. George knew it, but John wanted to send it along, just to be sure. How ironic that tonight his father was in this house with him. He’d scrupulously kept the residence a secret in the hopes that one day he, Colette, and the children could start a new life here. If they fled to New York, nobody, especially Frederic, would ever find them. Last year, it had taken George weeks to track him down, resorting to staking out the Duvoisin shipping offices until, one day, John stopped by.

  A month had already passed since he’d last written to Charmaine. Tomorrow, he’d put this letter in the mail to Richmond, and Stuart would place it on the next Duvoisin vessel bound for Charmantes. He had held off writing, hoping he’d have encouraging news. But at least he could write they were ruling out each Blackford one by one. He was anxious for news from Charmantes.

  The parlor was chilly. He left the desk to stoke the fire with fresh logs, pushing them back with the iron poker. The logs hissed, throwing out angry embers that lit the hearth like tiny fireworks. Frederic and Michael reclined in the armchairs on either side of it.

  Frederic considered John in the tranquil room. He had been pensive, distant all day. A year ago this week, Pierre had died. Obviously, the bleak anniversary was on his son’s mind.

  He looked above the mantel. John had tacked a small drawing there. I gave Mama and Pierre the hug and kiss you sent Jeannette had written below a picture of five figures standing on a beach. Frederic remembered Yvette’s sketch in John’s Richmond town house, and he bowed his head regretfully.

  “All these empty houses, John … in Richmond—here. All these empty, lonely houses.”

  Michael looked up from his bible, as did John from the fireplace. “I’m in Richmond and New York frequently, Father. Houses are more comfortable than hotels,” he replied placidly, wondering over Frederic’s thoughts.

  “You wanted to bring them here—always hoped that someday you’d bring them here, didn’t you?” Frederic mused more than asked.

  Michael stood up to leave.

  “You can stay, Michael,” John said, his eyes fixed on his father, astonished by his parent’s acuity. He looked away and stared into the hearth, propping an arm against the mantel. Perhaps for the first time, he really understood Frederic, the deep regrets the man harbored. If his father could turn back time to that fateful day five years ago—the day of their vicious row and Frederic’s debilitating seizure—he would let Colette go, just so she could be alive today. Suddenly, everything was very clear. Frederic hadn’t coveted Colette to smite him, or to exact revenge. His father had done so because he loved her and couldn’t bear to let her go. Now remorse plagued him, and he desperately needed to be forgiven. But there was no one to offer comfort, no one to comprehend his pain. The room had fallen silent, and the minutes gathered.

  “When I came back here after Pierre died,” John murmured, “I asked myself a million times: Why didn’t I protect him? How could I have left him alone that morning? I should have realized he’d wake up, find me gone, and go looking for me. He’d told me at dinner what he was going to do. I should have seen it coming.”

  John sighed against the crushing pain in his chest. “I wasn’t in the room the night he died, either. Charmaine found me and told me. She was as devastated as I was. She could have blamed me, but she didn’t. Instead, she was compassionate. I held on to her words for months afterward, remembered them when I didn’t want to go on anymore … ”

  John stopped to collect his rampant emotions. “No, Pierre didn’t go looking for me,” he rasped, “but if I’d taken him seriously, I would never have left that room, and Blackford wouldn’t have been able to snatch him away. Sometimes it can be right under your nose—so damn obvious—and still, you don’t see it.” John looked back at Frederic, struggling for words. “Colette’s death wasn’t your fault, Father. I was furious when I found out what happened, but I shouldn’t have blamed you. Agatha and Blackford are to blame— not you.”

  John went back to the desk, sat down, and picked up the pen.

  Michael was astounded. He looked at Frederic. The man’s face was awash with relief and hopefulness, and Michael’s heart swelled with pride for Charmaine. Her influence was at work here with these wounded, but healing souls. His own soul rejoiced with a gladness he hadn’t experienced in three long years. Marie was gone, but her kindness and empathy lived on. This was why he’d become a priest, remained a priest even through his apathy and self-doubt. Michael closed his eyes and offered a prayer of thanks.

  Tuesday, October 2, 1838

  When Jeannette heard a carriage approaching, she scampered to the balcony, and her sister quickly followed. Charmaine’s heart caught in her throat and the baby gave a violent kick. She, too, rushed out the French doors. John! He’s injured and they’re bringing him home in the carriage because he can’t … She refused to entertain the horrific conclusion.

  An unfamiliar coach had passed through the front gates. She watched a moment longer, then composed herself and followed the girls downstairs. They stepped onto the front portico as the carriage door swung open and Joshua Harrington stepped down, turning to assist his wife.

  “Mrs. Harrington!” Charmaine gasped, consumed with relief, disappointment, surprise, and joy. “Mr. Harrington! What are you doing here?” She rushed down the portico steps and fell into Loretta’s embrace.

  “My dear!” Loretta exclaimed, tears brimming in her eyes as she held Charmaine at arm’s length and assessed her from head to toe. “So it is true?” she said, her gaze resting momentarily on Charmaine’s middle.

  Charmaine b
lushed. “Yes, it’s true. Didn’t you receive my letter?”

  Loretta shook her head, but seeing the happiness in Charmaine’s eyes, felt reassured things were not as bad as she and her husband had feared.

  Yvette and Jeannette stepped forward and were reintroduced.

  Charmaine clicked her tongue. “Where are my manners, having you stand out here in the blazing sun? Let’s go inside where it’s cool.”

  Joshua turned to retrieve their luggage, but Charmaine scolded him. “Leave that, Mr. Harrington. I’ll have Travis get your bags.” She led the company up the porch steps, instructing the butler to see to the Harrington’s belongings. “Take them up to John’s old room. Our company should be comfortable there.”

  “Very good, Miss Charmaine,” the manservant nodded with a smile.

  Loretta and Joshua exchanged astonished glances. Charmaine had regally assumed the title of Mrs. John Duvoisin. But was Frederic’s wife, Agatha, happy with the young woman’s air of authority?

  They settled in the drawing room, and Charmaine rang for lemonade. She joined Loretta on the settee, her eyes sparkling, still astounded Loretta was truly there. “What has brought you to Charmantes?”

  “We were concerned for you,” Loretta began, glancing at the twins.

  Charmaine understood and addressed the girls. “Since we have visitors, why don’t we postpone your lessons for the day?”

  They eagerly agreed. “May we visit the stables and curry our ponies?” Jeannette asked. With Charmaine’s assent, they said goodbye and hastened happily from the room.

  “They love you very much,” Loretta commented when they were gone.

  “And I love them,” Charmaine whispered, and then, “Oh my, I still can’t believe this! I’m so glad you’re here! Where is Gwendolyn? Did she accompany you? Is she visiting with her mother and father?”

  “No, she remained in Richmond with Cal, insisting that our housekeeper would grow lonely with no one in the house. In truth, Mr. Elliot is the reason for her disinterest in Charmantes. He has been paying her court.”