Forever Waiting

by DeVa Gantt

  They met Wade and Rebecca Remmen inside the store. Paul and Wade conversed for a few minutes, but Rebecca pretended disinterest, turning her head aside. Paul noticed her coy reaction and found it appealing. He spoke to her directly. “You see, Miss Remmen, your brother is no worse for the fever he suffered a few months ago.”

  “It’s as I told you, Mr. Duvoisin,” she replied levelly, though her legs were like liquid and butterflies fluttered in her belly, “all he needed was bed rest.”

  “And a tender touch,” Paul added with a dashing smile, his eyes holding her captive. “Now, if you’ll excuse us, we have some shopping to do.”

  “Paul is helping us pick out a gift for Mademoiselle Charmaine,” Jeannette explained. “It will be her birthday soon.”

  Wade nodded, not interested in the least, but Rebecca was miffed.

  Less than a half hour later, Paul and his sisters left the mercantile carrying a box of sweets and a new book of poetry. He had ordered a rocking horse months ago, and although it had arrived, it would be delivered to the house later that day.

  The girls teased him. “The baby won’t be able to ride it until next year!”

  “Nevertheless, it will be in the nursery when he’s ready,” Paul rejoined, “and I’m sure the two of you will be eager to teach him how to rock on it.”

  “You’re as bad as Johnny!” Yvette chided.

  “I’m taking that as a compliment.”

  “It was.”

  Paul laughed as they crossed the busy street, turning around when shouts resounded from the wharf, heralding the arrival of a ship.

  As always, the pedestrians pressed toward the landing stage, and soon, the pier was a sea of people. Paul hastened to the boardwalk, guiding his sisters through the throng that obligingly parted for them. They passed unimpeded until they were standing abreast of the huge ship. Paul cautioned the girls to wait for him on the wharf. He saw no sign of John or his father, but was anxious for news. The ship had most likely come from Richmond. Before the last mooring lines were secured, he was boarding the vessel.

  The captain rushed over, clearly relieved to see him.

  “What is the matter, Gregory?” Paul queried anxiously. “You haven’t brought us bad news from my father or John?”

  “No, sir, no,” he reassured. “But I do have some important documents Stuart Simons instructed me to hand over to you as soon as we made port.” He produced the shipping invoices. They confirmed what Paul had already guessed: John Ryan was on board.

  “Excuse me, gentlemen!” Paul shouted, waiting for the crew to quiet down. “I’m looking for a Mr. Ryan.”

  John Ryan was not surprised to hear his name called. According to Stuart Simons, Paul Duvoisin was looking for efficient, reliable laborers. Having learned of John Ryan’s exemplary work in Richmond, Paul wanted to meet him as soon as he reached Charmantes. Ryan snickered to himself. How dim-witted could the man be? Snickering again, he confidently stepped forward.

  “Mr. Ryan?” Paul queried through narrowed eyes. “Mr. John Ryan?”

  “That’s me,” Ryan nodded, his chest puffed out like a bantam cock.

  “You’re just the man for whom I’ve been looking,” Paul said, hiding his revulsion behind a smile. “These documents tell me you’ve been an invaluable help to my brother. I believe I can use you up at our meetinghouse.”

  “Oh, I’m valuable all right,” Ryan boasted. “I just hope this job pays what I’m worth.”

  “It does better than that,” Paul confided, placing an arm around the man’s shoulder in fraudulent camaraderie. “It includes free meals, room and board.”

  Astounded, John Ryan happily allowed Paul to lead him down the gangplank, eager to learn about this unprecedented windfall. His ship had finally come in!

  Yvette and Jeannette suspiciously eyed their brother’s motley companion as the two men approached. “Girls,” Paul called, “let us lunch at Dulcie’s. I’ll be there in ten minutes time.”

  “Who is he?” Yvette asked, when Paul offered no introduction.

  “The name’s Ryan,” the man blurted out. “John Ryan.”

  Paul swore under his breath. Recognition had dawned on his sisters’ faces.

  Yvette overcame her surprise and studied her brother. A fleeting scowl had crossed Paul’s face, accompanied by a barely perceptible shake of his head. Reading his signal, she grasped Jeannette’s arm and began to nudge her down the pier. “Very well, Paul, we’ll meet you at Dulcie’s.”

  Paul thanked God she was maturing and turned back to John Ryan. “My sisters,” he explained nonchalantly, noting the man’s interest. He indicated the boardwalk. “Shall we?”

  Ryan nodded, and Paul struck up some small talk as he escorted the older man to the meetinghouse. They climbed the steps, and Paul allowed John Ryan to step in first, closing the door behind him and leaning back against it.

  “Well,” Ryan began when it seemed as if Paul would not speak, his eyes darting around the empty room. “What work do you want me to do here?”

  “Prayer work,” Paul said softly.

  “Prayer work?” the elder asked, laughing outright at the inane suggestion.

  “Yes, Mr. Ryan,” Paul pronounced rigidly, his brow suddenly furrowed. “You’d best start praying, because I believe you’re a wanted man.” Seeing John Ryan’s stupefaction, Paul continued, arms folded across his chest. “I have it on the most reliable authority you murdered your wife.”

  The older man did not like this conversation and grew belligerent. “I mighta hit her on occasion, but she had it comin’.”

  “Had it coming?” Paul asked incredulously, his jaw clenched.

  “She was a mouthin’ off hen-pecker who needed to be put in her place. And that’s what I did—put her in her place.”

  Paul’s hand shot out, grabbed a fistful of shirtfront, lifted Ryan clear off the ground, and sent him sailing. He hit the floor with a loud oomph, his legs and arms splayed in four directions. “Why’d ya do that?” he demanded from where he lay, astonished. “Why’d ya bring me here?”

  “So you can pay for your crime.”

  John Ryan jumped to his feet, but Paul rushed him, grabbing his forearm and yanking him around. He squealed in pain as Paul guided him down the stairwell, wrenching his arm ever higher behind his back. The guard unlocked the door and swung it open, and Paul shoved him inside. Again, he stumbled to the floor.

  Paul eyed Benito, who had scrambled to the center of the room. “The two of you should be great company for each other,” he commented wryly, wiping his hands on his trousers. “Tell your new inmate to whom my brother is married. Mr. Ryan should be very interested to know.”

  When the door was bolted, Paul cautioned the burly guard to remain alert.

  By the time he reached Dulcie’s, his sisters were already eating. After he’d ordered his own meal, Yvette bluntly asked, “Was that Charmaine’s father?”

  “Unfortunately, yes,” Paul admitted. “But you mustn’t tell her he’s here.”

  “Why is he here?” Jeannette asked, her eyes clouded with worry.

  “John wants to deal with him. He’s responsible for his wife’s murder.”

  “What will Johnny do to him?” Yvette asked.

  “I don’t know, Yvette.”

  “What would you do?” Jeannette queried.

  Paul raked his fingers through his hair. “I don’t know that, either. I’d have to think long and hard on it. Will the two of you keep quiet about this?”

  “If that is what you want Paul, that’s what we’ll do,” Yvette promised.

  “Thank you,” Paul said with a warm smile. “And thank you for heeding my warning on the quay. I wanted to make certain John Ryan was locked up with our good Father Benito before he learned why he was here.”

  Yvette smiled wickedly. “I’ll wager he had the surprise of his life.”

  “That he did,” Paul affirmed. “That he did.”

  New York

  After a long day walking the
streets of lower Manhattan, Frederic had grown weary and Michael, hungry. They hailed a ride near the harbor and headed back to Washington Square. Frederic had had enough of New York City. After weeks of scouring her streets, their paltry leads had turned up nothing. Even their breakthrough with the name Coleburn had led nowhere. He stared out the window of the quiet cab, contemplating their futile search, frustrated, angry, and homesick. It was growing dark, and people were spilling onto the streets, stopping along the way to buy bread or a slab of meat for dinner.

  He closed his eyes and dozed to the lull of the rocking carriage. It rolled over a hole as it negotiated a turn, jolting him awake. He shifted and looked out the window, the silhouette of a man about a block ahead snaring his attention. Tall, dark, and slender, he was just now reaching the street corner. His black overcoat billowed against a stiff breeze. One hand was planted on his top hat; the other toted a black bag.

  Frederic’s heart leapt into his throat. Their carriage was turning away! He pushed the door open with his cane, shouting up to the driver to stop. He scrambled out of the conveyance, nearly falling as the cabman yelled at him to wait. “Get back here, man! You ain’t paid the fare!”

  Bumping shoulders with pedestrians, Frederic ignored the indignant voice that followed him and leaned hard on his cane, dodging the hogs and goats that wandered the road, scavenging street refuse for food scraps. When he reached the next corner, heaving and breathless, the man was nowhere in sight. Had he continued straight ahead, turned left or right? Frederic wheeled in all directions, straining to see beyond the press of people, hoping to catch a glimpse of the dark figure again. It was useless; he was gone. Downhearted, Frederic turned back to the cab in mute resignation.

  Even though Michael was convinced he’d imagined it, Frederic thought about the incident for days. Every evening afterward, he left Michael at the town house and headed downtown, strolling the streets in the same neighborhood. When night fell, he would step into a local tavern for dinner, sitting near a window with a tankard of ale as he watched people walk by.

  Tonight, the waiter had just set a plate of hot food before him when a commotion erupted two tables away. A barmaid was screaming at two men, who had shot to their feet. “You told me you loved me, you lyin’ bastard!” she spat at him, her face red, tears streaming down her cheeks. “I ain’t doin’ this, I seen other girls bleed to death!”

  When one of them shrugged sheepishly, she hurled a crumpled piece of paper into his face and flew at him. The patrons nearby scrambled from their tables, and two waiters rushed over to break up the fracas. Frederic came to his feet as well. The barmaid was hissing and spitting fire at the longshoreman, even as the waiters pulled her away. The dockworkers threw a few coins on the table and fled the tavern. The proprietress put an arm around the sobbing girl and, with comforting words, led her into the kitchen.

  Frederic sank back into his seat and lifted his fork, noticing his napkin had fallen to the floor. As he reached down for it, he saw the crumpled paper under his chair. He picked it up and smoothed it open, his heart nearly stopping when he read: COLEBURN CLINIC. 27 WATER STREET.

  According to John, the address was in a seedy section a few blocks from the wharfs. He would check it out the next day. Frederic insisted on going with him, but John objected. “We’ll be too conspicuous together.”

  Frederic capitulated reluctantly. “If it is Blackford, promise me you won’t take action on your own. We must decide together how to proceed.”

  John nodded placidly, but Frederic was unnerved.

  The next day, John went to the address. It was a row house with a continuous stream of people going in and out. He approached a woman with two young girls as they left. “Is this the doctor’s office?” he asked.

  The woman looked at him quizzically. At first, he didn’t think she spoke English. “Yes,” she finally replied in a thick Irish brogue, “it’s Dr. Coleburn. Why do you ask?”

  “I wasn’t sure if I had the right address. Thank you.”

  She nodded and nudged her children along.

  John waited in the street until long after dark. As dusk fell, the clientele changed. Mostly young women and tarts entered the building, hesitating before their hands alighted upon the knob, their eyes darting surreptitiously to and fro to be certain nobody saw them enter. Eventually, the last patient left, and the lights in the first floor windows went dark. A few minutes later, a tall dark figure appeared in the doorway and descended the steps, setting a brisk pace up the street. John followed, keeping a safe distance behind, walking gingerly so his footfalls would not call attention to his presence. The man turned a corner and walked a few blocks farther, turned again and ascended the steps of another row house. John marked the address.

  Before dawn the next day, he was seated on the steps of the row house across from 13 Stone Street, his collar drawn high around his neck, his cap cocked low over his forehead. At exactly eight o’clock in the morning, Robert Blackford stepped out of the door and headed toward his clinic.

  “We can have a ship ready. Now that we know his address, all we have to do is corner him. He’ll be no match for the three of us, and we can take him to the ship straightaway.”

  “I agree with your father, John,” Michael offered, stirring his tea. “This is the least dangerous way to handle it.” Though John did not argue, his dissatisfied frown bolstered Michael’s dismay. Clearly, the man was keeping his own counsel. “Once he’s on Charmantes,” Michael continued, “your father will have free rein to punish him however he sees fit.”

  With hands clasped behind his head, John leaned back in his chair and looked from his father to Michael, deliberating. Michael could read a hundred thoughts flashing in his eyes. “All right,” he replied, his face suddenly stolid. “When do we start?”

  “We’ll make arrangements for the ship tomorrow,” Frederic replied. “The next Duvoisin vessel in port will be rerouted to take us back to Charmantes.”

  “I plan on keeping an eye on Blackford while we wait,” John interjected. “He’s not going to get away again.”

  “Fair enough,” Frederic agreed.

  John pushed from the table and turned to retire. Michael stared after him, very uneasy. He couldn’t shake the feeling John had plans of his own. “John, while your father arranges for the ship tomorrow, I want you to show me where Blackford lives.”

  John faced him. “It’s too risky. He might spot us.”

  “We can go after he opens his clinic. It’s just a precau—”

  “Fine,” John interrupted sharply. “I’m going to bed.”

  Wednesday, December 5, 1838

  The evening air was raw, and it was going to rain. Lily Clayton made her way up Washington Square past the elegant row houses of Greenwich Village and turned toward Sixth Avenue. Even though it was Wednesday, her employer had allowed her to go home early, an extremely rare act of generosity, and for that, Lily was grateful. Now she had two hours to spare before her sister, Rose, who was minding her children, expected her home. That free time brought her here.

  She stopped on the walk outside of John’s row house and noticed the lamps were burning inside. She smiled. The lights meant John Duvoisin was back in New York. She missed him, for she hadn’t seen him since February. Over the past months, she had worried about him, because he never stayed away from New York this long. Now she wondered when he’d gotten back and why she hadn’t heard from him. He always came by to check on her as soon as he arrived in town.

  Lily and her sister, Rose, had been house servants at the Duvoisin plantation in Virginia. They were quadroons and became the property of John Duvoisin when he purchased Wisteria Hill, the plantation adjacent to his father’s, in late 1834. They were thrilled when they heard John was interested in buying the property, because they knew all the slaves at Freedom had been set free. On his first visit to Wisteria Hill, she’d been attracted to him. He was young and handsome and, unlike other plantation owners, he had spoken to her, even though she was
a slave. Within months of purchasing Wisteria Hill, John freed her and Rose. She moved to the plantation house at Freedom and became the resident housekeeper there, while Rose remained at Wisteria Hill for the same purpose. Rose was a mere two miles away.

  Lily was beautiful, her skin a light, creamy tan. She was tall and lithe with straight dark hair, black eyes, sensual lips, and an aristocratic nose. Lily had twin sons and a daughter by her husband, Henry, who had been sold south to a North Carolina cotton planter before John had purchased Wisteria Hill.

  Henry was a mulatto, so their children were also light-skinned; the casual observer would never suspect their black ancestry. John had tried to purchase Henry to work at Freedom, but his owner, a viciously stalwart Southerner, was unwilling to sell him for any price, for Henry was big and strong and worked hard. Furthermore, his new master held great disdain for border-state plantation owners who liberated their slaves, and bristled at the thought of even one more black, especially a mulatto, being freed.

  Lily knew she would never see Henry again. Over three years ago, she had received word he’d been “crippled” during an unsuccessful escape attempt. Three runaways had made it as far as Freedom, delivering into Lily’s hand a short letter from Henry. According to the runaways, Henry had been brutally mutilated, the toes on his right foot hacked off so he would never run again. Lily became resigned to life without him.

  When John began making frequent trips to New York, she begged him to take her, Rose, and her children there. She wanted to start over, to be independent. She wanted her children to be more than emancipated, she wanted them to be educated. In New York, they could go to school. John was reluctant to bring her north. Lily and Rose kept the plantation houses running smoothly when he wasn’t there, which was more often than not. But with her incessant begging, he eventually relented, and nearly three years ago, she arrived with him in New York.

  John helped both women find jobs as housekeepers for affluent New York merchants; for the first few months, Lily worked for his aging aunt. He located a tiny house for them in lower Manhattan, gave her money for a full year’s rent, and accompanied her when she enrolled her children in a New York public school. The schoolmaster assumed John was her husband and the children, white. When he asked John where he was employed, he simply said the Duvoisin shipping line, which satisfied the schoolmaster and wasn’t a lie. So, even without Henry, Lily’s life had never been better.