by DeVa Gantt
“Marie, my sweet little Marie, if only your father were here … ”
Leaning over, Charmaine kissed her head, the fuzz of red-blond hair, soft as down. The baby looked like John, already she looked like John, save the blue eyes, the beautiful blue eyes that opened now and then. Her tiny fist clutched Charmaine’s finger, and Charmaine brought it to her lips for another tender kiss.
Rose and Loretta bustled about the room, removing the soiled linens, shooing people away from the door. “Give Charmaine a moment’s peace. She wants to have the babe all to herself for a spell.” The twins had been awoken with all the commotion, and they were the most anxious to see the newest Duvoisin.
Marie began to fuss, letting out a fierce cry that turned rhythmic, the volume increasing. Rose quickly dropped what she was doing and came around the bed. “She wants to nurse,” she stated mildly and proceeded to show Charmaine the proper way to offer the infant her breast. The tiny lips rooted around and latched firmly onto the proffered nipple. The suckling sensation was both uncomfortable and exquisite. Together they fed a burgeoning contentment, and Charmaine was blanketed in an unfathomable peace.
When Marie fell asleep, she made herself presentable, allowing her pillows to be fluffed before sitting back into them. Twice Loretta attempted to put Marie in the cradle, but Charmaine cuddled her daughter all the closer. “No, let me hold her. I need to hold her.” Loretta nodded in understanding. Rose invited the family in for their first visit.
Yvette and Jeannette danced with delight as they beheld their niece.
“Wait until Johnny comes home,” Yvette said.
“He will be so proud,” Jeannette added.
Paul stood at the foot of the bed, admiring the tender vision. Charmaine looked radiant, bearing the twins’ comments with quiet dignity, a faint smile on her lips. He wished she were cradling his child. He loved her, he suddenly realized. If John didn’t return, he vowed to take care of her and perhaps, if she’d have him, marry her.
Sunday, December 16, 1838
Charmaine had enjoyed a wonderful birthday, as wonderful as it could be without John. Next year would be different, everyone reassured her. This year, the entire household had taken great pains to make it a happy occasion. She even felt better, nearly restored to the woman she’d been before her confinement.
Now, with Marie sound asleep in her cradle, she stroked the mane on the rocking horse. She turned to the other birthday gifts, most of them for her daughter. Charmaine didn’t mind; she enjoyed looking at the pretty little dresses and stockings. She spent the next hour or so rearranging drawers to make room for Marie’s layette. She decided to combine John’s clothing into five drawers, as there was more room in his chiffonier than hers.
She was working on the second drawer when she found it— tucked between two shirts, neatly folded and worn. As if scorched, she dropped Colette’s love letter, her shaking hands flying to her mouth, the sheets fluttering to the floor.
Charmaine composed herself. She didn’t know it was a love letter. She had only read a small portion of it that day almost a year and a half ago.
The days, the weeks, the months fell away, and she was back in John’s room, searching for the twins, rankled by the draft that had strewn so many papers on the floor. She was picking them up again, rearranging and reading them. It didn’t seem possible it was John, her John, who had stormed into the room that morning—that such terrible rage and hatred had ever existed between them. And yet, she’d gladly go back, if only he could be with her now.
The letter remained on the floor, yet, like a magnet, tugged at her heart. Indecisive, she stepped back. She shouldn’t read it. But John may never come home, and he is your husband. You have a right to know! You have that right. But did she want to know? It’s no longer private, her mind screamed. John has told you everything … But has he really? Isn’t it better to know for sure?
Swiftly, she snatched it up. The last page was on top, and she read the closing: Until we meet again, Your loving Colette. She closed her eyes and swallowed hard. Why was she putting herself through this? She folded the pages, angry she’d started at all. John had been furious when she had read his private correspondence before. She would not be guilty of doing so now. Besides, she didn’t want to know Colette’s innermost feelings for John, refused to give them power over her. Drawing a ragged breath, Charmaine quickly replaced the letter in the drawer.
Her terrible nightmare took hold, and a chill chased up her spine. If the dream were real, if John had died, he was with Colette. He had her all to himself now, for his father had remained behind with the living. This letter John cherished and cradled amidst his personal belongings was testimony to his desperate love for her, even unto death. No wonder he wasn’t afraid of dying in pursuit of Robert Blackford. He knew Colette was waiting for him in the afterlife.
Charmaine thought of the single letter she had received from him over three months ago. If Colette were alive today, I would still choose you. But Colette wasn’t alive. She was in paradise with Pierre at her side. John was with his family now. She knew it. Charmaine just knew it. She closed her eyes to the vivid vision of them embracing him, and she fought back tears. “Oh God!” she moaned and threw herself on the bed, sobbing bitterly.
Thursday, December 20, 1838
Paul was alarmed to find the Heir docked in the harbor. She had left Charmantes in late November and should have been well on her way to Europe by now. “Will!” Paul called as he climbed aboard, “what has happened?”
The captain frowned. “I’m afraid I have some disturbing news, Paul.”
Will Jones recounted the Heir’s arrival in New York, and the events that followed. Paul rubbed the back of his neck, not knowing what to make of it, Charmaine’s premonition taking root.
“Your father told me to weigh anchor on the ninth if they didn’t appear, but I waited an extra day to be certain. I even sent a man in search of your brother. Apparently, the police were scouring his place. They came snooping around the harbor, too—on the docks and at the warehouse—but were tight-lipped, so I don’t know what happened. I would have been here sooner, but the weather down the coast was rotten, blizzard conditions nearly half the way.”
Will read the dread on Paul’s face and added, “Perhaps your father and John knew about the police and laid low. I know your father was concerned about police involvement.”
“Or,” Paul countered aloud, “Blackford injured them, and the authorities were looking for someone to contact the family.”
Will shrugged. “At this point, we don’t know enough to assume the worst.”
“True, but how do we find out?”
Paul spent the rest of the day working alongside the dockworkers and sailors. The grueling labor of reloading the ship helped clear his mind so he could think rationally. He toyed with the idea of setting sail for New York immediately, but ruled that out when he thought of Charmaine. He couldn’t tell her what he’d learned. She’d be terribly upset, and if he left before Christmas, she’d know something was wrong. That would add up to two more weeks of worry. No, the answers would have to wait a bit longer—until Christmas was over.
With dusk on the harbor and the lading finished, Paul came to a decision. The Tempest, his newest ship, was due in port any day now. After the holiday, he’d take her on to New York himself.
Christmas Eve, 1838
Charmaine sat on the sofa in the drawing room, little Marie comfortably nestled in her arms, sound asleep. This dismal Christmas Eve mocked last year’s sad holiday, for although the manor was serene, it was a shaky peace. They hadn’t heard from either John or Frederic for three months now. Though Paul assured her no news was good news, Charmaine knew her premonition had signaled some dire event. As she adored her babe, she offered up another petition to the litany of those that had gone before.
Rose and the twins fastened the last of the festive decorations to the mantel, their stockings hanging from the fireplace in anticipation of St. Nicho
las. The girls had even fashioned a stocking for Marie. When Charmaine warned them about expecting too much, Yvette had countered that St. Nicholas was bound to come this year, since there was no Agatha to frighten the merry old elf away. Charmaine looked at Paul, but he seemed unaffected, his eyes twinkling in knowing merriment.
Joshua and George were playing a game of chess (they got along famously) while Loretta and Mercedes leafed through a catalog of baby items. Mercedes was large with child, her own days of confinement nearing their end. Soon little Marie would have a playmate.
Paul stood at the fireplace, deep in contemplation, his eyes going frequently to Charmaine. His attentiveness was not lost on Loretta or Rose. Espoir had been all but forgotten, and though he was needed more desperately here, they knew Charmaine was the reason he stayed on Charmantes.
George was worried, too, but his concern centered on John and Frederic. Paul had told him about the Heir’s aborted mission, and although he’d advised Paul not to jump to conclusions, he’d conjured a few terrible scenarios himself. When Paul decided to head for New York, he was relieved. If Mercedes weren’t so near her time, he would have volunteered to go. But he wouldn’t ask his wife to endure what Charmaine was enduring.
Presently, he stood and conceded the game to Joshua. Helping Mercedes out of her seat, they bade everyone goodnight.
Charmaine looked to the yawning twins. “It’s time you found your beds as well. You don’t want St. Nicholas to pass you by. I hear he only visits the homes of sleeping children.” They went off with Rose.
With an expansive stretch, Joshua said goodnight, and with some reservations, Loretta said the same. Paul walked over to Charmaine and sat beside her. He didn’t say a word, but he studied her with a faint smile.
Despite her sadness, Charmaine treasured the happiness that Marie stirred in her heart. She looked at him and saw the laughter in his eyes. “What are you smiling at?” she asked.
He shook his head and gave a slight shrug as if to say “nothing.” When he was certain no one would return, he reached behind the sofa and retrieved four packages. Though each one was small, they were wrapped, complete with ribbons.
“What is this?” she asked in surprise.
“St. Nicholas has arrived,” he said, before walking to the hearth and depositing two gifts in each stocking.
“What are they?”
“A set of playing cards for Yvette and dice.”
“You’re joking!” Charmaine laughed.
“On the contrary,” Paul replied.
“But your father will be furious!”
“If he comes home, I’ll be happy to face his punishment.”
The spontaneous comment annihilated the cheerful moment, and Charmaine bowed her head to a sudden surge of tears. “I’m a coward, Paul,” she whispered, looking down at her daughter. “If I faced reality, maybe this emptiness in my heart would begin to heal.”
Her declaration reverberated about the room. Hadn’t he come to believe the worst himself—John and his father had attempted to apprehend Blackford on the sixth of December and something had gone terribly wrong? Are they dead? Paul clenched his fists angrily, a violent reaction he had been unable to quell since the day the Heir had docked on the island.
Charmaine distracted him from his murderous thoughts. “What are in the packages for Jeannette?”
“A locket and a miniature horse,” Paul replied, forcing a smile.
“Would you hold Marie for me?” she asked, wondering whether he would be comfortable with the request. Had he ever held a newborn?
But the invitation pleased him, and he plucked the baby out of her arms, cradling her as if he had done so many times before. Charmaine realized he’d most likely held Pierre and the twins when they were infants.
“Where are you going?” he asked.
“You’ll see,” she answered, sweeping from the room.
She came back with her own gifts and stuffed them into the girls’ stockings, which were now bulging with booty. Satisfied, she faced him. “Marie won’t sleep much longer, so I had best get some rest.”
He nodded, for he had often heard the baby’s cries during the night, but when she reached for Marie, he shook his head. “I’ll take her,” he offered.
Nestling the infant in the crook of his arm, he stood, put his other arm around Charmaine’s shoulders, and accompanied her upstairs. The lamps burned low in the sconces, the house ever so quiet. When they arrived at her door, Paul strode into the room and gently laid Marie in her cradle.
He turned back to Charmaine, considering her in the lamplight. “What would you like for Christmas, Charmaine?”
“John,” she gushed without thought, her throat constricted, “only John.”
Just the answer I want! “Well, Charmaine,” he proceeded, “I’ve been giving that a great deal of thought—ever since the night Marie was born. The day after Christmas, I’m setting out in search of your errant husband and my father. It’s about time we found out what has happened.” Seeing her surprise, he continued. “One of my ships is in port and is scheduled to travel to New York and Boston. I’ll be on board when she sets sail.”
“Paul? You’d do that?” she asked, her heart leaping with hope.
“My Christmas present to you. However—” he hesitated, hoping to provide a beacon in the storm he feared she had yet to weather “—I want a promise from you.”
“What is it?”
“If I come back with bad news—and I’m not saying I will—I want your promise that, after a reasonable time has passed, you will consider marrying me.”
Charmaine lowered her gaze to the floor, bombarded by many emotions.
“Is marriage to me revolting?” he queried, misreading her.
“No, Paul—of course it’s not,” she choked out, her eyes meeting his.
Realizing she was about to cry, he enclosed her in his arms. She grabbed hold of him and wept softly. He stroked her hair and kissed the top of her head, his heart aching with the feel of her in his embrace. When she lifted her head, he could hold back no longer. He lowered his lips to hers and tenderly kissed her. She accepted his gentle overture, then stepped back. “I love you, Charmaine,” he whispered hoarsely. “I want to take care of you and Marie.”
She was astounded, and new tears filled her eyes; now she ached for him.
“I—I know you do, Paul,” she murmured, wiping her cheeks dry. “And I thank you for being here for me. But I can’t—”
“Very well, Charmaine, I won’t press you. But I want you to know you need never be alone.”
She inhaled raggedly, aware she would have to face reality sooner or later. “I will consider your offer,” she said. “But only after I know what has happened, when all hope is lost.”
Paul retreated to the door. “Goodnight,” he murmured, then slowly retired to his lonely chambers.
For a moment, Charmaine considered running after him. She longed to sleep in someone’s arms, not to make love with him, but to be held, to feel protected once again, to shake off this overwhelming despair.
Marie began to stir, and she knew she wasn’t alone at all. She lifted her daughter and climbed into bed. Marie nuzzled close, eagerly accepting her breast. Soon they fell into a peaceful, symbiotic slumber.
Christmas Day, 1838
Rebecca Remmen placed the boiled potatoes on the table and settled into her chair, watching Wade carve thin slices of the ham he’d brought home for their Christmas dinner. With fresh bread and sweet green beans, it was their finest meal of the year. They’d have the ham for a few days, and Rebecca would coax a soup from the bone, stretching this rare indulgence into a week’s worth of meals.
It was pleasant having Wade home for the day. Usually, she was alone, and more often than not, lonely. She’d just turned seventeen, and Wade would not allow her to work anywhere in town, fearful a young woman as lovely as she would get herself into more trouble than she could handle, especially with surly longshoremen coming and going daily
. She could take care of herself, but she hadn’t convinced Wade of that, so other than the weekends when they’d stroll into town together to shop for necessities and socialize, Rebecca scarcely went farther than their tiny yard. Paul Duvoisin’s grand ball had been the single most enchanting event in her short, disenchanting life, an occasion she treasured.
Three years ago, she and her brother had reached Charmantes, and life had drastically improved. They had food on their table, clothes on their backs, and a roof over their heads. Rebecca wanted more: to write a letter, to read a good book, to cipher so she could pay Maddy Thompson for their purchases. She was tired of cleaning the spotless cottage, sick of weeding the flowerbeds, hated tending the vegetable garden. She’d darned enough socks and mended enough shirts to clothe an army. But if she must do it, she’d rather do it for a husband. When her chores for the day were done, she would step out of the cottage and sit under a palm tree in the backyard, waiting for Wade to come home. Each night as dusk fell, she fantasized about a life of adventure, but most of all, she dreamed about Paul.
Her life had changed forever on the day the captain of the Black Star had marched them in front of the man and declared them stowaways. Paul did not scoff at her brother’s daring scheme to start over. He listened when Wade described the squalid slums of Richmond. He understood their unorthodox pilgrimage to the “promised land”—Les Charmantes—the fabled paradise island of the Duvoisin dynasty. He nodded when Wade insisted he was strong and willing to work, that given a chance, he would make the Duvoisin family proud.
Those first few days, Paul saw to it they were fed and clothed. He set them up in the neglected cottage where they now lived and put Wade to work. Part of her brother’s wages would go toward the purchase of that property. Over time, Wade did prove himself, assuming greater responsibility, ignoring the grumbles of some of the older men. Now three years later, he was in charge of the mill and had the respect of many, all because of Paul. For this, Rebecca’s innocent heart placed Paul on a pedestal. He was her hero.
