Decision and Destiny (24 page)

“Yes, but be careful!” Charmaine called to them. “And don’t go near any other horses except Angel and Spook!”

“We won’t,” came the reply.

“And be back in a half-hour for breakfast!”

No answer…they were already gone. Charmaine shook her head, grateful they remained happy amid the undercurrents of pain that plagued the house.

Just this morning John had convinced them to move the kittens
to a more sensible home: the barn. “You can make a nice bed for them there, and they will keep your ponies calm and happy.” When Yvette appeared unconvinced, John insisted she ask Paul and George if she didn’t believe him. “Cats are good animals to have around horses. And I’ll get a better night’s sleep,” he added. Apparently, three nights of kitten paws across his face was enough. Now the girls had three reasons to visit the stable: the foal, their ponies, and the felines.

Charmaine entered the nursery moments later and found John reclining on the floor alongside Pierre. They were sailing the boy’s model ships across the floor. She paused in the doorway, enjoying the endearing scene. “Are you hungry, Pierre?” she asked. “Time for breakfast.”

John looked up. “Hungry?” he queried, noting the late hour. “I’d be famished. I hope Holy Mass was worth the fast.”

“It was,” Charmaine declared, offended by the irreverent tone of his voice.

John chuckled. “Have Benito’s homilies become inspirational?”

She refused to answer, to lie. The priest’s fire and brimstone sermons had grown worse, making Sunday Mass nothing more than an obligation.

John’s chuckle intensified sagaciously. “I guess some things never change. How can you abide his sanctimonious airs?”

“He is a priest!” Charmaine objected.

“Not by my estimation. Do the words compassion and kindness ever enter into his vocabulary? Better yet, has he ever exemplified them?”

Charmaine bit her tongue. Though John’s words rang true, she felt he ridiculed her religious beliefs more than he mocked the island priest.

“I can see you are angry with me,” he said. “I’m not faulting all priests. A good friend of mine is a priest, a kind and compassionate man, who could teach our Father Benito a thing or two. Though, I daresay, he is beyond redemption.”

“Who?” she retaliated, “Father Benito or your friend?”

Before he could respond, Paul entered the nursery. He took in John’s prone form and the deep frown that creased Charmaine’s brow.

“Is he annoying you, Charmaine?”

“No,” she answered, throwing John one last disdainful look, “not really.”

“We were just discussing Father Benito,” John supplied mildly. “What would you call him, Paul: good priest or bad?”

Paul grunted, refusing to side with his brother. “I don’t have time for this, John. I need to discuss something with you.”

“And what would that be?”

“Privately,” Paul replied. “I’d like to speak with you privately.”

John mumbled something under his breath, but stood and followed his brother into the hallway.

When they were closeted in the study, John flopped into the sofa.

“We will be leaving first thing in the morning,” Paul began.

“We?” John puzzled aloud.

“Father, Agatha, and I, as well as a number of the servants.”

“What are you talking about?” John asked, completely baffled now.

“We discussed it at the table the other night. Father wants to see my progress on Espoir. We shall be gone for the week.”

John’s brow gathered, his mind working. “I don’t remember that.”

Paul rubbed the back of his neck. “Maybe we talked about it before you came in. At any rate, we’ll be traveling there first thing tomorrow, and I’d like to know Charmantes is running smoothly while I’m gone. My biggest concern is the sugarcane. Two fields were salvaged from the storm, but the pressing will take all the manpower we’ve got if we’re to minimize the loss. George said he’d over-
see all that, but he could use a hand loading the
Raven
once the casks are filled.”

“The
Raven
?” John queried, his interest further piqued. “She should have been on her way to Richmond by now.”

“She would have been, if not for the storm. Now I need her to transport the sugar extract.” Paul paused a moment, but when John did not respond, he asked, “Can I count on your help?”

An eerie silence pervaded the room. John’s gaze was fixed on the book-lined wall far across the study, and Paul knew his brother had dismissed the query. He wondered if John had heard him at all.

Paul changed the subject. “There is another thing. I’d like your word, as a gentleman, that you’ll not bother Charmaine while I’m away.” Again, his brother didn’t answer. “John,” Paul snapped impatiently, “are you listening to me?”

John’s eyes focused on him. “Don’t worry, Paul, don’t worry about a thing.”

Monday, October 2, 1837

C
HAOTIC
commotion gripped the front lawns. A throng of servants, house staff and grooms alike, ran helter-skelter between manor and paddock. Frederic Duvoisin intended to travel abroad this day, and his employees zealously embraced this extraordinary event. Two horses were led from the stable and harnessed to the spanking new brougham, manufactured in Britain, ordered by Paul during his visit there last winter, and shipped to Charmantes only a month ago. The meticulously groomed animals pranced nervously against the bit as the final straps were secured. It took not one, but two footmen to hold them steady when they pulled up to the portico. Still, their skittishness did not deter Travis Thornfield; he hoisted another trunk into the carriage.

Standing out of harm’s way, Charmaine and the children watched in wonder. Then the moment was upon them, and the front doors opened for the last time.

Frederic limped out of the house, his ebony cane striking sharply against the stone terrace. He stumbled only once, misjudging the first step, but he quickly righted himself, shooing away his fawning
wife when she rushed forward to assist him. “Leave me some pride!” he snarled, the scolding nearly inaudible.

As Agatha backed away, Frederic’s stormy gaze followed. Realizing his attention had been arrested, she turned to find the children and their governess loitering at the drawing room casement. “Have you nothing better to do, Miss Ryan, than to gawk at my husband? Surely, the girls have lessons. Or is this frivolous wasting of time a prelude of the week to come when I shan’t be here to monitor your shabby supervision of them?”

“That is enough, Agatha,” Frederic reprimanded, his words tight. “Miss Ryan is diligent in her care of the children.”

“I fear you have been misinformed,” Agatha protested, attempting to save face among the many servants who stared at her.

Frederic’s ire was rising, but he concealed it beneath honey-coated words. “Have I? By whom? At least Miss Ryan loves my children.”

Insulted, Agatha lifted her chin, descended the three steps of the porch, and ensconced herself in the carriage.

Charmaine cheered inwardly, grateful her utter shock forestalled a chuckle. The man was moving toward her, and she quickly composed herself. “Miss Ryan, I would like to say goodbye to my children. Do you have a kiss for me, Pierre?”

“What for?” the boy asked.

“To remember you by.”

Frederic stooped over, and the lad kissed his cheek, but before Pierre could pull away, the man’s unencumbered arm wrapped around his shoulders and squeezed him fiercely. After a prolonged moment, Frederic straightened up, aware of Charmaine’s eyes on him. “One never knows when the last day might be,” he offered.

“The last day? But you mustn’t say—”

“Yes, I must,” he corrected. “I’m pleased with your service to this family, Miss Ryan. My wife, Colette, was correct about you. You have been a wonderful mother to our children. Therefore,
remember, I’ll not hold you responsible for any circumstances beyond your control.”

“Sir?”

“Just remember, Charmaine Ryan. When you become upset, remember.” He nodded rigidly, stifling her reply, then turned away, never once requesting a kiss from either of his daughters.

As the brougham passed through the front gates, Charmaine noticed John standing in the shadows of the maimed oak. She couldn’t read his expression, but his hand raked agitatedly through his tousled hair. Then he abruptly marched off.

Exhaling, she ushered the children into the house and, allowing for the favorable occasion, permitted them to run off and explore the unguarded homestead. Few had remained behind. The Thornfields boarded a smaller carriage and followed the family coupe to town. Felicia and Anna were already there. Charmaine could only wonder over Paul’s whereabouts. He’d left very early, and she doubted she would see him before the ship departed.

So consuming were her thoughts, she walked headlong into George, who was charging across the foyer. Excusing herself, she looked down at the baggage he carried and was horrified to learn he was deserting her as well.

“It was all discussed last night at dinner,” he said. “We have to press every stalk of cane we can. Time is of the essence, and I can get a lot more accomplished if I just camp out with the men. Frederic has promised me a bonus if the entire crop is processed before he returns.”

Charmaine’s trepidation spiraled, and George regarded her bemusedly. “Why should my absence from the house upset you, anyway?”

“I’ll be here all alone tonight.”

“Alone? You won’t be alone. John is still here.”

“Exactly. John and only John.”

With the dawn of comprehension, George burst out laughing.

“It isn’t funny!”

“Oh, but it is!” he wheezed.

“How can you say that? Don’t you see, I won’t feel safe knowing John is prowling about, worrying that at any moment he could—”

“Could what?” he prompted, noting Charmaine’s flushed cheeks, a condition that fed his jocularity.

“I thought you were my friend!” she threw back.

“I am,” he avowed, his laughter sobering to a chuckle. “Don’t be angry, and don’t fret over John. He’s the last person you need fear.”

“That is easy for you to say.”

“Easy because it’s true.” He was laughing again, a hearty laugh that followed him out of the house, across the lawns, and into the stable.

Agatha studied her husband as intently as he studied the foliage that sped past them. He had scarcely glanced her way since falling into the cushioned seat opposite her. But that mattered very little, as little as his truculent remarks in front of the servants. He didn’t mean what he said, hadn’t realized how cruel he sounded. His comportment was always sharp, spawned by his handicap and, therefore, easily forgiven. If he were harsh, she would remember they were finally married—that she was his wife, a title that soothed any injury. If the present with its many obstacles was at times difficult to swallow, the promise of tomorrow lighted such days with a shimmering ray of hope. The future was hers, secured by the title of Mrs. Frederic Duvoisin, a title that guaranteed her time to win back his love. Hadn’t she waited her entire life, spent every waking hour planning to attain what was hers at long last? She was his wife. Though Robert had scoffed at her purpose, attempted to expunge it, she refused to admit defeat, never permitted the word to whisper through her mind. How could she, when her sole desire was Frederic and only Frederic?

From his first kiss, she knew she could never be satisfied with
another, never be whole without him. Dear God, how she loved him. After all these years, she was still in awe of her intense yearning, drawn to him like a moth to a flame. He might be her undoing, but she’d gladly lay down her life if just once he whispered the three words she longed to hear. Then she’d know that no matter what she had done in the name of love, it could not be considered wrong.

Frederic…he was handsome still. For all his three score and two years, he could still set her heart to hammering, her limbs quivering, her mind reveling in the memory of wanton passion. Since their marriage, they had shared a few moments of intimacy. For the past two months, however, he had brushed her aside. She pined for his touch of years gone by, before the seizure had sapped his virility. Could it ever be the same again? Dare she hope? With a half-smile, she promised herself she’d do more than that. Thirty years ago, she had been but a novice at the game of love. If only she could have had the experience then that she had now. Frederic would never have dismissed her so easily, would never have been distracted by the wiles of a sister five years her junior.

Elizabeth…the fountainhead of her pain, the ruination of her life. Elizabeth…eager to snatch away what didn’t belong to her. Elizabeth…married to Frederic with the change of a season. Elizabeth…snickering at her conniving conquest, leaving Britain without a backward glance, without a care for her desperate sister. But, the Almighty had dealt a severe punishment. For all the newlyweds’ so-called love, Elizabeth had not survived, a sign their love was not love at all.

Frederic…Once again she studied him across the carriage, longed to squeeze alongside him. She’d brush back the lock of hair that had fallen onto his stern brow and caress away his dark scowl. He’d seen so much sorrow, endured so much pain. First Elizabeth, and now John. Like mother, like son. How she longed to set it right for him. But in his bitterness, he overlooked the one person who loved him more fiercely than the sum of all those he claimed to
cherish: not his adoring Elizabeth, nor his youthful Colette, not his simpering Pierre, nor his pampered daughters, not even Paul loved him as surely as she did. Someday very soon, he’d see that. He’d realize how blind he’d been, how very wrong to allow John to ridicule her, how convoluted to place obligation and the mores of society first when distributing his wealth. Someday, he’d turn to her as a husband turns to a wife and she would be there for him.

Frederic leaned back into the soft cushions and feigned sleep, contemplating his wife beneath hooded eyes. In a rush, the past spilled into the brougham. It was the year 1807. He was thirty-two, a wealthy bachelor in the prime of his life. She was twenty-two, young and beautiful, very beautiful. But his eyes weren’t on her as the carriage sped to Charmantes’ harbor. His eyes had found Elizabeth, head slightly bowed, hands folded demurely in her lap, cheeks slightly flushed from their brief exchange in the stable.

Audaciously she had asked, “Are you in love with my sister, Mr. Duvoisin?”

He responded to her intrepid, yet curious, query with one of his own. “What has love to do with a sound business decision?”

She should have been offended; yet, he read something quite different in her brown eyes. It intrigued him.

“But my sister loves you, doesn’t she?”

Irritated now, he frowned. “How old are you, Elizabeth?”

“I’ve just turned seventeen.”

“All but grown up,” he remarked derisively.

Moments later, she dared not meet his gaze, her manner suddenly diffident. But that did not deter him from feasting his eyes upon her as he had done for the better part of two weeks: not half so beautiful as her older sister, but lovely, animated, and captivating. He had misread her inquiries, thinking it a puerile interrogation born of concern for her sister. He’d grossly underestimated the power she would wield over him and, even today, thanked the Good
Lord he had. That had been the spring of his love. God, how she had haunted him since. The attraction to Colette had been the same, but then, they were alike in so many ways. He recalled the stable; even their private encounters had been similar, uncanny.

Sadly, only Agatha occupied the bench across from him today. At times such as these, he was guilt-ridden. He had probably ruined her life as surely as he had his own. Paul was right: He should never have married her. He prayed his present purpose ended more favorably than their courtship had. He would offer the two in atonement for his many sins.

“But
you’ll
be there!” John appealed earnestly. “I want you to come. I’m begging you to come!”

“I’m sorry, John, I can’t. That’s not what Colette wanted. Beyond that, you haven’t even considered Yvette and Jeannette. They’d be crushed.”

“Nan—”

“John—I can’t. I just can’t.”

Rose turned away slowly, her heart fraught with despair.

Charmaine froze in the archway. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

John wheeled round, his face contorted, anguished, like the morning he’d learned of Colette’s death. He swiftly masked the emotion and forced a sheepish smile. “Come in, Miss Ryan. Rose and I are finished.”

The remainder of the day passed on the same eerie note, escalating Charmaine’s initial anxieties. Not even Yvette’s exclamations of: “We have the run of the house!” and “No Auntie Agatha to scold us!” or “Just Johnny and us for a whole week!” could quell her misgivings.

Just Johnny and us
…Therein lay the rub. Charmaine didn’t need a week of “just Johnny and us”—didn’t want one night of it. Johnny’s behavior was peculiar, as were the others’. At dinner, Fatima
Henderson insisted he take extra helpings, as if his meals to come would be sparse. And Rose had taken supper in her room, leaving Charmaine and the children alone with him at the table. He had studied her keenly, a scrutiny that bordered on an assessment, as if he were weighing her worth. Extremely uncomfortable, she had eaten quickly and retreated with the children to the nursery.

Now it was ten o’clock, and they were long asleep. Determined to remain wide-awake until John retired as well, Charmaine needed a book. When she reached the foyer, she hesitated. Did she really want to intrude on the man?

John had closeted himself in the study after dinner, relentlessly pacing. Evidently, it hadn’t lessened his turmoil; he was marching still. She’d be a fool to walk into the lion’s den. She returned to her room.

The night was a precipice of indecision, punctuated by malicious moments of desperation. Seconds turned into weary minutes, minutes accumulated into plodding hours, and the hours begged for dawn. The great clock struck twice in the foyer. As the tolls diminished, the walls grappled for the reverberating sound and, in the end, surrendered to the void.

John lay abed, listening to his amplified breathing. For the first time in many minutes, his mind was blank. Too long had he deliberated his present crucible, weighing each option, rejecting those that suited him best, realizing—even from the onset of this miserable day—he could not wrest what he had never claimed, for in so doing, he would forfeit the precious, meager contentment he had been rewarded these past weeks.

His happiness depended on that of another. And since no one would conspire with him, he would be wise to surrender to the hopelessness of it all, his inability to proceed in any direction save the one thus far charted. Float with the tide…the course destined to govern his life.