Decision and Destiny (9 page)

“Saturday? Why Saturday?”

“Surely you can see the wisdom of a Saturday rendezvous. If you fail to keep that appointment, I can kill two birds with one stone come Sunday morning.” He chuckled wickedly, pleased with his pun. “At any rate, I doubt your husband will be pleased to see me. Our last private meeting was disastrous enough. Another could prove fatal.” His keen eyes rested pointedly on her, and for the moment, she ceded defeat.

Monday, September 18, 1837

The children were asleep, and Charmaine climbed into bed, exhausted. Last week had been difficult, and this one was off to a bad start. It had rained every day, and they had been housebound. To make matters worse, John hadn’t come near them, his absence feeding the children’s boredom and restlessness. Of course, they begged for his company, but he used Paul’s trip to Espoir as an excuse: he was busy with work, a justification that acquitted him while branding Paul the despot. Nevertheless, Charmaine hid behind the same white lie when they complained to her, and wondered what fib she would use when Paul returned. She didn’t have to worry about that yet. Paul had sent word he’d be detained on Espoir a week longer. If the rain persisted, it meant another seven days cooped up in the house, another week that would consume John’s time. She suspected he was avoiding them out of spite to prove some enigmatic point. For all his preoccupation with “work,” she was certain those responsibilities wouldn’t have prevented him from setting time aside for the children if he had been so inclined.

Once John passes judgment on somebody, he rarely changes it.
Obviously, his unfavorable opinion of her hadn’t changed, despite his conciliatory comportment in the days leading up to last Sunday.
What had he called it? A truce? A truce was a suspension of fighting between enemies. So, John still viewed her as an enemy. But why should that matter to her, anyway?

She’d considered forgiving his unholy remarks—words spawned in the heat of the argument—but abandoned that idea yesterday when they crossed paths with him on their way to the chapel. “So, Miss Ryan,” he’d observed wryly, his eyes on Yvette, “I see you have risen from the battle victorious.” It was too much! She seethed throughout Mass. The man was incorrigible, no, worse, barbaric, without principle, unable to communicate on a level shared by the whole of civil society. He didn’t deserve her clemency.

Still, he dominated her thoughts, and her mind lingered on something Millie Thornfield had said earlier when she had drawn her bath. “My Mum likes him. She claims that any man who loves children the way Master John loves his sisters and brother has to have a kind heart.” Charmaine wondered. Was his affection for the children genuine, or were his motives perfidious? Did he cultivate the work of the angels or of the devil? She fluffed her pillow, resolved to travel the path of caution.

Thursday, September 21, 1837

Pierre trained his weary legs on the portico steps, teetering when he reached the summit. He hardly appeared the youngest lord of the island, rather a guttersnipe without family or home: his face smudged black, his fine clothes soiled, and his shoes muddied beyond repair. Yet, he drew a triumphant breath and trudged along the wide colonnade, dragging a fishing pole twice his height behind him.

The day turned black. Suddenly, the sky ripped apart, sending torrents of rain soaring toward the anxious earth. Certain her worst possible fears had come to fruition, Charmaine recommenced her pacing. A commotion in the foyer drew her out of the drawing room.

“Oh, Miss Ryan,” Travis Thornfield lamented as he ushered the little ragamuffin toward her, “look what the wind has blown in! I’m afraid he is in dire need of your tender care.”

“I’ll see to him immediately,” she replied, her eyes never leaving Pierre. She was shaking all over, a palpitating surge of relief that surpassed her receding distress. “And just where have you been, young man? Do you know how upset I’ve been?” The boy’s eyes welled with tears. “Oh, Pierre!” she sobbed, instantly regretting the trenchant reprimand and hugging him close, unmindful of his soggy state or that his clothes reeked of dead fish. “I should spank you for frightening me so.” She did not notice John, who towered over her.

“If you must scold somebody, Miss Ryan, it ought to be me.”

She straightened up. “How dare you take him away without my knowledge?”

“Miss Ryan,” John attempted to placate, appreciating her concern, if not the tone of voice, “didn’t Rose tell you he was in safe hands?”

“Yes, she told me!” Charmaine snapped. “But you had no right to take him anywhere without my permission!”

“Permission?”

“Yes, permission! The boy is my responsibility, not yours! He was out of my care the entire day. God only knows what harm could have befallen him!”

“Miss Ryan,” John snarled with set jaw. “I am not a pestiferous beast. I have feelings just like you, I am capable of—” He shook his head and forced himself calm. “I apologize for your distress, but I didn’t think you would worry over Pierre’s welfare.”

“Then why did you go behind my back to abduct him?”

“I didn’t abduct him,” John answered in exasperation. “I went to Rose in the hopes of avoiding the nasty dispute we’re having now.”

“And how would I have explained Pierre’s whereabouts if your
father had visited the nursery today?” Charmaine retaliated. “I’m certain he would be displeased with my lax guardianship—that someone was able to take his son from the house without my knowledge.”

John clenched his fists, and it was a moment before he trusted his response. “He didn’t ‘visit the nursery,’ did he?” When Charmaine held silent, he relaxed. “I hope you’ve learned a lesson today. Maybe now you will admit I can be trusted with the children. For all of your worry—fed undoubtedly by my brother—I have returned Pierre safely. Yes, he’s filthy, but happy. At least he was until you dampened his gaiety.” John looked down at the boy, who stood mute at Charmaine’s side, eyes wide as saucers.

“Don’ be angwee, Mainie,” Pierre sniffled. “Johnny took me fishin’. We had fun. We didn’t do nothin’ bad.”

His beseeching voice mollified her. “I’m not angry with you, Pierre,” she whispered, clasping his hand and throwing John one last meaningful glare as she turned toward the stairs.

Pierre pulled away. “I don’ wanna go to the nulswee. I wanna see my fishes.”

“Your fish?” Charmaine asked, noticing for the first time the discarded fishing pole and the repugnant odor.

“Yes, my fishes I caught in my fishin’ boat,” he explained.

“Your fishing boat?” Charmaine looked to John, who was smiling now.

“Johnny bought it for my birfday, and we went fishin’ today.”

“How very generous,” she replied tightly. “Only it’s not your birthday.”

“I know,” Pierre agreed, “but the boat didn’t, so we be-tended it was.”

Charmaine read the approving twinkle in John’s eyes, then Pierre’s pure joy. His innocent charm vanquished her ire. “And where are these fish you caught?”

“Right here,” John said, dangling a variety of dead specimens from a hook.

“I wanna put ’em in some water and see ’em swim,” Pierre insisted.

“Oh no,” John chuckled, holding them out of the boy’s reach.

“We’re giving these to Cookie so she can fix them for dinner.”

“You mean eat ’em?” Pierre asked apprehensively. “I don’ wanna eat ’em. I wanna see ’em swim.”

“But they can’t—” John began, and then “—come with me.”

Minutes later, they were in the kitchen, staring into the large tub of water John had placed on the wooden table. Pierre poked a finger at one of the floating fish, perturbed when it did not dart away like the others in the lake.

“Why ain’t he swimmin’?” Pierre asked.

“Why
isn’t
he swimming,” John corrected.

“Why isn’t he swimmin’?” Pierre repeated, his eyes fixed on John.

“Because he’s dead,” John replied levelly.

“Did it hurt?”

“I don’t think so. Anyway, he’s mighty happy to know he’s going to be a delicacy dinner tonight, cooked by the world’s greatest chef—”

“Oh go on with ya, Master John,” Fatima exclaimed bashfully.

“—and devoured by the likes of George, a man renowned for his discriminating taste in fine cuisine—and anything else that’s edible.”

As if on cue, George stepped into the kitchen, eliciting Pierre’s giggle. “What is he laughing at?” George asked, looking from a smiling Charmaine, to an embarrassed Fatima, and a mischievous John.

“Dead fish, George,” his friend answered. “Only some dead fish.”

Sunday, September 24, 1837

When Frederic appeared at the nursery door at noon, Charmaine wondered if the outing she had planned would be spoiled. But he only nodded when the girls told him they were going into town for the remainder of the day.

“I’ll only visit with you for a short while,” he said.

Charmaine retreated to her room, allowing them some private time together.

John had slept late and it was early afternoon when he left his chambers. Assuming the children would be in the nursery, he headed there, but as he lifted his fist to knock on their door, his father’s voice stopped him. He quickly lost his desire to see them and changed course. Lunch…

He was halfway down the stairs when he noticed the tall stranger standing in the foyer. Though dressed in Sunday attire, his clothes were threadbare. Yet, his stance was confident, arrogant even, as he studied the portrait of Colette. John bristled at his perusal, the seeming right he had of being there.

“Excuse me,” John called gruffly, continuing his descent. “Can I help you?”

The stranger tore his gaze from the painting and focused on him. “Yes.”

The dark eyes grew intense, so much so John was confounded.

“Are you John?”

“I am. And who might you be?”

“Wade Remmen,” he replied casually, extending a hand in greeting.

John stepped forward to take it. “Ah yes, the illustrious Mr. Remmen,” he derided. “I’ve heard a great deal about you.”

“And I you,” Wade returned, “more than you could ever imagine.”

John’s brow raised, intrigued.
Very self-assured,
he thought.
No
wonder Paul has placed him in charge.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Remmen?”

Wade looked down at the papers he held in his other hand. He passed them to John. “Your brother told me you’d be taking over while he’s on Espoir. I expected him back by now, but, as you know, he’s been detained. These are for him. It’s a tally of the wood delivered into town over the past two weeks as well as the shipments sent to Espoir.”

John scarcely glanced at the invoices. “I’ll see he gets them.”

“Actually, I’m to deliver them back to the warehouse with a signature. If you could look them over now, I’d appreciate it.”

“Mr. Remmen, today is the Sabbath. I always honor the Sabbath.”

Wade frowned momentarily. “Very well. If you could possibly get them to me at the mill tomorrow, I’ll take them into town after I’ve finished work.”

“I’ll do better than that,” John said. “I’ll deliver them to the warehouse tomorrow morning. How would that be?”

“That would be fine.”

John saw Wade to the door, then stared down at the documents. Inspired, he took the steps two at a time and, without knocking, entered the nursery. He found Jeannette on his father’s lap, Pierre playing at his feet, and Yvette reading a story to them. Charmaine was nowhere to be seen.

Frederic looked up in surprise as Yvette greeted him with, “What are you doing here? Joseph said you were still sleeping.”

“I have something for Father,” he answered curtly, stepping into the room and depositing the invoices on the desk nearest the man.

“Wade Remmen delivered these. They need to be signed by tomorrow morning.”

“Wade?” Jeannette queried excitedly. “Is he still here?”

“He just left.”

She jumped from her father’s lap and scurried across the room.

“What is this?” her father called after her, but she paid him no mind as she raced out onto the balcony in the hopes of catching a glimpse of the man who had caught her fancy.

Yvette rolled her eyes. “She’s in love.”

Frederic chuckled. “Is she now? With Mr. Remmen?”

“All because Mama told her how very handsome he is.”

Frederic’s eyes turned black.

“What is the matter, Papa?” Yvette asked.

“Nothing,” he bit out.

John was just at puzzled, but he quickly discounted his father’s strange reaction when it looked as if the man were about to speak to him. A second later, he was out the door, ignoring his sister’s calls for him to stay.

“Will there be something else, Miss Ryan?”

“No…” Charmaine hesitated, stroking the more expensive bolts of yard goods. As Maddy Thompson returned them to the shelves, Charmaine bit her bottom lip. “On second thought, I
will
take the paisley taffeta and blue muslin.”

“It will raise the amount of your purchase considerably.”

“Yes, I know,” Charmaine murmured.

A short while later, she stepped out of the mercantile, package in hand. Though she was light of coin, she did not regret her extravagance. The twins’ birthday was only four days away, the first without their mother. Charmaine intended to make it the happiest of occasions, much as they had hers only nine months ago. The unexpected memory evoked an untenable sense of loss and loneliness. She missed Colette and sighed deeply, hoping to shake off the melancholy. She thought of the girls again. She’d spend the next few evenings sewing, a labor of love made possible by the wages she had saved.

She squinted against the bright sun and headed toward the livery. George was where she’d left him, on the boardwalk, amusing
Pierre, who sat on his lap, and the girls, who were climbing on the casks beside him. Clutching her parcel, she picked her way past buckboards and carriages and the strolling townspeople.

“Get everything you needed?” he asked when she reached them.

“Yes, and thank you for minding the children.”

“I was happy to do it,” he replied, standing to lift Pierre into his arms. “And a good thing, too, the mercantile is open on Sundays,” he finished.