Saturday, August 26, 1837
IT was an hour past daybreak and Charmaine and the children were already out of the house. Late last night, George had informed the twins Chastity would finally foal. And so, they were up and dressed at the crack of dawn, pestering Charmaine to visit the stables. Once there, they reveled in the miracle of new life. But Pierre had quickly tired of the spectacle.
Presently, he giggled uncontrollably as Charmaine spun him round and round in wide circles. Dizzy and exhausted, they collapsed onto the dewy lawn, where Charmaine affectionately kissed the top of his head. He scrambled away and stood before her, his cheeks rosy. “I wanna do it again!” he demanded, presenting his back to her and throwing his arms up into the air.
“Pierre,” she complained breathlessly, “you are going to be ill!”
“One more time!” he pleaded, turning his baby-brown eyes upon her.
“That is what you said the last time,” she replied, placing a finger to his protruding belly and marking her words with a tickle. He squirmed and giggled. “Very well,” she sighed, rising again. “But this will be the last time, yes?”
He shrugged with head cocked, an adorable pose that made it impossible to say “no.” She chuckled and gave him a fierce hug, then twirled him again. His glee echoed off the façade of the manor. When she set him down, he scrutinized her with another tilt of the head. Spontaneously, he threw his arms around her waist and hugged her as tightly as she had him moments ago.
Tears sprang to her eyes. “I love you, Pierre—so very much!”
As she released him, he espied a butterfly flitting over the flowers in the lawns and was off, chasing it down. He stopped to examine it each time it alighted. Charmaine sat in the grass and watched his carefree pursuit.
John strode back into his bedchamber, perplexed. Laughter had awoken him, drawing him out onto the veranda. He stood in awe of Charmaine Ryan’s gentle play and genuine affection for Pierre. Quite unexpectedly, he felt reassured the orphaned boy had found the surrogate mother he needed. Perhaps the young governess was not just another of Paul’s hussies. He rubbed the back of his neck. Perhaps he had misjudged her.
The butterfly forgotten, Charmaine watched Pierre toss pebbles across the cobblestone drive. Though she appeared a tranquil figure in the cool morning breeze, her thoughts were turbulent.
The week had ended less eventfully than it had begun. After Tuesday’s picnic, she came to accept the futility of hiding from John. Though the past three days had been a tedious exercise in self-control, she was getting better at holding her tongue, learning the hard way it was impossible to win a war of words with him. He was far too quick on the comeback, another trait that rankled her.
As for Paul, he’d grown aloof, resuming his hectic work schedule on Charmantes. They hadn’t shared another moment alone. It was for the best, she reasoned. The last thing she needed was for John to catch her in his brother’s arms again. Nevertheless, Paul had been at dinner every evening, and for that, she was grateful. Tonight would be different. He had headed for Espoir before daybreak and wasn’t expected back from the other island until late. This evening, she would have to face John alone.
The twins scampered through the stable doorway, shattering the serenity as they raced up the lawns shouting and waving. “Mademoiselle Charmaine, don’t you want to pet the new foal?”
“I think he and his mother need to be alone, and we must go inside to eat.”
“Only for a little while,” Jeannette pleaded as they reached her.
“And we can tell Johnny that Phantom sired a colt!” Yvette exclaimed.
“Johnny?” Charmaine queried quizzically. “Phantom sired?”
“Well, of course! Why else would his coat be so very black?”
“Why else, indeed?” she murmured.
It wasn’t until they had eaten, and Pierre, who’d grown cranky by the end of the meal, was settled for an early nap, that Charmaine accompanied the girls back to the stable. The foal was a sight to behold: jet black, long of leg, and fuzzy all over. He began nursing just as George returned. Confident the twins were in safe hands, Charmaine left them in order to check on Pierre.
The boy was not in his bed. She entered the playroom, but it, too, was empty. She checked her own room next. Nothing. Where could he be? She headed toward the stairs, counseling herself calm. Pierre was fine. He’d awoken and left the nursery looking for her. Perhaps he was in Paul’s chambers again.
The sound of shattering glass told her she was wrong. It had come from farther down the corridor, from Colette’s sitting room, a place where Pierre had often played, a place now forbidden to him. Instantly, Charmaine was at the door, cursing her ill fortune when the opposite door was yanked open and the mistress of the manor swept out of her husband’s quarters.
Agatha’s eyes narrowed, but when a child’s giggle drew their attention, those eyes turned evil. In a rush, she pushed past Charmaine and threw the door open. Pierre was crouched amid shards of glass and fresh flowers.
“You spoiled little brat!” she hissed, descending upon him in a fury. She grabbed him by the arm and lifted him clear off the floor.
“I’ll teach you not to touch what doesn’t belong to you!”
Charmaine flew at the woman. Stunned, Agatha let go, and Pierre scrambled behind Charmaine, where he pinned his quaking body against her legs and buried his face in her skirts.
“How dare you?” Agatha demanded.
“I—I’m sorry—”
“Sorry? Is that all you have to say? You allow him to escape your supervision, enter my private chambers and break a priceless vase, presume to interfere, and then assume an apology will suffice?”
“It was an accident. You can take the cost of the vase out of my wages.”
“Take the cost out of your wages?” Agatha echoed snidely. “You underestimate the value of that piece. But even if I were able to replace it, I refuse to tolerate your insubordination. For some reason you think you can speak to me as if you are a member of this family—initiate an assault of my person! Well, let me remind you who you are—an employee, an inferior!”
“I did not mean to be insolent—”
“Step aside, Miss Ryan, and hand the boy over. Since you are unable to discipline the children, it is time somebody taught you how.”
“No, please!” Charmaine begged, shielding Pierre with her arms.
“I said, step aside,” Agatha ordered, incited by the boy’s whimpers as she tried to pry him from Charmaine, “or I shall dismiss you!”
Charmaine had no choice. Agatha had the authority to carry out her threat, especially today, with Paul gone. In great shame, her arms dropped away.
“Mama! Mama!” Pierre desperately cried, clutching her legs.
Agatha yanked him free and carried him across the room to her dressing table chair, where she sat, laid him across her lap, and bared his bottom. She grabbed her hairbrush and struck him with it.
“Don’t!” Charmaine shrieked. “Please, don’t!” But her horror was muffled beneath Pierre’s wails, which grew louder with each brutal whack, spilling an ocean of tears on the carpet. She finally dove at the woman. “Let him go!”
“What in hell do you think you’re doing?”
Startled, Charmaine broke away. But Agatha cowered, for a livid John stood over them, beholding her defenseless victim. The boy’s bottom and lower back were covered in purple welts. Repulsed, he turned acid eyes on his aunt.
“By God, woman, what is the matter with you?”
Ashen-faced, Agatha abruptly released Pierre, who ran to Charmaine. Then, she rose regally from her chair and smoothed her rumpled skirts, a pathetic pretense at dignity.
“The boy needed a firm hand,” she replied imperiously, attempting to conceal the hairbrush in the folds of her skirt.
“A hand?” John snarled, seizing her arm and ripping the brush away. “You nasty bitch! I should take this to you!”
Agatha flinched when he hurled it across the room, then gasped at his profanity. “How dare you? I am mistress of this manor! I demand your respect! You will not speak to me like that! You will apologize!”
“Hell will freeze over before I apologize to the likes of you!”
“How dare you?”
“How dare you abuse the boy over a vase that can easily be replaced?” he shot back. “I warn you now, Agatha, if you ever raise a hand to any child in this house again, I will tear it off and cast it to the dogs!”
“How dare you? How dare you?” she shrieked.
John ignored her, turning to Charmaine, who cradled Pierre to her breast, the boy’s grip tenacious, face buried in her hair, his muffled sobs little more than shuddering whimpers. John placed a comforting hand to his back, then grasped Charmaine’s elbow. “Come with me, before I strangle her.”
He nudged her forward, faltering momentarily. Frederic stood in the corridor doorway, his face grim. John pressed on, and the elder immediately stepped aside. Charmaine felt a frigid gale of resentment pass between them, the icy tentacles made manifest by Agatha’s cries of indignation. “He has abused me, Frederic! You didn’t hear what he called me in front of the house staff! I am…”
They continued down the south wing corridor. When they reached the nursery, Charmaine looked at John askance, bracing herself for a battery of irate questions. “Where are the girls?” he asked instead.
“In the stables with George, watching the new foal.”
She was surprised when the inquiry ended there. John was already at the bell-pull, summoning a maid.
Charmaine placed Pierre on his bed and sat down next to him. He cuddled his pillow for comfort, compounding her misery. She had failed him, and her heart was heavy with guilt. “Pierre, I’m sorry—so sorry,” she whispered.
He shoved a thumb into his mouth and closed his eyes to the world.
A hand came down on her shoulder, and Charmaine looked up at John. He had rescued them both. “Thank you,” she choked out, uttering words she never thought she’d say to him.
“For what?” he asked softly, his eyes earnest.
“For stopping Mrs. Duvoisin, for—”
“I was a bit late.”
Charmaine gazed down at the boy, silently shouldering her culpability; she should never have handed him over to the wicked woman. “How could she do that to an innocent child?” she lamented.
“It is beyond reason,” John snorted. “Horsewhipping is too good for her.”
A knock fell on the outer door, and John opened it to Anna. “We need a basin of cold water and fresh washcloths,” he directed.
With a bob, the maid disappeared, returning minutes later with the requested items. Rolling up his sleeves, John dipped the cloth in the water and wrung it out, gently laying the cool compress across Pierre’s buttocks.
“This should keep the swelling down.”
Pierre awoke with a start, not at all pleased with the comfort placed upon his bruised posterior. He moaned, and Charmaine knelt beside him, massaging his back while John continued to apply the cloth.
“I’m sorry, Mainie.”
“I know you are, Pierre, but you mustn’t go near those rooms again.”
“I won’t go there no more.”
“Good,” she murmured and placed a kiss on his forehead.
Pierre turned his head deep into the pillows. Charmaine took the cloth from John. The welts had already gone down, but she feared he wouldn’t be able to sit for the next day or two.
“Don’t worry, Miss Ryan,” John reassured, reading her mind.
“Children heal quickly. I’m sure we can find a soft pillow for Pierre’s bottom.”
“This should never have happened. I should never have left him alone, and I should never have allowed that woman to raise a hand to him, threats or no.”
“You’re being too hard on yourself, Mademoiselle. It would have been far worse if you weren’t there. You saved Pierre from Agatha, and he knows that. There is no sense in punishing yourself over it.”
She was astonished; his words were compassionate and comforting. Just as amazing, he hadn’t taken her to task for allowing Pierre to escape her supervision.
“Better?” he queried.
She nodded, nonplussed.
“Good. Then I’ll be on my way. Take care of him for me now, will you?”
When she nodded a second time, he smiled at her—a genuine smile, devoid of mockery. Then he was gone, leaving her in stunned disbelief over all he had done for them.
Sunday, August 27, 1837
John and Pierre sat at the dining room table. Almost everyone, family and servants alike, was at Sunday Mass. But the wooden pews of the chapel were too hard for the boy’s bruised buttocks, so John had suggested Pierre remain behind with him. Thus, the boy’s injury had allowed them this time to be alone together.
John leaned forward, pretending to study Pierre as raptly as the three-year-old studied him. A fine boy, he decided. “Well, Pierre, what are we going to do for the next hour?”
“Go fishin’.”
“Fishin’? How do you know about fishin’?”
“Jawj said you fish-ed wif Gummy off’a the dock, ’member?”
John chuckled, amazed by the boy’s recollection. “One day we shall go fishing,” he promised, “but we will use a rowboat.”
Pierre tilted his head to one side. “What’s a woeboat?”
“It’s a small boat that only a few people can sit in at one time,” John explained patiently. “It’s the best way to fish in a lake or on a river. Maybe I’ll purchase one for your birthday, and we can go fishing then. Would you like that?”
“Uh-huh,” Pierre nodded emphatically.
“Good. In fact, where I live, there’s a large river called the James. Do you think you’d like to go fishing there?”
Pierre puzzled over his elder brother’s words. “Where you live?”
“Yes—in Virginia. I’ll have to travel back there soon.”
“Because I have work to do there.”
“Why?”
“Because…” John was at a loss and chuckled again. “Because I just do. Do you think you’d like to come with me? We would captain a giant ship across the ocean and sail right up the James River. And when we landed, you could see the buildings in the big city and my house. Do you think you’d like that?”
Pierre studied him speculatively. “Would I live in your house?”
“Would you like to live with me?”
“Only if Mainie could live there, too.”
“Only if Mainie could live there, too,” John mumbled under his breath. “Well, Pierre, we’ll have to see about that.” He ruffled the lad’s hair affectionately.
Father Benito droned on, and Charmaine caught herself daydreaming. Agatha sat directly in front of her, a constant reminder of John’s profanity. Bitch…the label had had an effect. Agatha had kept to her boudoir until this morning, and Charmaine could thank the man for that, too. Nevertheless, she anguished over Frederic’s reaction. He hadn’t confronted her as yet; surely he would.
John. By no means did his blessed intervention excuse his reprehensible behavior, but it had brought about a most unexpected cease-fire. For this reason, she bowed her head and said a prayer for him. It was as if her mother were there, telling her it was the right thing to do. Even at dinner last night, he had been pleasant. With Paul and Agatha absent, the mood had been relaxed, and to the children’s delight, he and George carried on throughout the meal, telling jokes, playing tricks, and acting silly. Not once did he send a cutting remark her way, and so it had been easy to place Pierre in his care this morning. Perhaps the worst was behind them; perhaps they had reached a truce.
When the Mass ended, Stephen Westphal approached Paul.
“What brings you to services here?” Paul asked.
Westphal, who hadn’t returned to the manor since that terrible dinner last December, glanced at Charmaine. “It is difficult to track you down during the week, so I had hoped to catch you at home.”
“What is it?”
Agatha moved to Paul’s side, and Stephen nodded a greeting.
“Perhaps we should go to the library. This is a business conversation, private in nature.”
“You can tell me here,” Paul replied, suspicious of the man’s reticence.
Westphal plunged in. “Some of the Richmond accounts you attempted to liquidate were closed out earlier this year.”
“Closed out? What do you mean, closed out?”
“The funds were withdrawn in March—” Westphal cleared his throat “—by John. By all indications, there are no monies left in the Virginia State Bank.”
Paul massaged the back of his neck, perplexed.
“This is outrageous!” Agatha exclaimed.
Westphal rushed on. “Don’t worry, I had Edward Richecourt contact the Bank of Richmond. Those accounts are still intact, and the shipping firm has been paid; however, it would be prudent to find out whether other accounts have been terminated before future notes are written against them.”
“We can find that out right now,” Paul replied, “that is, if I can locate John. He’s probably still sleeping.”
“No, he’s not!” Yvette piped in. “He’s in the dining room with Pierre.”
“Pierre?” Paul queried, noting for the first time the three-year-old’s absence. “Alone?” he added, his anxious eyes now leveled on Charmaine. “You left the boy alone with John?”
“Yes—” Charmaine faltered “—but I’m certain he is fine.”
Paul rushed from the chapel. Stephen threw a quizzical look at Agatha and hastened after him. Trembling, Charmaine and the girls did the same. She worried over the expression on Paul’s face, the implication Pierre was in some sort of peril. Surely John wouldn’t endanger his own brother.
They found Pierre seated in John’s lap, giggling.
“What’s the matter, Paul?” John asked as his brother stepped up to the table, a small entourage behind him. “You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”
Paul exhaled.
Greatly puzzled, Charmaine studied both men, but their faces bore no answers. Pierre is fine—so why the alarm?
Stephen broke the perplexing tableau, stepping forward with hand extended. “John, how good it is to see you again.”
John made no move to rise. “It is?” he asked, ignoring the proffered hand, which hung suspended in midair long enough to become embarrassing.
“Of course it is,” the banker rejoined in confusion, his arm dropping to his side. “Anne has written a great deal about you of late. I’m pleased to hear you’ve been getting along so famously.”
John snorted. “Famously? Is that how she describes it?”
“Well, yes.”
Westphal began fiddling with his collar. He’d forgotten how brutally blunt John could be. Ten years in America hadn’t smoothed the man’s rough edges.
“Did your daughter write she was chasing me all over Virginia and I traveled to New York to get away from her?”
“No—no, of course not!” Westphal blustered, then laughed pretentiously as if John were only joking. “She led me to believe that—that—well, that—”
“Well, Mr. Westphal, it appears your daughter has misled you. So let me clear the matter up for you right now: I have no intention of ever proposing marriage to her. Is there anything else you’ve been led to believe?”
To Charmaine’s delight, the banker’s face reddened in disgrace. “I don’t know what to say,” he jabbered further. When John held silent, he beat a hasty retreat toward the foyer.
“I know he’s annoying,” Paul commented as everyone took their seats, “but you didn’t have to break it to him quite like that.”
“No? Trust me, Paul, it is for the best. Unlike Mrs. London, he got the message, so perhaps he will convince her she is wasting her time. I’m tired of her incessant pestering and would see an end to it.”
Paul shook his head, but didn’t pursue the matter. “I need to speak with you about the Virginia bank accounts. You closed two of them. Why?”
John leaned back in his chair. “I thought it unwise to have all our money in the South, so I transferred funds to New York. Why do you ask?”
“I wrote notes against those accounts. Why didn’t you let me know they’d been moved?”
“I didn’t know about the notes. Why didn’t you let me know?”
Paul didn’t answer. He grabbed a journal, sat, and began to read.
The children had just finished changing out of their formal Sunday attire and into clothing suited for the stable when a knock fell on their nursery door.
Jeannette opened it. “Papa!”
Charmaine finished tying Pierre’s shoelace and stood slowly, bracing herself for the man’s upbraiding.
“Good morning, Jeannette,” he greeted. “Where are you off to today?”
“The stables, Papa. We’re going to check on the new colt!”
“Chastity foaled yesterday,” Yvette added. “We’ve spent so much time at her stall, the colt thinks we’re his masters. Maybe he could be mine?”
“I don’t know, Yvette,” her father answered seriously. “If the foal grows to be anything like his sire, he may be too much stallion for you to handle.”
Yvette grumbled, but he chuckled softly. “Why don’t you and your sister run along to the paddock now? I’d like to speak with your governess.”
They needed no further encouragement. Other than Pierre, who was on hands and knees playing with his blocks, Charmaine and Frederic were suddenly alone.
He must have read her apprehension, for he spoke directly. “Miss Ryan, I apologize for my wife’s conduct yesterday morning. It won’t happen again.” Charmaine was dumbfounded, but he didn’t seem to notice, his attention on Pierre. “How is he?”
“Recovering,” she said, and then, by way of justification, “I thought he was napping, sir. When I returned to check on him, he was gone. I suppose he went into Mrs. Duvoisin’s chambers because they used to belong to his—”
“Charmaine, I’m not asking for an explanation. I am quite pleased with your care of my children. It is the single thing I don’t worry about.”
Amazingly, the ugly episode was closed, Frederic calling to the boy and requesting a hug, which the child eagerly bestowed.
That evening, John came to the nursery to say goodnight to the children. He hesitated on the threshold, his eyes resting on Charmaine, who was struggling to dress Pierre for bed. The boy giggled up at him, squirming against the garment.
“He’s improved throughout the day,” she commented with a tentative smile.
“Johnny,” Yvette interjected before he could respond, “is it true you’re not going to marry Mr. Westphal’s daughter?”
“I’m not going to marry her,” he reassured.
“Good,” she said. “I don’t want you to marry anyone, especially her!”
John smiled at her naked honesty.
“Is she really rich like her father says she is?” she pressed.
“Her husband was a wealthy man, and she’ll most likely inherit her father’s money some day, too.” He eyed her quizzically. “Why do you ask?”
“If she is already rich, why would she want to marry you?”
John laughed heartily. “Because I’m so charming, of course!”
Charmaine rolled her eyes, not caring that he had turned to see her reaction.
“I don’t think so!” Yvette refuted. “That’s why it doesn’t make sense.”
“For some people, no matter how much money they have, it’s never enough, so they make their fortunes bigger by marrying someone with even more.”
“But you won’t do that, will you, Johnny?” she asked.
“If I marry, Yvette, it will be to a woman who won’t care about the size of my fortune; a woman who is happy just to be married to me. And someday, that’s how it should be for you, too.”
Charmaine was stunned by his declaration and bowed her head, not wishing him to see she approved of the values he was imparting to his sisters.
“Like Cinderella?” Jeannette interjected, bright-eyed.
“Like Cinderella,” John nodded.
“Only the wicked stepmother will belong to the prince’s family,” Yvette added. “But she’ll never get you to sweep the floors, will she, Johnny?”
John sniggered. “I wouldn’t dream of taking her broom. How ever would she travel?”
Monday, August 28, 1837
With Fatima at market and the children hungry, Charmaine prepared a snack tray in the kitchen. She looked up when Anna and Felicia entered the room, then set knife to bread and tried to ignore them.
“Like I was sayin’,” Felicia began pointedly, chafed by Charmaine’s aloofness, “I’ll satisfy him. Just you wait and see, and it won’t be by pretendin’ to be some innocent virgin. He don’t want some backward chit, anyway. What do you think, ‘Ma-de-mwah-zelle’? Do I got a chance?”
Charmaine began buttering the slices. “A chance at what?”
Felicia laughed spuriously. “There you go again, actin’ all naïve, with your high-and-mighty airs. You think you’re better than me, don’t ya? Ever since you got your room moved to the second floor. Well, you might think you’re somethin’ special, but you ain’t. You’re still hired help, just like me and Anna. So you oughta stop pretendin’ ’cause everyone knows you’re just the riffraff daughter of a murderer! Worse than us, in fact.”
Charmaine grimaced, hurt, yet perplexed. The maid’s verbal abuse had died down long ago, so why this?
“What I’d like to know is what you’re up to,” Felicia proceeded.
“You’ve been stringin’ Paul along for a year now, and that ain’t worked. So maybe you think you can make him jealous by fishin’ for a bigger catch. Is that what she’s up to, Anna?”
Anna nodded, bolstering Felicia’s fantastic theory.
The jaded woman smiled wickedly and continued to speak to Anna as if Charmaine weren’t there. “Ma-de-mwah-zelle Ryan will have her hands full if she thinks she can mewl after John the way she’s mewled after his brother.”
“John?” Charmaine gasped. “I leave him to you, Felicia!”
“Ain’t that generous of you!” the maid exclaimed, eyes hard as granite, voice cold as ice. “But I’ve seen the changes ’round here—enemies one day, friends the next. What did ya do, lift your skirts behind Paul’s back?”
Revolted, Charmaine grabbed the tray and rushed up the servant’s staircase.
“That’s right, Ma-de-mwah-zelle,” Felicia called after her, “you run back to the children and leave the men in this house to me. But if you’re gonna keep playin’ your games, stick to Paul and stay away from John!”
Charmaine was still simmering when she reached the nursery. She forced a smile for Rose and Pierre, offered them the snack, then settled next to Jeannette, who was absorbed in a book. “It must be interesting,” she commented, pushing Felicia from her mind.
“Hmm?” the girl queried, her eyes rising slowly to Charmaine.
“Oh yes, it is! Mademoiselle, do you really think a person can become a vampire?”
“A vampire? Is that what your book is about?”
“Yes! They’re terrible creatures that awaken from the dead,” Jeannette explained, her eyes wide with wonderment and fear. “By day, a vampire’s body remains asleep in its tomb, but at nightfall, the vampire rises up and stalks the earth, searching for victims—”
“Jeannette, you’ll frighten your brother! Why ever would you want to read such a novel, anyway?” She took the book and leafed through the pages of folklore. “Wherever did you get this?”
“Yvette found it in the library a couple of days ago,” Jeannette explained. “She’s going to read it after she finishes Frankenstein.”
“Frankenstein?” Charmaine asked, her eyes going to Yvette, who lay on the floor next to the French doors, also reading.
“This is even more frightening than vampires,” the girl imparted. “Just listen…” and she began reading excerpts from the ghastly story.
Having heard enough, Charmaine walked over to the girl and wrenched the book from her hands. “Mary Shelley…Where did you get this?”
“From Johnny. And Mary Shelley claims a corpse stood over her—”
“Corpse?” Charmaine gasped. “Why would anyone, let alone a woman, want to write something like this?”
“To win a wager,” Yvette replied.
“A wager?”
“Johnny said Mary Shelley and her friends were trying to see who could write the most frightening story.”
“And did she succeed?”
“I think so. After all, wouldn’t you be frightened by Dr. Frankenstein’s experiments to bring the dead back to life?”
“Bring the dead back to life? Yvette, this story is sacrilegious—”
“—and he collected the bodies from graves—”
“That’s enough, Yvette!” Charmaine scolded, snapping the book shut.
Rose concurred.
“No more talk about desecrated graves or reanimated corpses,” Charmaine decided. “And just to make certain, I’ll hold on to this until you are a bit older.”
“But you can’t! I have to finish reading it or else—”
“Or else what?” Charmaine pressed, noting the glance Yvette threw Jeannette’s way. “Out with it, or you won’t be seeing this book ever again.”
“That’s unfair!” she replied in a huff, and then: “Joseph was teasing me. He called me a ninny and said I’d be crying before I finished it. So now I must!”
“Yvette, why do you allow that boy to taunt you? He is five years older than you are. He knows he can get the better of you.”
“Well, he can’t! And once I’ve won the wager, I can call him a ninny!”
“Wager?” Charmaine asked. “I hope this doesn’t involve money.”
Yvette shook her head emphatically, but Charmaine remained unconvinced. Nevertheless, she relinquished the book with the agreement that once Yvette had proven her point to Joseph, the macabre storytelling would cease.
Tuesday, August 29, 1837
“Rose isn’t feeling well,” John explained from the nursery door.
“Yes, I know,” Charmaine replied timidly.
“She mentioned the girls’ lessons. I thought I might lend a hand with Pierre.”
Charmaine nodded warily, allowing him to enter, and so it was settled. John hadn’t spent thirty minutes with Pierre before the twins coaxed him over to their desks, and soon, he was dividing his attention amongst all three children.
She had been loath to reveal the subjects they had covered thus far, certain he’d scorn her limited knowledge, but he didn’t seem to care at all. He took them on imaginary journeys to uncharted places filled with curious facts, weaving a treasure trove of information into a spellbinding tapestry. They rode a train pulled by a locomotive steam engine from Richmond to Washington, where they climbed into a hot-air balloon and floated all the way to New York. There they watched a baseball game and ate ice cream in the middle of August, rode an omnibus to the circus and saw a mermaid and a man with two heads. Next he launched into silly stories that he told in clever verse, and when he couldn’t think of a word that rhymed, he made one up. The children’s giggles bounced off the walls, their faces radiant with wonder.
As the second hour neared its end, Charmaine began to fathom John’s subtle, yet artful tactics. She had never known a man to seek out children as he did. If it were possible, he had won them over again, and she realized this would be the first of many such lessons. They would benefit from his knowledge, and he, in turn, could escape to this oasis of acceptance in a home where he was mostly spurned.
She marveled at how effortlessly he captivated them. She’d never seen them so happy, not even when Colette was alive. Begrudgingly, she acknowledged he was a better tutor than she could ever hope to be. How could she compete? Did she want to? Age, experience, travel, and the privilege of wealth gave him the undisputed advantage. This was a fortuitous opportunity for the girls, even Pierre.
When the twins pleaded him to visit the next day, John awaited her consent. Her consent! She almost laughed aloud at the idea. He didn’t need her permission to return, and she wondered why he had even bothered to look her way. Why was he suddenly showing her respect? What had happened to bring about his drastic change in attitude?
The more she pondered the question, the more perplexing it became. Was it the spanking incident with Pierre? That seemed to be the turning point, but she quickly dismissed the notion. Since the night of his arrival, he hadn’t disguised his belief she was promiscuous—his brother’s paramour. So how could Pierre’s spanking have changed that opinion? Yet now, he was treating her like a lady!
Whatever the reason, she wouldn’t lament her good fortune, and she certainly wouldn’t jeopardize it by barring him from his sisters’ studies. As long as he treated her amicably, she’d reciprocate. Today’s turn of events heralded good times at last, good times indeed!
Friday, September 1, 1837
It was close to midnight when the French doors began opening again. Jeannette was frightened and stood quaking at the foot of her governess’s bed.
“Yvette probably opened them,” Charmaine reasoned. “It was hot today.”
“I did not!”
Yvette’s denial from the room beyond seemed a bit too vehement. They’d been through this same scenario two weeks ago. Clearly, a hoax was being perpetrated. The girl’s fascination with the morbid had continued to grow: monsters, vampires, and now ghosts.
Charmaine sighed and ushered Jeannette back to her own room, fixing a pointed stare at Yvette once Jeannette was settled back in bed.
“You think I opened them?” Yvette demanded.
“I thought you wanted to prove Joseph the ninny, not your sister.”
Yvette folded her arms in a huff, denying any hand in the opening doors.
Charmaine did not believe her; unfortunately Jeannette did and could not be reassured. When footfalls resounded in the hallway, Charmaine was ready to seek assistance. “If your brother tells you there’s no such thing as ghosts, will you believe him?”
Jeannette nodded halfheartedly.
Charmaine looked down at Pierre, clutching his stuffed lamb. He slept soundly, oblivious to it all. She slipped on her robe and departed.
Paul’s dressing room door stood slightly ajar, soft light spilling through the crack. Charmaine raised her hand to knock, but hesitated.
“Second thoughts?”
She jumped, heaving a sigh of relief when she pivoted around to find John ascending the last steps of the staircase. “You startled me.”
“I’m sure I did,” he commented wryly. “Next time, use the French doors. They’re less conspicuous.”
“French doors?” Charmaine queried innocently. The light dawned. “Oh, you don’t understand! I was only going to ask your brother for a favor.”
“A favor?” he snickered, his lips curling into a lopsided smile.
“Shouldn’t he be asking you?”
“Sir, you misunderstand.”
John shook his head, chuckling this time, and stepped toward his bedchamber door mumbling, “I don’t think so.”
“Mademoiselle?”
There was no turning back. He was the preferable choice for comforting his distraught sister. “Do you have a moment?”
“I have a whole night.”
Her cheeks grew warm. “Oh, never mind! I’ll see to it myself.”
He curtailed his japing and met her at the nursery door. “What is it you actually wanted, Miss Ryan?”
Once she’d explained, he entered the children’s bedroom, crossed to Jeannette’s bed, and set his efforts to comforting her.
“Miss Ryan tells me you’re frightened.”
“The French doors keep opening all by themselves,” she moaned, glancing toward Yvette, who remained awake, but silent.
John’s gaze followed. “And you don’t know who opened them?”
“No, but when it happened the last time, I saw somebody. This time, I only heard a noise.”
“It was just your imagination—the result of all the ghost stories you’ve been reading.”
“No, it can’t be,” she countered. “The first time it happened was before I started any of those books. Besides, doors don’t open by themselves.”
“Sometimes they do,” John replied.
“They do?” both girls asked in unison.
“They do,” he affirmed, demonstrating how a draft could cause a door to swing open. Jeannette smiled at last, admitting she was no longer afraid.
“But how did the latch come undone?” Yvette asked.
“These doors don’t lock, Yvette. Sometimes a latch doesn’t catch properly. That’s probably what happened tonight. Wouldn’t you agree, Miss Ryan?”
“Absolutely.”
Yvette only grunted and stretched out once again on her bed.
He walked over to the French doors to reopen them. “It’s going to be hot again tomorrow. Best to enjoy the breeze while it lasts.”
“No!” Jeannette cried. Then seeing she’d disturbed Pierre, she continued more softly, “Please close them—the right way, Johnny. I’m still frightened.”
“But you told me you weren’t.”
“Not of the doors, just of someone creeping in here, like the last time.”
“The only person creeping around the house at this late hour,” John remarked lightheartedly, “is George, pillaging treats from Cookie’s kitchen.”
The girls giggled, as he knew they would, but their laughter succeeded in waking Pierre.
Charmaine sighed. The disruption had turned into a midnight party.
John read her displeasure and stepped over to the boy. “Back to sleep,” he gently admonished, ruffling the lad’s hair. “There is nothing to be afraid of in here. You have Miss Ryan in the very next room, and if you need me, I’m close, too. All you have to do is call.”
“Thank you,” Charmaine whispered as he reached the door, disconcerted by his nearness.
“Any time at all,” he replied.
“Johnny?” Jeannette called. “Do you believe in monsters?”
He faced her again. “Definitely.”
“Have you ever seen one?”
“Saw one this morning at breakfast.”
“You did?”
“Didn’t you?”
“No.”
“I don’t know how you could have missed her,” he continued with a straight face, giving them a moment to absorb his irreverent humor. “She was sitting right at the foot of the table with her great big nose in the air.”
They burst into laughter, and Charmaine stifled a giggle of her own.
“You know,” he offered, stepping toward their beds again, “Paul was frightened of Cookie when she first came to work here.”
“Why?”
“Well, we were very young when she became our cook—only about five or six years old. But Paul thought she was the boo-bock.”
“The boo-bock?”
“Yes, the boo-bock—a monster,” John explained, delving into an extended story of how he had tricked Paul into believing the jovial and kindhearted cook was attempting to poison him. The children hung on his every word, chortling more than once, and especially when their disgruntled father threatened Paul with the switch if he persisted in his disrespect. Although Charmaine knew the tale was meant to be a diversion, she was certain every word was true and found the deception cruel.
John read her disdainful expression. “Surely you can find humor in a childhood prank, Miss Ryan. I assure you Paul played his fair share on me.”
“Well taught at your hands, no doubt.”
“No doubt,” he agreed. “I apologize if my inadequate stories offend you.”
Charmaine regretted the remark. “I’m sorry. I never had brothers, so I suppose I’m not a fair judge of how boys behave. I do appreciate your help.”
“Very well,” he replied, winking at the children, “we’ll leave it at that.”
“You know, Johnny,” Jeannette mused, “I’m not afraid when you’re here. Do you think you could sleep with us tonight?”
“And where would I sleep, Jeannie?”
“With Pierre. He wouldn’t mind. Would you, Pierre?”
The boy immediately lit up. “No, I wouldn’ mind!”
“See? Please stay!”
John canted his head as if considering the request, and Charmaine cringed at the begging chorus that followed, mindful of the adjoining door and its easy access to her room.
“You’re not being fair to Pierre,” he said. “You’ve talked him into this.”
“No they hav’n,” the child replied, his chubby cheeks rosy in the lamplight. “I want you to stay wight here, too!”
Charmaine waited for John’s response, struck by the tenderness—vulnerability perhaps—that fleetingly crossed his face. “It seems I’m outnumbered. If Miss Ryan has no objections,” and he looked at her, “then I suppose I must stay.”
“I’ve no objections,” she murmured, hugging herself against his perusal.
He nodded and turned away, the resemblance he bore to his father at that moment, striking—mostly in the magnetism he radiated. It was uncanny. John and Frederic are alike in so many ways…and both of them would vehemently deny it if they heard me say so. No wonder they clashed; two such intense personalities in one family couldn’t possibly coexist without someone getting hurt.
This revelation impelled her to study him more closely. He sat next to Pierre now, pulling off his boots. Even the physical traits were strong: the thick head of hair, squared jaw, curved nose, and thin lips. Although Paul was unmistakably a Duvoisin, with John, the similarity to Frederic went beyond appearance. John was so self-assured, directed himself with such purpose, that Paul couldn’t hope to compete. Suddenly, she was ill at ease with her mutinous musings.
“Will you monitor my bedtime preparations like you do Pierre, my Charm?” he quipped as he worked at his belt buckle. “Or must I beg for some privacy?”
The twins giggled, and Charmaine’s cheeks flamed red, realizing she’d been absentmindedly scrutinizing him. “I—I’m terribly sorry!” she sputtered. “I didn’t mean to—I mean I was—”
“I’m sure you didn’t,” he interrupted with a chuckle.
Realizing the shirt was coming off next, Charmaine hurried to the door. But when she looked over her shoulder to bid them one last goodnight, she saw he’d merely untucked it and was already stretched out alongside Pierre.
“I’m bunking with you tonight, Pierre,” he said, unaware of her nettled regard.
She’d show him she wasn’t embarrassed! She marched to Jeannette’s bed. “Let me tuck you in, sweetheart,” she said, pulling the coverlet up and giving her a kiss. She did the same to Yvette. “No talking,” she ordered mildly, walking over to Pierre next. She picked his lamb off the floor and placed it in his arms, giving him a kiss on the forehead.
“Don’t I get one?” John asked in feigned disappointment.
The twins giggled.
“I only kiss good boys.”
The twins giggled again.
“Bad boys are more fun to kiss.”
The giggles grew louder.
“Goodnight, Master John.”
The children’s glee followed her into her bedchamber.
“You two had better stop laughing,” he warned, “or else Mademoiselle Ryan will tan my hide. Kissing I can take. A spanking? Never!”
Paul was exhausted, but couldn’t sleep. The day had been blisteringly hot and his chambers were uncomfortably warm. Presently, he stood on the balcony taking in the cool night air. It was impossible to keep up the exacting pace of running Charmantes and developing Espoir at the same time. Thankfully, George was back, but even so, critical problems ultimately fell into his lap, the biggest of all, the infant tobacco fields. Not so terrible if he wasn’t needed on Espoir, but he was. Supplies had arrived, new construction had commenced, and fresh cane tracts were planted. It demanded a week of his time. His brother had experience with tobacco. Paul wondered if John would agree to help out while he was away.
Voices seeped into Charmaine’s dreams, melded, then abruptly broke away, snapping her awake. It was dark, but the voices came again—from the children’s room—one of them deep and irate. She jumped up and opened the door.
John stood in the center of the room, holding a distraught Joseph Thornfield by the scruff of the neck and pointing to a crumpled sheet that lay at his feet.
“I told you, sir,” the boy stuttered fearfully, “I didn’t mean any harm!”
“Didn’t mean any harm?” John expostulated. “You come creeping through the French doors in the middle of the night, draped in a white sheet, and you’re telling me you didn’t mean any harm?”
“No, sir.”
“John—I mean, sir,” Charmaine corrected, “please—let him go.”
“Let him go? Can’t you see what he’s been up to tonight?”
“I can see, but it’s not all his doing. Is it, Yvette?”
John’s brow knitted, befuddled, but when Yvette threw Joseph a murderous scowl, he understood.
“It was only a wager,” she replied defensively. “And I tell you now, Joseph Thornfield, you did not frighten me, so you have not won the bet.”
“A wager?” John railed, shaking the lad hard. “You’re telling me you’ve crept into this room—God knows how many times—just to win a wager?”
“It was only tonight, sir!”
“That’s a lie!” Yvette blazed. “You’ve frightened Jeannette before!”
“I have not! I swear I haven’t! This was the very first time!”
“You’re just saying that so you won’t lose your dollar!”
“No, I’m not! Here, take the money and see if I care.” Joseph fished a crumpled dollar from his pocket and shoved it toward Yvette.
John quickly snatched it away, knowing it was a great deal of money for the boy. “Is this your half of the wager?”
“Yes, sir, but—”
“And you think you’ve lost your stake because you failed to frighten her?”
“No, sir, but—”
“Then why in hell are you handing over your money? Never mind. I’ll just hold on to this.” He waved the note under the boy’s nose. “When you’ve shown me you won’t throw away a month’s wages on a ridiculous gamble, you can have it back. Now pick up that sheet and get out of here before I change my mind!”
“Yes, sir!”
The boy grabbed the linen and dashed through the French doors.
John raked his fingers through his tousled hair, pausing at the base of his neck when his eyes lifted to Charmaine. Her hair was plaited in a thick queue that hung over one shoulder and past her breast. She’d forgotten her robe in her haste to reach the nursery, and the thin nightgown highlighted her unbridled curves and heaving bosom. No wonder Paul found her attractive. He couldn’t have conquered her yet. She was too wide-eyed and innocent to have been with an experienced man.
“He’s just a boy,” she was saying, unaware of his sensate thoughts.
“Yes, he’s just a boy,” John agreed, “but he startled the life out of me creeping over to Jeannette like that. I should be paying him!”
Charmaine smiled, and Yvette snickered.
“Too bad he didn’t find the right bed.”
“He wouldn’t have frightened me even if he had,” Yvette objected haughtily.
“I’m sure,” John laughed, finally seeing the humor in the whole affair. “Let’s get back to bed. Move over, Pierre, and make some room for me.”
“Johnny?”
John regarded Jeannette, who’d remained quiet.
“Joseph said he didn’t come into our room until tonight. So who was it that other time?”
“It was Joseph. He was just too afraid to admit it.”
“I don’t think so,” Jeannette reasoned. “Because the first time it happened was before Yvette and Joseph made the wager.”
John frowned skeptically. “You’ve confused the dates, Jeannette.”
“I’m sure I haven’t. The first time was the night you came home—the night of that terrible thunderstorm. Remember, Mademoiselle?” Jeannette looked to Charmaine. “The storm was so bad, it even frightened you. That’s when you went to fetch us cookies and milk. You remember, don’t you, Mademoiselle?”
“I remember,” Charmaine whispered, conscious of John’s eyes upon her, worried her heady memories were publicized on her burning cheeks.
“That explains a few things I was wondering about,” he murmured thoughtfully. “But it doesn’t tell us when the wager began.”
“Yes, it does,” Yvette interjected. “You gave me Frankenstein the first morning you were home, and Joseph challenged me after he saw me reading it.”
“Frankenstein,” John grunted. “So, it’s my own fault I’m not getting any sleep tonight.”
Charmaine was tickled with his assessment.
“All right. Back to my original theory,” he concluded, “the breeze and a faulty latch, which I’ll fix in the morning.”
“But, Johnny, I really did see someone else in here!” Jeannette pressed.
“No, Jeannette, you didn’t. You were dreaming. I promise, nobody has been creeping into this room at night.”
“Somebody has,” Pierre piped in.
“Really?” John smiled. “And who would that be?”
“I’m not ’apposed to tell,” he averred.
“Please?”
“Well…sometimes…Mama comes to see me.”
Everyone inhaled in unison, a huge sibilant sound that held.
John grasped the boy’s shoulders, stern in disbelief. “What did you say?”
Pierre remained unaffected, a winsome smile on his face.
“Pierre,” John persisted, “who did you say visits you at night?”
“Mama,” he reiterated happily. “She plays with me and tells me things.”
“He’s lying!” Yvette protested, but when Charmaine told her to hush, she grumbled under her breath: “Well, he is.”
“What does she tell you, Pierre?” Charmaine asked, stepping closer.
“Can’t tell. I’m not ’apposed to.”
“Why aren’t you supposed to?” John asked.
“Mama…she says never to tell.”
“Pierre,” Charmaine offered, “maybe you’ve been dreaming.”
“Oh no,” he replied resolutely. “She wakes me up, and sometimes she visits me when I take my nap. She took me to her big room that day when that auntie spanked me…”
Jeannette began to weep, her wounds reopened.
With an instinct born of love, Pierre crawled from his bed and cuddled next to her. “Don’ cry, Jeannie. I sorry I made you cry.”
Charmaine was at a loss and turned to John, but one look at his face—the pallor that rivaled the goose flesh that crawled up her neck—and she knew he’d be of little help. What was wrong with him? Men were supposed to be strong.
“He’s obviously been dreaming,” she reasoned with weak conviction.
Sometime later, she climbed back into bed, but Pierre’s bizarre story kept her awake, amplified by John’s grave eyes staring at the French doors, as if he fully expected the ghost of Colette Duvoisin to float through them.
Saturday, September 2, 1837
Surprisingly, Charmaine awakened early the next morning, so early in fact, she heard Paul descend the stairs at the crack of dawn. Coming to an abrupt decision, she threw back the covers. She’d breakfast with him. Perhaps he could make some sense of last night and the fantastic chain of events that had shaken all of them. Unlike John, Paul would prove sensible: laugh at her and then supply some logical explanation.
As she dressed, she wondered if John had remained in the children’s room the entire night. She crept to the connecting door and gingerly opened it. All four occupants were sleeping soundly. Pierre was cuddled in the crook of John’s body, his back pressed against John’s chest. He clutched his elder brother’s hand, a substitute for the stuffed lamb, which had fallen to the floor again.
Charmaine was captivated, the similarities between man and boy remarkable. Though Pierre’s hair was a shade closer to his mother’s, the cut of his face, the almond shaped eyes—Frederic’s eyes—were the same. Even in sleep, they worked beneath closed lids. So, too, did John’s, though the movement ended there. He was totally relaxed, his face youthful. He was rather handsome now, his even breathing stirring the fine locks atop Pierre’s head. Her gaze roamed further, to the two arms, juxtaposed, Pierre’s creamy white against its swarthy counterpart. Paradoxically, the limbs drew strength and comfort from each other.
She closed the door, freezing when it creaked on swollen hinges. It roused Pierre. He turned over, found John in his bed, and sat up. Yawning, he leaned forward until his face was only an inch from his brother’s and tried to pry open an eyelid. John turned onto his stomach and buried his face in the pillow. The three-year-old immediately straddled his back.
“Have mercy on me, Pierre,” the man groaned as the boy began bouncing. “If I were a horse, I would have slept in the stable last night.”
Charmaine stifled a giggle, watching as Pierre slipped to John’s side and squeezed into the space between man and wall. To her surprise, he stuck a thumb in his mouth and closed his eyes. She shut the door and finished her toilette.
Paul sat alone at the table, sipping his coffee and reading a newspaper. When Charmaine stepped closer, his eyes slowly lifted, and a smile broke across his face. “This is an unexpected surprise. Why are you up so early?”
“I don’t know,” she fibbed, dissembling under his charismatic charm. “I guess I just couldn’t sleep.” Stupid answer! Tell him the truth…that is why you came down here!
“Well, then,” he said, “your insomnia has become my good fortune.”
He stood and helped her with her chair. She breathed deeply, intoxicated by his presence, the light scent of shaving lotion and cologne that lingered in the air. Impressions of last night’s haunting receded.
Fatima broke the spell, bustling into the room to lay a plate before him, taking Charmaine’s breakfast order as she poured two cups of coffee.
“I’m glad we have this quiet moment,” he said. “I have a few things I need to discuss with you.”
“Yes, so do I…”
Again he smiled, and she hesitated, waiting for him to speak first.
“I’ll be leaving for Espoir on Monday,” he continued.
“Leaving?”
The word erupted with childish fervor, yet he seemed pleased.
“Only for a week or two. I’ve neglected her for a while. But there are important matters that can’t be postponed any longer.”
“Two weeks?” she asked sullenly. The day had quickly turned dismal.
“The time will pass rapidly, and I’ll be home before you know it. Why the glum face? This isn’t about John, is it? He hasn’t been troubling you, has he?”
“No, he’s been unusually courteous this past week.”
Paul scowled. “So I’ve noticed. What is the matter, then?”
She was about to tell him, but faltered. “It was nothing.”
“Are you certain?”
“Yes, quite certain. I’ll be fine while you’re away. We’ll all be fine.”
He cocked his head to one side, his expression thoughtful while Fatima served Charmaine’s food. “How are the children?” he asked.
“Lately, they’ve been very happy, especially with John entertaining them.”
“John?” he queried, rankled by her use of his brother’s Christian name, which fed his growing unease. In that case, she is fair game. We shall see who is the better player. “I don’t like it,” he objected. “He shouldn’t be ‘entertaining them.’ He’s a bad influence.”
Not one week ago, Charmaine would have readily agreed, but John’s conduct had been exemplary over the past few days.
“I will put a stop to it. I don’t want him taking advantage of my absence.”
“Put a stop to it?” she exclaimed. Easier said than done! John had gone from minding Pierre, to helping with the girls’ lessons, to sleeping in the nursery with them. One look at Paul’s face, and she prayed he’d not find out. “I don’t see how you can possibly order your brother around,” she reasoned. “He comes and goes as he pleases.”
“I will speak to him. He shouldn’t be interfering.”
“But you can’t do that!”
“Why not?” he asked, puzzled by her vehemence.
“What I mean is—that won’t be necessary. There is no sense in stirring up a hornet’s nest. He’s been cordial to me of late, and the children enjoy his visits. Besides, if you tell him not to pester us, he is sure to do just that. I’m certain if we do nothing, he will tire of visiting the nursery all on his own.”
Paul considered her comment. “You are likely right,” he said, allowing her to breathe easier. “At any rate, Charmantes must be managed while I’m away. That should keep him occupied during the day. Even so, you should remain wary of him, Charmaine. I know him well, know how he operates, the little games he loves to play. He will use the children to toy with your affections. I’ll not allow him to hurt you.”
Charmaine was certain his gallantry was sincere, but she smiled halfheartedly, ate quickly, and left his company.
She had just reached her room when John stepped out of his own chambers, bleary-eyed. Clearly, he’d be glad to be back in his own bed tonight.
“Good morning…I think,” he said, securing the last button at his collar. “Did you get any sleep last night?”
“I eventually drifted off, close to dawn. Are the children still asleep?”
“Surprisingly, no, but they appear well rested and are already begging to visit the stables to curry the foal. They are working on a surprise for you. We thought you were still asleep, and I suggested they not disturb you. So they’re attempting to dress themselves, Pierre included, though I think his knickers might wind up on backward. When I left, he had a leg in the arm of his shirt, but refused help.”
“I see,” she replied with a chuckle.
“I’ll take them down to breakfast if you’d like to rest for a while.”
He shouldn’t be interfering. Charmaine cringed. Paul might still be eating. “That won’t be necessary,” she replied a bit too adamantly, then quickly added, “but, thank you all the same.”
“Is there a reason why I shouldn’t take them down to breakfast?”
“No,” she lied, not wishing to kindle his suspicions. Would she now be forced to effect a balancing act between Paul and John? She groaned inwardly. “I couldn’t possibly impose on you again this early in the day. Of course you’re welcome to join us. It is just that the children are my responsibility.”
“Yes,” he pondered aloud, but his knitted brow indicated doubt.
“He’s so beautiful!” Jeannette exclaimed, petting the colt’s sable coat.
“Not beautiful,” Yvette countered, “handsome. Johnny, do you remember Rusty?”
“Yes,” the man answered, throwing a saddle over Phantom’s back. “Why?”
“Remember how you taught Jeannette and me how to ride him?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“It’s a shame he died, because we never go riding anymore. All the other horses are too big for us, and Mademoiselle Charmaine doesn’t know how.”
“So they are,” John agreed, securing the saddle straps.
“If only there was another pony…”
“What are you hinting at, Yvette?” he asked, turning to study her. “Are you hoping I’ll purchase one for you?”
“Oh, could you, Johnny?” she cried, her face transfused with excitement. “Two would be nice! One for me and one for Jeannette. Please?”
Jeannette’s face mirrored her sister’s, and John couldn’t help but smile. “We’ll see,” he said, taking hold of Phantom’s reins. “Now, step aside. I’m off to town. I have some business to take care of at the bank.”
“Do you really have to go on Saturday and so early in the morning?”
“I’m hoping to inconvenience the clean Mr. Westphal into opening his bank before nine. If I time it just right, I may catch him in his nightgown and cap.”
Jeannette and Yvette sniggered.
John had just reached the stable doors when Charmaine and Pierre appeared. She carried a letter she’d written to Gwendolyn Browning the day before and, realizing John was leaving for town, bravely asked him to post it.
“What is this?” he chuckled. “You’d entrust me with so personal an item?”
Instantly, she regretted her impulsive request. “I’m sorry I asked!”
“Just a minute,” he laughed again. “There’s no sense in storming over nothing. Let me have the letter. I’ll see it gets to the mercantile intact.”
Her eyes shot daggers at him, for he never missed an opportunity to bait her, but he was further entertained as he took the correspondence from her hand.
The morning wore on, and the children grew cranky. After lunch, Charmaine suggested a nap. Though Yvette objected, in five minutes, even she was sound asleep. Charmaine picked up the discarded vampire book and tiptoed from the room. She’d return it to the library and choose another for herself.
The study was occupied. John sat at the desk with his head buried in his hands, so deep in thought he was unaware of her presence.
“Sir?” she queried.
He came up immediately from his contemplation, but quickly averted his gaze, wiping a forearm across his eyes. They appeared glassy, red even, undoubtedly the result of his restless night. She wondered whether the strange events were still on his mind.
“Sir, are you all right?”
“Sir?” he mimicked, finally looking at her. “I thought we’d dispensed with that formality last night. I prefer John.”
“Very well,” she replied guardedly, recalling Paul’s warning.
“I returned from town two hours ago,” he said, “but I’ve yet to see our resident ghost, Joseph Thornfield. Does he only come out at night?”
“Why do you want to see him?”
“I visited the bank on his behalf this morning, and I want to give him this account voucher before he complains I stole his money.”
“A bank voucher?” Charmaine asked in astonishment. “Have you placed his dollar in the bank for him?”
His expression turned cross. “For safe keeping.”
“Of course,” she nodded, smiling buoyantly now.
“You think I’m being too lenient with the lad, don’t you?”
“Oh, no, sir. I mean, John.”
She was laughing at him, and he didn’t like it. “Are you here for a reason, Miss Ryan?”
She considered the book she held and sobered. “I’m glad you were lenient with Joseph. Yvette is a different matter.”
His frown deepened. “Yvette? Why?”
“You may think she’s clever, but her escapades are getting out of hand. After her mother’s death, I indulged her. Her precocity was preferable to lethargy, and her antics had a positive effect on Jeannette. They were smiling again. But lately, she’s lost all sense of decorum.”
John snorted. “I’d be more concerned about Jeannette.”
“Jeannette?”
“Yes, Jeannette. She’s far too good, far too kind. Unlike Yvette, who’s learned to stand up for herself, who will never be manipulated, Jeannette is a sweet innocent who might easily be destroyed one day.”
Charmaine’s bewildered expression gave him pause; he hadn’t meant to say so much. “Yvette was born into money,” he quickly added. “She is playing the part of a little rich girl.”
The final remark chafed Charmaine. “A spoiled little rich girl,” she corrected defensively. “Her mother would not approve. Colette demanded good manners of all three children, grace and charity taking precedence over wealth. Yvette respected that, responded to her mildest of reprimands.”
John’s eyes turned dark. “Each to his own opinion, Miss Ryan. But I hold it is wiser to be bold than meek.”
Monday, September 4, 1837
John sat slumped in one of the study’s large leather chairs and fiddled with one of Pierre’s blocks, lacing it through his lean fingers, waiting for Paul, who held his position behind the huge secretary, to finish speaking. His brother had requested this meeting last night, but John had brushed it off until the morning, saying he was too tired and would be up before seven. Thus he sat, the early riser, if not the serious businessman Paul expected him to be.
“That is the state of our financial affairs. Any comments?” Paul looked up from his ledger, instantly losing his patience. “What are you snickering at now?”
“You, Paulie. You take this all so seriously.”
“You’re damned right I do—”
“I don’t know where Father and I would be without you,” John interrupted blithely. “In the militia, perhaps.”
“You sit there and laugh, but this is not some trivial game to be scoffed at. You’re in for a rude awakening someday. By then, it may be too late. Don’t come crying to me when you find a fortune has slipped through your fingers.”
“Whose fortune, Paul? Father’s or mine?”
“You know when Father dies it’s all yours.”
“The only fortune I’m worried about is mine, the one I acquired on my own.”
“On your own?” Paul scoffed. “Beyond your salary, I think you’re overlooking all the other conveniences Father’s shipping, plantation, and good name have afforded you in making your own fortune.”
“I’d have been a fool not to take advantage of them,” John replied in kind, “but Father’s enterprises benefit from my charity as well.”
“Charity?”
“Let’s start with the staples I ship to the island on a regular basis at no charge: feed, flour, corn, tobacco—”
“Grown on Duvoisin land, John, land that has belonged to the family for three generations—”
“And farmed by workers whom I pay out of my own pocket. I haven’t been reimbursed for that.”
“That is your own folly!” Paul bit back. “You weren’t forced to free your slaves. The land could be farmed for a pittance of what you pay your tenants!”
“Yes, Paul, my folly and my conscience.”
“Conscience?” Paul snorted in derision. “Since when has conscience concerned you? They’re only slaves.”
“Yes, Paul, they’re only slaves. And Cookie is only our cook, and Buck only your foreman. You’ve never been to a slave auction. If you had, you’d be revolted, and you certainly wouldn’t abide such degradation, free labor or no.”
Paul exhaled. The argument was moot. He’d learned long ago, starting with Colette: the abolitionist could never be persuaded to think logically.
“Never mind, John. I’ve not called this meeting to debate with you. Obviously, we view things differently. You, of course, know that and have led me far from the point.”
“I didn’t know there was a point to all this rambling.”
Paul ignored the remark. “The island is short of supplies. For all your so-called charity, we haven’t received a shipment of staples for months now.”
“You must be mistaken. Before I left for New York, I left instructions at the Richmond warehouse that your last order be shipped no later than mid-April. I couldn’t have spelled it more clearly—”
“Well, no such packet arrived.”
“—if I had drawn a picture for them.”
Paul’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t tell me that was the vessel with the missing invoices!”
“Missing invoices? I don’t handle the paperwork.”
“No—you only draw on it!”
John chuckled. “Now, Paul, don’t lose your temper over a harmless joke—”
“A harmless joke? Is that what you call it?”
“When did you lose your sense of humor, Paul? You’re no fun anymore. Anyway, you received the supplies, so why the scolding?”
“Because, dear brother,” Paul snarled between clenched teeth, “I sent the vessel back to you!”
“Back to me? In God’s name, why?”
“It was your confounded mess. I don’t pay my crews to dig through holds, break open casks, and take inventories!”
“What are you talking about?”
“The ship arrived here, all right, via Liverpool, with a cargo for Richmond. Your incompetent captain insisted that—under your orders—he stacked our supplies at the very back of the hold, instead of off to one side. Once he took on the European wares, our casks were buried!”
“I don’t give loading instructions,” John replied. “Stuart does, and he knows what he’s doing, so the mix-up must have occurred in Britain.”
The response was sincere, and Paul surmised the new captain had been pressed to weigh anchor and leave port, so to save time he’d cut corners and ordered the European goods loaded haphazardly.
“The British invoices were legitimate,” John continued, scratching the back of his head, “and the casks for the island were marked with the Duvoisin crest. So between the European invoices, your original order, and the crest on the barrels, how difficult could it have been to locate your cargo?” John’s deep chuckle erupted into a hearty guffaw. “And you sent it all back!”
“It isn’t funny, John!”
“Yes, it is!” he averred, wiping a tear from his eye. “Tell me, Paul, were you wearing trousers or a skirt the day you made that decision?”
Paul’s face blackened. “Laugh all you like, John, but you couldn’t have been happy when the ship returned to Richmond. In the end, it was your loss.”
“What loss? I wasn’t in Virginia to receive the ship. I was in New York.”
“Jesus Christ!” Paul exploded. “Do you realize what that means?”
“Yes,” John snickered, “either the cargo is sitting in my warehouse losing market value—which doesn’t affect me, since I wasn’t selling it, anyway—or, Stuart figured you didn’t need it, and put it up for auction. That brings in money I hadn’t counted on. If I were you, Paul, I’d pray it’s stored in the warehouse, but I wouldn’t bank on it.”
“Damn it, John, your bright idea for these new shipping routes is just not working! Now, you’re going to set this matter right before the day is out!”
“And how do you suggest I do that?”
“You are going to write to Edward Richecourt and have him arrange another shipment of the staples we need, straightaway. No stops in New York or Baltimore, no stops in Europe. It’s leaving Richmond and coming here directly, within the month, with accurate invoices. And from now on, I want a dedicated packet running a Charmantes to U.S. circuit at least once a month.”
“Edward Richecourt? That stiff ass wouldn’t know the first thing about handling this,” John replied. “I’ll take care of it my own way. But since I’ll have to pull a ship off its normal route, I’m going to charge all the associated expenses to the island’s account, not mine. And if you want a dedicated bark running half-empty between here and the States, weighted down with blocks my crew will have to load and unload for ballast, why not use one of your new ships? That way the family business can benefit from your charity, too.”
“Just be about it, John. I’ll see to it you’re paid.”
John stood to leave, but Paul stopped him. “I’m not finished yet.”
“No? What more could you possibly have to say?”
Paul ignored the gibe. “I’d appreciate your help while I’m on Espoir, looking in on operations, especially the tobacco. We’re new at it.”
“Why in the hell did you plant that?” his brother continued in the same vein.
“I don’t know. Now that I’ve seen all the additional work it has caused me, I wish I’d gone with cocoa instead. But that’s neither here nor there. Harold, Wade, and George handle day-to-day production well enough, but Charmantes requires capable—practiced—hands. Things always run smoother when I’m around.”
“Then can you really afford to place her in my incapable hands?”
“I never said you were incapable, John, just bent on irritating me. You have more authority than George if a crisis erupts, which always seems to happen when I’m away.”
“Don’t worry, Charmantes will be shipshape when you return.”
“Good,” Paul nodded, feeling at ease for the first time that morning.
Then he remembered something else. Despite Charmaine’s request he leave well enough alone, he forged forward. “There’s one more thing, John. I’d like to talk to you about the children.”
John’s expression turned stern. “What of them?”
“I don’t want you annoying them.”
“Annoying them?”
“You know what I mean, distracting them from their lessons, seeking them out in the afternoon, playing nursemaid.”
“I didn’t realize you had such a sharp eye,” John replied curtly, “especially when you’re away from the house all day. So how would you know what’s going on? Unless, of course, you have an informant.”
“I have no informant. I see for myself what’s happening. You know Father wouldn’t approve. He doesn’t want you around them.”
“Approve?” John queried derisively. “I don’t give a damn what he wants, and I certainly don’t care if he approves. I will seek out the children whenever and wherever I like, and you can tell him that.”
“Damn it, John! When will you desist from this need to hurt him?”
“Hurt him? What about me? There was a time when you were sympathetic to me.” Disgusted, he added, “Just remember, Paul, he started it all.”
“And he’s paid.”
“Has he? Well, then, so have I.”