Sunday, September 10, 1837
AN hour before Sunday Mass, Yvette announced she was not going. “The benches are too hard, and Father Benito talks gibberish. If Johnny doesn’t go, why should I?” Charmaine had reasoned, cajoled, and threatened to take the matter to Frederic—all to no avail.
John! She simmered. This is all his doing! He hadn’t set foot in the mansion’s chapel since he’d arrived. Plainly, Yvette was utilizing Paul’s absence to pit her governess’s authority against John’s. Well, Charmaine fumed as she headed toward Frederic’s chambers, we’ll just see about that!
She didn’t get far. Agatha emerged from the south wing corridor, blocking her path. Few words had passed between them since Pierre’s spanking, and Charmaine wasn’t about to strike up a conversation now. With a cursory nod, she changed direction and scooted down the stairs.
As her initial fury ebbed, common sense took hold. To whom could she turn to convince the headstrong eight-year-old attending Mass was essential for her moral welfare? Rose? Possibly. John? She almost laughed aloud at the thought; he was the root of the problem. Still, he didn’t know a thing about it. Perhaps if he did, he’d accompany them to the chapel, and Yvette would abandon her protests. Hadn’t he lent a hand before?
She found him in the dining room, alone, eating a large breakfast, even though the rest of the household observed the Church’s decree of a strict fast before Communion. She had seen less of him this week. With Paul gone, he’d assumed the reins of responsibility. Nevertheless, he had managed to spend time with the children before he left the house or directly after dinner. It was becoming less difficult to speak to him. Even so, she stepped forward gingerly.
“Excuse me, sir.”
John’s eyes left his newspaper. “Miss Ryan,” he returned, irritated by her persistent formality. “Is there something I can do for you?”
“Yes, there is,” she jumped in, mustering a radiant smile.
She was rewarded for her efforts, for he smiled in return, apparently disarmed by her ebullience, and she braced herself for a suggestive remark.
“What would that be?” he asked instead.
“I’d like to invite you to attend Mass with us this morning,” she said, carefully choosing her words. “I know the children would enjoy your company.”
His smile vanished. Still, he hadn’t refused.
She took courage and pressed on, hoping to fan his enthusiasm again. “And then there’s Pierre. He can be quite fidgety in church, but I thought if you were there—well, you’re so good with him and—”
“Really?” he interrupted, fixing steely eyes upon her. “You know, Miss Ryan, your tactics are duplicitous, yet rather transparent. You play the helpless heroine to a fault, seeking out my aid when it suits you, then complain to my brother afterward.”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
The seconds gathered into an uncomfortable silence.
“Was there something else, Miss Ryan?”
“Something else?”
“Yes. I’d like to return to my meal.”
Dumbfounded, she dropped her hands to her sides and blurted out, “Won’t you even consider accompanying us to the family service?”
“Miss Ryan,” he replied slowly, “as a boy, I heard enough of Father Benito’s fire-and-brimstone sermons to last me well into eternity. I had no choice then. I do now and have no intention of suffering through even one more. I need no pretentious priest to measure my pain. I do that well enough on my own. Does that answer your question?”
“Surely you can’t mean that!”
“Haven’t you learned by now I always mean what I say? Apparently not. So, let me spell it out for you: I will not accompany you or the children to Mass. Not today, nor next week—not ever.”
“But you must!” she objected, anger eclipsing her dismay. This man was wreaking havoc in the household with his heathen ways, and it was time someone told him so. “You may not care a farthing about your own soul, but it is unforgivable you’ve neglected the children’s!”
Bemused now, his brow arched. “What have they to do with it?”
“Everything and more! You ought to consider the effect your bad example has on them. What do you think crosses their impressionable minds when week after week, they see you reject God by refusing to partake of His son’s holy celebration? How do you propose I explain it to them?”
“So,” he scoffed, “this has nothing to do with an invitation to join you after all. And here I thought you worried over my sooted soul.”
“Have no fear about that!” she rejoined pointedly. “I’d be a fool to think I could ever sway the likes of you!”
“A very Christian attitude,” he replied mordantly.
“How dare you mock my values?”
“Your values, my dear, are not, by my estimation, worth holding.”
“Oh, you—you—”
“Scoundrel? Infidel?” he offered. “No, I think demon would be more to your liking.”
“Yes, demon is perfect!” she exclaimed furiously, but instantly repented the words. “I’m sorry. I didn’t come here to call names.”
“No? A lecture in morality then?” he pressed, annoyed she felt at liberty to confront him this way. Wasn’t she the hired help and he the family? When she refused to answer, he continued. “Miss Ryan, let me clear something up right now. I don’t take kindly to people—especially righteous women—who nurture a bit of good will with me and then assume I can be manipulated into doing their bidding. For the moment, I’d like to think you and I have come to a truce of sorts; however, I guarantee I will put an end to that truce within the hour if you persist in attempting to bend me to your will.”
His deadly tone left no doubt she had pushed him too far. Even so, she felt unjustly accused. She had approached the situation from the wrong angle and had to find a way to salvage her self-respect and regain the ground of civility they had cultivated over the past fortnight. “Sir, that was not my intention.”
“Then what is this all about?”
“I’ve told you—the children, specifically Yvette. She refuses to attend Mass because, as she puts it, ‘If Johnny doesn’t go, why should I?’ I thought if you accompanied us, she would forsake this stubborn nonsense.”
He did not immediately respond, though Charmaine could tell a barrage of retorts raced through his quick mind. When he did speak, she was aghast.
“Leave her behind with me, then. The Mass is, after all, a ritual for which the soul is supposed to yearn, is it not?” Sarcasm laced his query. “If Father Benito’s preaching leaves her empty, what is the point in forcing her?”
“The point? The point is we are speaking of a child’s soul, a soul that will not reach its Maker if it does not partake of the sacred ceremony you ridicule! I cannot believe you’re suggesting she is old enough to decide this for herself!”
He remained calm in the face of her resurrected rage. “And what need does an innocent eight-year-old have of that damned doctrine? Perhaps your comprehension would not be so limited, so obtuse, if you answered that question without prejudice, Miss Ryan. What terrible sin has she committed, is capable of committing, that would damn her to your godforsaken hell for all eternity? What morality need she learn that her own family cannot teach her?”
“What morality, indeed!” she rejoined contemptuously. “If her mother were still alive, I might agree with you. But even the mistress Colette did not limit her Christian example to good deeds alone. She marched the children to the chapel each and every Sunday. Can’t you see? It is what she wanted.”
“By God, woman!” he exploded, slamming a fist into the table.
“What makes you think I give a damn about what the mistress Colette wanted?”
“Because—” Charmaine stammered, wide-eyed and trembling “—because she was a kind and decent woman who lived her faith, a faith she wanted her children to embrace.” Foolishly, inexplicably, she babbled on, even though her mind screamed: flee. “Besides, she was your father’s wife and mother to your siblings. Surely, as such, you should respect her wishes!”
“Miss Ryan,” he snarled, “the mistress Colette was a very different woman than the one you have painted, and my feelings toward her were far from noble. She should never have become ‘Mrs. Frederic Duvoisin.’ In fact, I approved of her less in that role than I do the third Mrs. Duvoisin. So keep your angelic apparitions to yourself. I cannot stomach such a large dose of piety and virtue this early in the day!”
With his last words, Charmaine did indeed flee, her dignity in tatters.
Colette, dear sweet Colette! How could the man degrade her so? Charmaine couldn’t understand it! Paul’s assertions echoed in her ears: Even Colette, as good and kind as she tried to be to him, suffered at his hands. It was true! True! How could she have allowed her guard to slip these past weeks? How could she have thought there was anything more to the man than her initial impression of turpitude? What a fool she had been! Paul had warned her, and still, she had discounted his wise judgment and allowed John to ingratiate himself to the children. No wonder Paul was wary! John was depraved! Thank God she had seen him for what he was before it was too late!
Yvette faltered when she entered the nursery. “Did you speak with Father?”
“No, I did not. I spoke to your brother instead.”
“Johnny?”
“I’d hoped he’d reason with you, but he refused. In fact, he scorned your mother’s beliefs. What a shame you’ve chosen his bitterness over her goodness.”
Jeannette stood from her bed. “Yvette is hurting Mama by not going to Mass, isn’t she, Mademoiselle?”
“Yes, I’m afraid she is,” Charmaine whispered.
“See, Yvette, I told you so. You mustn’t hurt Mama anymore. She won’t rest in peace unless she’s pleased with everything we do.”
Rose walked in. “What is this?” she asked, taking in their somber faces. “I’ve seen happier people at a funeral.”
It was too much; Jeannette erupted into tears, and Yvette’s frown deepened.
“Whatever is the matter?” Rose clucked. “There now, child, don’t cry.”
“Yvette won’t go to Mass!” she sobbed. “She doesn’t care Mama—”
“I didn’t say that!” Yvette countered. “And I’ve changed my mind. I’ll go, Jeannette—only please stop crying!”
The night was black. An open carriage swayed as it gained momentum. The dark, dusty road was barely negotiable, treacherous to the inexperienced hand, and fear suddenly gripped the driver. She pulled back on the reins and the horse shied and whinnied, then slowed to a steady prance. Although the buggy’s lamp would help illuminate the way, it was wiser to leave it unlit. The deserted road leveled off, and a dim light appeared through the trees off to the right. The driver yanked on the reins, and the horse all but stopped. Locating the turn, the animal proceeded gingerly, and the conveyance moved toward the beacon, squeaking to a halt before a solitary structure nestled in the dark forest. Still, the real journey had yet to begin, and she steeled herself against the impending trial, descending the coupe, her black skirts cascading to her ankles as she reached the ground. Although she stepped stealthily, gravel crunched underfoot, signaling her trek. As she mounted the steps, the door cracked open.
“You are late,” a deep voice accused from within. “Six hours late.”
She crossed the threshold, and the door closed behind her. With an air of indifference, she ripped off her gloves, pushed back the hood of her cloak, and faced the enemy. “I told you I would come, and I have.”
She was angry. He could see it in her set jaw and piercing eyes, but she was worried too, her discomfiture poorly concealed beneath a mask of cool contempt.
“You seem to believe you can keep me waiting,” he stated coldly, “and I have never tolerated waiting for anyone, least of all the likes of you.”
“How dare you—”
“Mrs. Duvoisin,” he admonished, irritated by her outrage.
“Don’t play games with me. You are here for an unseemly reason, one that you hope will go away if you just ignore it, a supposition you thought to test by arriving late today. So let me spell it out for you. I never forget, and I am not a tolerant man. Next time, don’t be tardy, or my patience will reach its limit before the first hour has passed.”
“Next time? I assure you, there will be no next time,” she hissed.
“You are mad if you think this will continue!”
“On the contrary. Not only will you continue to pay me, but as of today, my silence costs twice as much.”
“You have been paid enough already!”
“If that were the case, you would not be here tonight, would you?” He paused, letting his remark sink in. “Let me decide when I have been paid enough. Even at double the price, my fee is not at all unreasonable for the wife of Frederic Duvoisin. After all, look at the heights you have scaled thus far. And isn’t that what this is all about—how you’ve benefited from plotting and planning? So why not share the wealth with someone who understands you?”
“I’ve no idea what you are talking about!”
“No? Your husband might be interested in learning of the duplicitous life you’ve been leading. And then there’s a theory I’ve been toying with. Frederic might find a visit from me most…‘revealing,’ shall I say?”
“There are ways to deal with you!”
His eyes turned evil. “Do you take me for a fool, Madame? I hope not. Because if you try to get rid of me, the truth will come out.”
He watched her fear deepen and nodded. “Yes, I have taken precautionary measures. Now, let me relieve you of this.”
He stepped forward and slipped the reticule from her fingers. Loosening the cinches, he fingered the cold cash within. Satisfied, he pulled the strings closed. “Very good. Very good indeed. From today forward, we will meet every other Saturday at three o’clock sharp. I do so enjoy your visits. Goodnight, Mrs. Duvoisin.”
“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.
Charmaine reserved comment, having refused to shop on the Sabbath on more than one occasion, doing so only today because he had offered his nursemaid services. It had been an ongoing dispute—Keep Holy the Lord’s Day. Charmaine embraced the Third Commandment and stood as the exception among the churchgoing islanders who, every Sunday, directly after noon Mass, discounted Father Benito’s vehement threat of eternal damnation and patronized the many businesses that opened their doors.
“Would you like me to drive you back to the house?” George asked. “Or would you prefer to visit Stephen Westphal?”
His teasing induced a frown and then a giggle. “We had better head home, or we will be late for dinner.”
“Not yet,” Yvette protested. “We’ve been waiting to see Gummy.”
“Who?”
“Gummy Hoffstreicher,” the girl reiterated. “You remember—the boy who stole sandwiches from Johnny and George. He comes past here every day.”
“Yvette, he’s just a man,” Charmaine reasoned. “There will be other chances to meet him, and when you do, I hope you remember he is a human being, and should be treated as such, no matter what stories you’ve heard.”
Yvette rolled her eyes, prompting George to intercede. “Charmaine, I’m sorry. We were just jesting a bit.”
“I know, George, and I don’t hold you responsible—”
She was interrupted by shouts from the dock and the push of bodies gravitating to the wharf. “What is it?”
“A ship must be arriving,” he replied, shielding his eyes to look.
Charmaine did the same, concentrating on a smudge of white passing into the cove. They, too, pressed nearer the quay.
“Can you see it?” Yvette asked excitedly, tugging on George’s shirt. “Where’s it coming from? Can you tell by the mast? Is it flying our flag?”
“Yes,” George replied. “It must be the Gemini. The Raven isn’t due in port until next week. Paul will most likely be aboard.”
“Wonderful,” Yvette mumbled in sudden disgust.
The girl’s reaction did not dampen Charmaine’s soaring spirits as she peered longingly at the white masts that were steadily growing larger. Finally, everything would be right again.
Not ten minutes later, the creaking vessel thumped against the dock. With admiration, Charmaine watched Paul command her crew, throwing himself into the mooring, much like the day she’d arrived on the Raven, one year ago. He was even more handsome now, the finest figure of a man she had ever beheld, and her quickening pulse forced her to look away.
Paul donned his discarded shirt and left the sailors and longshoreman to finish up. As he descended the planking, he noticed the welcoming party, Charmaine in particular, a bit of loveliness he hadn’t expected to see until he got home and a painful reminder of his lack of female companionship for the past three weeks. When he reached them, their eyes locked. Is that lust in her gaze? It ignited his passion. As if perceiving his need, she averted her face. He focused on George, determined to quell his rutting instincts.
“Good afternoon, weary traveler,” that one greeted jovially, “and how is the work coming along on Espoir?”
“Quite well, and what a nice greeting this is,” Paul returned, putting an arm around Jeannette, his eyes traveling to Charmaine again. “Charmaine, you are looking lovely.”
“So are you,” she blundered. “I mean—you are looking well.”
The girls laughed, bolstering the deep blush that rose to her cheeks.
“I am well,” he replied, “though I’m looking forward to Fatima’s cooking. I won’t even tell you what the men prepared at the camps. Some of it wasn’t fit for consumption. I’m glad to be back. Espoir doesn’t have the feel of home.”
“One day it will,” George replied, “just give it a little time.”
“I suppose so,” Paul concurred. “Have you missed me, Pierre?” he asked, gesturing for George to hand the boy over.
“Uh-huh. But I wanna go home. I’m hungwee.”
“So am I!” Paul agreed, holding Pierre high in his arms. “Home it shall be.”
George ran ahead to the livery, leaving Paul, Charmaine, and the children to walk slowly down the boardwalk. “Well, then,” Paul mused, “you’ll have to tell me everything that’s happened while I was away.” His words were directed at the children, though his eyes remained trained on their pretty governess.
Frederic paced his chambers for the remainder of the afternoon and well into the evening, his quandary mounting in the dark. So, Wade Remmen had been Colette’s lover. Or had he? Should he bring the man in and question him? He snorted at the thought. The young man would admit nothing. Nevertheless, Frederic knew he would be able to read the truth in Wade Remmen’s eyes. And then what? What could he do? What should he do? And what of his children? Did he want his children to know? They would certainly find out if he pursued it. They loved their mother, thought of her as an angel. Sadly, he realized he still loved her; even in her infidelity, he still loved her. Paul was right: Colette was good and kind. If she had taken another lover, it was because of him and his deplorable disposition. He was through blaming her for every miserable thing that had befallen him, and he refused to torture his children with assertions about her unfaithfulness. Let them hold on to their precious memories. Colette was dead and buried, and this nasty affair would be as well. Reaching that resolution, he stretched out on his empty bed and slept.
Charmaine had intended to sew tonight, but after three aborted attempts, she set the fabric aside. Her mind was not on the task. It ran rampant with images of Paul and the overwhelming feelings his arrival home had incited, foreign desires that tingled her fingertips one moment and drained her limbs the next, leaving her strangely agitated. She recalled the indescribable look he had leveled upon her at the harbor, the rush of blood that had left her lightheaded. Even now, she shuddered in wanton yearning. Dear God, what was wrong with her?
It had been difficult to converse with him for the remainder of the day. She was grateful when he, John, and George retired to the library after dinner, and she and the children were able to slip upstairs unnoticed. Thankfully, they crawled into their beds without so much as an argument and fell asleep earlier than usual.
Right now, she longed for a walk in the gardens, but quickly dismissed that idea. Though it might help clear her mind, she couldn’t chance meeting up with him. She no longer trusted herself. No, until these inexplicable sensations dissipated, she would avoid Paul at all costs. Thus, she said her prayers and climbed into bed.
Paul stepped out onto the balcony. It had been a productive evening. Come morning, he would see if his brother had accomplished all he purported. According to George he had, lending an invaluable hand—with the tobacco in particular. If that were true, Paul wouldn’t be swamped tomorrow.
Thoughts of Charmaine took hold again. He longed to corner her alone and finish what he’d postponed for far too long. She wanted him, perhaps as much as he wanted her. But she had escaped to her room, leaving him to chomp at the bit. Is she sleeping? On impulse, he decided to find out…
The nightstand lamp burned low, but his eyes quickly adjusted to the dim light. She was asleep. He stepped up to the bed and stared longingly down at her. Lovely…she was so lovely, with dark lashes fanned against creamy white cheeks, kissable lips slightly parted, a stray hand raised beside her pillow, and her luscious breasts rising beneath the thin fabric of her nightgown. How he yearned to make love to her. What would she do if he awoke her with a kiss? His pulse accelerated as he imagined any number of reactions. She might struggle, and he found that possibility highly sensual. But no, it would be her first time, and he wanted the experience to be exquisite, an awakening she would agree, perhaps even beg, to engage in again. With that thought, he backed out of her room. He would never sleep tonight—Never!
Charmaine’s eyes flew open, and she grabbed hold of her coverlet for support. How long had she held her breath? You weren’t holding it, silly! You feigned absolute serenity. And all the while, your heart was thundering in your ears. Surely he had heard it! How could he not? She had waited for the kiss that never came. Prayed that he wouldn’t—longed that he would. Then he was gone…Gone! With a moan, she turned over and attempted to breathe, to sleep.