Chapter 6

Sunday, August 26, 1838

THE house was quiet. Everyone was at Mass, and John was catching up on paperwork. He couldn’t put off a trip to Richmond much longer, but he didn’t have the heart to tell Charmaine. She still suffered from morning sickness, but intuition told him she was avoiding Richmond because of her fugitive father. Still, he’d have to leave soon if he hoped to be back before she delivered.

The study door opened, and John looked up, astonished to see Paul. He’d only visited Charmantes once since their confrontation in the stable: for George’s wedding. He’s grown tired of Agatha and is returning her to Father, John snickered to himself.

Paul took the chair opposite the desk, his face somber.

“What brings you back here on a Sunday morning, Paul?” John asked, refraining from a barb about not being able to make a go of it without Father.

“John … ”

Something was wrong. The man was perturbed: his face ashen, his eyes turbulent, his demeanor shaky.

“What is it?” John demanded. “You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Agatha,” he began. “It’s Agatha. She’s deranged—gone mad.”

“You’re just now realizing this?” John quipped.

“I’m not joking, John. She’s been grief-stricken since Father cast her out, and last night, she snapped. She’s in a state of delirium— she thinks I’m Father. She makes little sense, but she’s saying things … ”

John’s eyes narrowed. “What has she been saying?”

“She goes on and on about meeting Father before your mother did. She rants about Elizabeth stealing him away.”

John sighed. “We know all this. Why is she still crying about it. She managed to bring Father around to her way of thinking. You have your fair share now, so what else does she want?”

“She wants Father! She’s insane, I tell you! She’s confusing your mother with Colette, and she’s been saying things. I don’t know if they’re true, but … ”

“What has she been saying, Paul?” John reiterated.

“Things about Colette,” Paul replied, his eyes searching John’s.

“What about Colette?”

“She claims she and Robert saw to it Colette was—removed.”

Dumbfounded, John leaned back in his chair. “Removed?”

“John,” Paul murmured, dreading what he was about to say. “That last year when Colette was so ill … Agatha set herself up as Colette’s personal companion, maintaining she was not well. She had Robert here treating Colette every week, then twice a week, and finally, every day. In the beginning, Colette tried to avoid him, complaining about feeling worse after he left. He changed his compounds, or so he said, and she seemed improved. After Christmas, I was away, and I assumed I’d find her completely recovered when I returned. But Charmaine contends she only grew worse. Blackford blamed it on a lung infirmity, but now, now I don’t know … Colette’s death enabled Agatha to become Father’s third wife. John—” Paul’s face went white, and he hesitated to state his next horrific speculation. “Pierre was in Father’s will. He was named as successor to the estate after you. Agatha found out and was very upset, probably furious.”

Like the light rushing into a darkened room, comprehension dawned, and Paul’s words melded with a kaleidoscope of incidents that were suddenly most logically connected: Agatha’s persistent efforts to alienate him from Frederic, her triumphant face when he’d removed himself from his father’s will, Blackford’s abrupt departure, a demonic Phantom escaping his stall, Pierre getting past all eyes to make it to the lake—even his nightmares! I followed Auntie … She gave him a pouch. I think there was jewelry inside …

John jumped to his feet and headed for the door, but Paul caught his arm before he reached it. “Where are you going, John?”

“To church!”

The Latin phrases of the consecration echoed in monotone off the walls of the chapel. The coolness was rapidly dissipating as the heat of summer penetrated the sanctuary on beams of sunlight plunging down to the nave and altar. With the small congregation behind him, Father Benito sped up his lengthy recitation. Grasping the host, he held it up to the crucifix before him, uttering the Latin intonation: “Hoc est enim corpus meum … ”

The chapel doors banged open, and though he held a reverent silence as he cast the bread heavenward, he cursed the inopportune interruption at the pinnacle of the holy celebration. Footsteps echoed hollowly on the floor, but Benito resisted the urge to look back, lowering the bread to the plate. He raised the chalice when a shadow loomed behind and his arm was violently wrenched away from the altar, knocking the cup from his hands. It spiraled off the table and clattered to the floor, splattering wine across the white linens. He was brutally twisted around and came face-to-face with a livid John. “What do you know, old man?”

Charmaine cried out as Benito’s vestments were abruptly gathered in two balled fists, his face pulled up close to John’s. From the corner of his eye, the priest saw Paul draw up behind his brother. “What do you know?” John demanded full-voiced.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” Benito sputtered.

“You know goddamn well what I’m talking about, and let’s have it out before I choke the life from you right here and now!”

Charmaine jumped to her feet, but Frederic grabbed her arm, holding her to the spot, his eyes riveted on the scene unfolding in front of the altar. “What are you doing, John?” she cried. “What is going on?”

But John’s eyes were locked on the petrified priest, his grip tightening around his neck. “You were taking payments from my aunt! Why?”

“They were contributions for my mission for the needy,” Benito croaked.

“Do you want to die, old man?” John shouted, his hold so fierce Benito’s eyes were beginning to bulge from their sockets.

“John, stop it! Stop it!” Charmaine screamed, her horror increasing. She looked to Paul. Why is he here? Why isn’t he intervening?

“You have one choice right now,” John snarled. “Tell me what happened, and I won’t kill you. Understand?”

Benito’s face took on a bluish hue. The tableau held for what seemed endless minutes, the clergyman’s cyanotic complexion now ghastly. Charmaine’s desperate gaze traveled helplessly from Frederic to Paul; both were equally bent on facilitating this inquisition, refusing to intervene. The gaping congregation was standing, frozen, the chapel deadly silent. Just when Charmaine thought the priest would pass out, he rasped, “Your aunt and uncle poisoned Colette … ”

Benito’s eyes rolled back in his head and his eyelids fluttered shut.

“The rest, Benito!” John seethed, adjusting his grip enough to revive him. “Speak up, you bastard!”

“Blackford … abducted the boy … and drowned him … in the lake.”

The terror on the priest’s face climaxed as John, insane with fury, twisted the garments ferociously, lifting Benito St. Giovanni up and off the floor.

Charmaine screamed again, but Paul had already grabbed hold of his brother, and George was charging the altar. John shoved Benito away, the man tumbling backward to the floor. “I should kill you, you greedy charlatan!”

Paul was between them now, allowing the gasping Benito to rise to his feet. “George,” he directed, “take Bud with you and lock Benito in the bondsmen’s keep.”

“No!” Frederic countermanded. “Take him to the stable and wait for me there.”

George shoved Benito toward the back of the church. The grooms who had attended the service fell in alongside him, then they were gone.

Jeannette had begun sobbing uncontrollably, her arms flung around Charmaine’s waist, her head buried in her bosom. Yvette remained silent, standing ramrod straight, her eyes clouded in disbelief.

“John!” Charmaine implored desolately, rushing to his side when Frederic released her. “Oh, John!”

But he wasn’t hearing, his mind racing. He headed toward the chapel doors.

“Where are you going?” she called after him.

He didn’t answer, and she looked helplessly to Paul again.

Paul chased after him. “Where are you going, John?”

“To see Westphal,” he replied. “Come with me.”

When Paul did not return, the austere company migrated to the drawing room. Frederic settled into an armchair and cradled Jeannette in his lap. She buried her face in his shirt and whimpered pitifully, hugging him fiercely. He stared beyond the walls, stroking her hair and patting her back until the tears subsided.

Charmaine closed her eyes to the piercing pain in her heart. It was as if Colette and Pierre had died all over again. Poisoned! How had she not seen it? No wonder Colette had been so ill! All the signs were there. And Pierre! His death had not been a horrible accident! Charmaine groaned. I didn’t protect him! Dear God, I didn’t protect him! But why murder an innocent, beautiful boy? Agatha had much to gain from Colette’s death, but Pierre—why?

“Why, Papa?” Yvette asked, her voice quivering. “Why did they kill Mama and Pierre?”

“Because they are evil,” he said quietly, his voice hard and heavy. He nudged Jeannette’s chin off his chest so she would look at him and gently wiped away the tears that smudged her cheeks. “Better now?” he tenderly asked.

“I think so,” she heaved.

“Good. I have to speak with Father Benito. Will you be all right if I leave you with Charmaine and Nana Rose?” When she nodded, he kissed her forehead and rose, setting her back into the chair. He patted Yvette’s head. “They will be punished, Yvette. I promise you that.”

She smiled up at him mournfully. “Be careful, Papa,” she warned.

“I shall.”

He looked across the room at Rose and Mercedes. The old woman shook her head sadly. He walked to the doorway where Charmaine stood. “I won’t be long,” he told her. He squeezed her shoulder and was gone.

The greater the wealth, the deeper the pain …

John and Paul rode into town together. Westphal’s house was directly across the street from the bank. They dismounted, and John rapped on his door. Finally, it opened.

“What is it?” Stephen asked, astonished to find both Paul and John there.

“Get your keys and open the bank,” John stated flatly.

“Open the bank? It’s Sunday!” Stephen objected. “I’m eating right now!”

“Open the bank.”

The banker looked at Paul.

“Stephen, do as he asks,” Paul said.

They waited at the doorstep as the man went inside to retrieve his keys. They crossed the street to the bank.

“What is it you want?” Stephen queried, clearly annoyed as he fumbled with the lock.

“I want to see Blackford’s account,” John answered.

“I can’t do that!” Westphal roared. “It would be a breach of privacy!”

“Blackford is a murderer,” John replied. “He left the island in April, and he’s not coming back. He had to have taken all his money with him. I want to know how much and to which bank you endorsed his money.”

“You can’t be serious!” Westphal objected.

John considered him for a moment. “Westphal, what I’ve told you is true. Benito Giovanni corroborated it. Now, I’m losing my patience. Will you give me Blackford’s file, or do I have to get it myself?”

Westphal’s eyes went helplessly to Paul. “It is true, Stephen. We need to find out where he headed after he left in April.”

Shaking his head, Westphal entered his office. He retrieved the file and handed it to John, who flipped it open and settled into the desk chair to study it.

After a few minutes, John looked up at Paul. “Agatha paid her brother well for his work. He made a few hefty deposits, starting in April of ’36. I would imagine that’s when the poisoning began. But the big payoff didn’t come until the week after Pierre’s death. That’s when she signed Thomas Ward’s entire estate over to this account.”

John paused, rubbed his forehead, and turned to the banker. “This shows Blackford drew all his funds in a voucher, signed by you, Westphal, to the Bank of Richmond. I doubt he remained in Virginia. Did he tell you where he was headed?”

“No,” Westphal replied. “He only said he planned on retiring comfortably. But perchance this will help.”

John was surprised when the financier handed him a letter from Benito Giovanni. “Benito entrusted it to me for safekeeping,” Stephen explained. “I was told to pass it on to your father should anything happen to him.”

John didn’t need to read the letter to know it was the clergyman’s insurance against an untimely death.

George and Gerald stood guard over Benito, who sat on a crate with his hands bound behind his back. Both men were scowling at him when Frederic entered the stall. “Leave us alone,” he ordered.

“We’ll be outside,” George said.

Frederic waited until the stable door closed, then he lifted a horsewhip off the peg from which it hung and stepped closer to the priest. Benito’s head lifted for the first time, and he cringed.

“Now, my good man,” Frederic growled, slapping the butt of the whip across the palm of his hand, “I am going to ask you a few questions, and unlike the last time, you are going to answer every one of them, or you will hang for your corrupt deeds before sunset. Do you understand?”

The priest nodded slightly.

“Good. Now, how did you come by the information you just revealed?”

“Overcome with guilt, Agatha confessed her sins, then sought to appease her conscience by offering me money for the needy.”

Frederic’s eyes narrowed. “One more lie, Benito, and I’ll tie the noose myself.”

Benito swallowed, the seconds accumulating. He had run out of options. “When you called me to your chambers that night, after Colette’s death, I realized lies were being spread about her.”

“Lies?”

“Although years ago she had confessed her affair with John, on her deathbed, she did not confess any other adulterous liaisons. Therefore, I concluded she had not been unfaithful to you.” He hung his head and waited.

“And yet, you led me to believe otherwise!”

“I never claimed she had committed adultery,” Benito objected obliquely. “If you think back on that night, I merely refused to reveal her private confession.”

The whip whistled through the air, missing its mark by inches. “Liar!” Frederic shouted, outraged. “You led me to believe there was a secret to keep, and when you escaped my chambers unscathed, you used that information to extort payments from Agatha and Blackford! Now—be truthful.”

“On the contrary,” Benito whispered to the floor, “I didn’t request money from Agatha until she had married you.” When the whip did not crack again, he bravely looked up. “It was only after she succeeded in bringing you to the altar that I surmised her motives. Until then, I thought she and her brother had lied to you to save your life!”

“Really? And I suppose you, too, meant to save me by guarding that lie?”

“Actually—yes. If it could bring you to your senses—”

“Don’t!” Frederic snarled. “If you want to live, you’d be wise to drop the act, Father. Your pretense at piety is revolting. Now—when did you find out Colette had been poisoned? The truth man, I want the truth!”

“I only guessed that,” he admitted. “It was strange Agatha paid as willingly as she did, despite her protests. It became clear she had something more important to hide. So, I was prepared for the day she told me it was her last visit, claiming you knew the truth—that Colette had not been unfaithful. I gambled on my speculation and told her I knew Colette had been poisoned. Agatha accused me of not having proof, but she didn’t deny it. When I said Pierre’s death was a strange coincidence, her face went white. Only then did I realize how unscrupulous and heartless they were.”

“You are an evil beast,” Frederic sneered, appalled by the man’s candor. “If you had come to me with this information, Pierre would still be alive.”

“No, I wasn’t certain! Not until it happened—after the boy’s death.”

“But you had your suspicions. You enjoyed the luxuries my money could buy at the expense of two innocent lives!”

The priest eyed him meekly, his brow raised in contrition, fanning Frederic’s ire. “How dare you attempt to excuse yourself now?”

Frederic jerked the crop back and delivered a blistering thwack across Benito Giovanni’s face, slicing open his cheek and the bridge of his nose.

The priest yelped in agony. “I’m sorry!”

“How much did she pay for your silence?” Frederic demanded.

When Benito didn’t answer, Frederic launched the whip again, the bloodied thong lashing across his shoulder and neck this time. “Was it worth this?”

Again, the priest screamed. “Mercy! Please, have mercy!”

“My sons saved your life, you ungrateful, despicable bastard! What kind of priest are you? Or have you been pretending all these years?”

“No, I am a priest. I swear, I am!”

“Worse for you, you demon!”

Frederic raised the whip again and Benito winced, curling into a ball. “Please, no more!” he implored.

“Where’s Blackford now?”

“I don’t know—he just left!”

“Why? Why did he leave? Was he afraid of you? Was he unable to pay? Did you push him too far?”

“No—I mean, I don’t know! Agatha was paying for both of them,” he attempted to mollify. “I don’t know why he left Charmantes! He just did!”

“You know more than that!” Frederic countered. “You’d better tell me something, man! Why was Blackford involved? His sister had plenty to gain, but what was in it for him?”

“Agatha said he despised you for blaming him all these years.”

“Blaming him?”

“For your first wife’s death.”

“Retribution? He was driven by retribution? No, that’s not it,” Frederic refuted. “Why harm the boy? Why?”

Benito was quaking. “I—I don’t know. He didn’t say anything else. I only know he was receiving money from Agatha as well.”

“Yes, Agatha was behind it all, but what hold did she have over her brother that he was willing to murder for her? He was well established on Charmantes. Why did he risk everything for her?”

“I don’t know, I tell you!”

“And you weren’t interested in finding out? I find that hard to believe!”

“Believe what you will, but I don’t know!”

Frederic coiled the thong again and Benito quickly added, “It must have been for the money!”

Frederic’s eyes narrowed with his lame reasoning. “Then why flee?”

“I swear, I don’t know! Perhaps he was frightened it would come to this.”

“Come to what, Benito, the moment of truth?” He studied the crop, then disgusted, flung it into a stall.

Benito looked up, an ugly welt running down his forehead and joining the blood that oozed from the bridge of his nose and his right cheek. “What will you do with me?” he beseeched.

“John saved your life. I think he should decide how it will end.”

Frederic called for George and Gerald. “Take him to the bondsmen keep and make certain he’s well guarded. John can visit him later.”

John was a maelstrom of emotions: despair, helplessness, guilt, anger, and loathing. Colette and Pierre were murdered. I didn’t protect them. Blackford’s tidy escape fed his torment. How had his father allowed this to happen? Paul had an excuse. He had been toiling and then was abroad, but his father had been there—right next door—as the sinister plot was being executed. His hatred for his uncle did not rival his searing contempt for Frederic.

They rode home in silence. Paul knew what John was thinking and fearlessly said, “John, I know you blame Father, but he was as ignorant of what was happening as we all were. He had no idea Colette was being—”

“Really?” John bit out, not allowing him to finish, looking him in the eye. “Would it have happened if either you or I were married to her?”

Paul inhaled. John loved her—had loved her deeply.

“Would it have?”

“I don’t know, John.”

“Don’t you? Well, you keep making excuses for him—protecting him. I, on the other hand, will remember everything I’ve suffered at his hands, to this very day. I’ve been a fool these last months,” he said self-deprecatingly, “pretending the past was behind us. But here it is—right in my face again.”

“John, he’s tried to right those wrongs.”

“Has he?” John growled. “How— by throwing me a bone now? What about last summer, when it would have made a difference? No, Paul. He was jealous of my love for Pierre, and he was out to destroy it. He set me up to abduct Pierre—to tear him away from his sisters and Charmaine, just so the boy would grow to hate me. By proving I was as terrible a father as he, he could feel vindicated. That was his objective, nothing more and nothing less.”

“You’re wrong, John. I know there are some things Father can never change, but he didn’t want to hurt you anymore. When he realized you were leaving, he wanted to make amends. He signed custody of the girls and Pierre over to you the morning you were to leave. I saw the papers—signed before Blackford ever laid a hand on Pierre.”

John’s eyes betrayed great surprise, but before he could retaliate, Paul pressed on. “During the ordeal with Pierre, Father stayed away out of respect for you and your grief, not because he didn’t care. I went to see him each time I left Pierre’s bedside. He didn’t eat or sleep. He was suffering as much as you were—was beside himself with guilt. He loved Pierre and still blames himself for what happened.” Paul turned away, his anguish poorly concealed.

The minutes gathered, the only sound the clip-clop of horses’ hooves. Paul wrestled with his thoughts, wondered whether it was wise to voice them. “Father loved Colette, too, John. You may not believe that, but it’s true, and though you may not want to hear it, she loved him as well. She told me so. The last thing Father wanted was to see her suffer. He was devastated when she died.”

John clenched his jaw in renewed rage. Is this what he allows to happen to those he loves? But his rebuttal withered away when he read the desolation in his brother’s eyes and realized Paul was only stating the facts as he saw them.

“I don’t know what tore them apart, John, but I realize now, it transcended you and Colette. I suspect my mother was involved in that, too.” Bearing his own burden, Paul could say no more, and they rode the rest of the way home in silence.

“You cannot be serious!” Charmaine exclaimed. “You cannot mean to leave me alone here when our baby is on the way!”

Her eyes followed John around the dressing chamber, as he pulled clothing out of drawers and threw them into a knapsack on the floor. He did not respond and doggedly continued packing. She couldn’t stand his silence and stepped in front of him to block the path he was beating.

“This is pure folly!” she protested. “It is far too dangerous!”

“The man murdered my son, Charmaine,” he replied, stopping to regard her. “He is not getting away with it.”

“You will never find him! He is long gone!”

“I will find him. If it’s the last thing I do, I will find him.”

“John, it could take years to hunt him down. Why won’t you let the authorities apprehend him? They are better equipped to do this than you are!”

“Like they apprehended your father, Charmaine?” John asked derisively. “If you could find your father and make him pay for what he did to your mother, what would you do?”

His question left her momentarily mute. “And what of the life we’ve made together?” she murmured. “You can walk away from it that easily?”

He strapped the knapsack shut. “There is no life if I do nothing.”

She turned away, head bowed, tears stinging her eyes. “I will be alone here, worrying for your safety.”

“You won’t be alone. You have the twins, you have Rose, George, Mercedes. You will be fine. I will be fine. I will send word.” He came up behind her, placing his hands on her shoulders, but she pulled away.

“You love her more than me,” she choked out, “still—you love her more.”

“Don’t do this, Charmaine … ”

“If you loved me more, you wouldn’t leave!” she cried.

“Don’t make this a choice between you and a dead woman, Charmaine.”

“Then don’t leave,” she whispered.

John reached out and turned her in his arms to embrace her, but she pulled away again, setting her face in stone as he bent down to kiss her cheek. He stepped back and considered her for a moment longer. He grabbed his cap off the dressing table, placed it squarely on his head, and left the room.

Charmaine ran into the bedchamber and threw herself on the bed, burying her face in her pillow, fighting her tears, swearing she would not allow herself to cry over him. She lay there for minutes on end. The reality he had left consumed her. He will be in great danger. Will he return unharmed? I may never see him again!

She sprang from the bed, flew out of the room and down the stairs, through the foyer and across the lawns to the stable. She entered the dim enclosure and ran headlong into Gerald.

“What is it, ma’am?”

“John—is he still here?”

“He’s already left, ma’am—gone a good five minutes now.”

Travis had just finished packing Frederic’s trunk, saying, “That should do it, sir,” when Frederic’s outer chamber door banged open. Charmaine stood in the archway, out of breath, tears streaming down her cheeks.

“He’s leaving!” she sobbed, casting beseeching eyes to Frederic, then Paul. “Please stop him!”

“This ship is setting sail for Richmond in thirty minutes,” John pronounced, as he boarded the Raven.

One look at John’s face and Captain Wilkinson knew there was no point in objecting. “May I ask why?” he queried, wondering when his cargo would ever reach England.

“I’ll explain later,” was all John would say.

Taking heed, Jonah began barking orders to the crewmen who were milling about. Grumbles went up, unhappy they were returning to the States without so much as a layover on Charmantes. But Jonah brooked no resistance, and they dutifully fell in with John, preparing the ship for departure.

When the last of the staples had been hastily loaded, Jonah gave the order. The mooring was released, and the vessel pushed off.

A shout from the quay brought all eyes around. Jonah frowned in consternation when he saw Paul, running down the pier, frantically waving both arms at the ship. The men standing on the boardwalk began to shout after the Raven as well. John came to the railing next to Jonah.

“We’d best throw out the ropes,” Jonah said.

But John only called to his brother, “What is it?” thinking Paul had uncovered something pertinent relating to the monstrous revelations of a few short hours ago.

“Bring the ship back in!” he called. “Bring her back in!”

As Jonah looked from John to Paul, he caught sight of Frederic, laboring down the wharf. “Bring her back in!” Frederic demanded.

John had seen him, too. Swearing under his breath, he turned on the captain. “Keep going! Do not turn back!”

“But, John—” Jonah faltered.

“Go! Just go!”

Jonah Wilkinson looked across the water to Frederic, who was ordering him to return, then back to John. “Throw out the lines!” he commanded.

The crew scrambled to do his bidding.

“Damn him!” John swore, punching the railing. His rage smoldered when the ropes were cast to the dock and secured round the pilings on the quay. The ship clapped against the pier, the gangway was lowered, and Frederic boarded.

“What are you doing here?” John snarled in his face.

“Charmaine sent me,” he replied. “She doesn’t want you to leave, John. She’s frightened for you.”

“This is something I must do. I’ve explained that to her.”

“She’s your wife. You shouldn’t be leaving her, not now.”

“Don’t you dare tell me what I should or shouldn’t do!” John shouted. “Now, if you’ll get off this ship, I’ll be about my business.”

“Don’t do this, John. No good will come of it!” Frederic implored.

“Do you really think I could live knowing the man who killed my son and your wife is out there—living, breathing? What kind of man are you, Father? How can you let him get away? Did Colette mean nothing to you at all? And what of Pierre? He was an innocent child who had the lousy luck of being born into this rotten family.”

“You are right,” Frederic breathed dolefully, startling John and momentarily quelling the fire in his eyes. “I want you to stay here and allow me to do this—on my own.”

“What?”

“You heard me. You have a new life, John. Charmaine doesn’t deserve this. She’s carrying a child—your child. She needs you by her side right now. I have nothing to tie me to Charmantes. I will see to it Robert Blackford is apprehended. I promise you that.”

“No!” John stated vehemently. “This is something I have to do. Someday Charmaine will realize it’s the only way to bury the past.”

Frederic sized his son up and nodded in understanding. “Very well, we’ll do it your way.”

“We’ll?”

“I’m coming with you.”

“No, you’re not,” John refuted.

“Then we are at an impasse. This ship is not sailing without me.”

Frederic ordered his trunks carried below deck.

John turned away in chafing frustration; as usual his father held the upper hand. No matter. He would dump the man when they reached Richmond and pursue Blackford on his own.

“Set sail, Jonah,” Frederic commanded. Then he shouted to Paul who waited on the pier. “Tell Charmaine I will bring him home safe and sound.”

With Paul’s dismal nod, the Raven cast off a second time.

Yvette and Jeannette watched Charmaine pace the portico, arms crossed, brow knitted, and tears still smudging her cheeks. Yvette looked to her sister in silent communication. Jeannette shook her head when it seemed she would speak.

“Johnny will be all right, Mademoiselle,” Jeannette comforted, “you’ll see.”

“Only if he drops this foolhardy idea and comes home!” she agreed hotly.

“He’s got to find Dr. Blackford,” Yvette declared. “I hope he kills him for what he did to Mama and Pierre!”

Charmaine was aghast. “And if Dr. Blackford kills him first … ?”

Neither girl had considered this. Earlier, when they were alone, Yvette had accused Charmaine of not loving Pierre or her mother. “Why else would she be angry with Johnny for what he wants to do?” Now she felt ashamed and grew concerned.

Jeannette was more optimistic. “Don’t worry, Mademoiselle Charmaine. Papa will protect him. Please don’t be upset.”

A rider approached, and they soon recognized Alabaster. Paul rode directly to the house, dismounted, and climbed the portico steps. He shook his head to Charmaine’s unasked question. “They’re gone— both of them.”

She turned her back on him, her rage caving in to anguish, her anguish rekindling her rage.

“Charmaine,” Paul placated. “He’ll be fine. Father is with him. He promised to bring John home to you.” When she didn’t answer, he continued. “It’s something John felt he had to do. Surely—”

“No, Paul,” she bit out over her shoulder, “you were right. He will never love me as he loved her. That’s why he’s gone, and I hate him for it!”

Yvette and Jeannette stole quizzical glances at each other. One look at their faces, and Paul spoke sharply. “This is neither the time nor the place to discuss it, Charmaine. You’ll feel differently when John gets back.”

She began to cry. “He’s never coming back! I feel it—I just feel it!”

Paul came up behind her and turned her in his arms. He held her until she calmed down, his head resting atop hers. “Dwelling on this cannot be good for the baby,” he said. “Come, let us find a distraction.” He led them into the house.

Monday, August 27, 1838

The ocean was so blue Frederic could not distinguish it from the sky. It was the color of Colette’s eyes. How had he allowed this to happen to his beautiful wife? To sweet, innocent Pierre? With an aching heart and paralyzing remorse, he looked at John. Like yesterday, his son had not moved from the bow, his eyes fixed on the sea ahead, as if he could spur the vessel on simply by staring into the distance. Frederic knew they must talk, and breathing deeply, he joined John at the railing. They stood silently for many minutes.

“What are you thinking about?” Frederic asked.

John gritted his teeth. He had no intention of talking with the man. Their camaraderie of the past four months had been a farce. They’d only turned a blind eye to their hatred for each other, but it was there, would always be there. Today, John loathed him more than ever.

“John?” his father pursued.

John dragged his eyes from the cerulean sea and, wearing a twisted, satanic smile, turned on Frederic. “Thinking about? You want to know what I’m thinking about? I’m thinking about my aunt and uncle, and how it took them nearly a year to poison and kill Colette. And I’m thinking about her husband, who stole her from his son, loved her so dearly he set her up for a love affair, and then punished her for being unfaithful, yet didn’t suspect a thing.” John shook his head in revulsion. “Your own daughter sensed what was taking place.”

Seeing Frederic’s surprise, John pressed on, all the more disgusted. “That’s right. Yvette told me her mother always seemed worse after her visits with the good doctor. She was so suspicious she even took to spying on him and Agatha. But her father—my father— no, he didn’t suspect a thing—had no idea anything was amiss. Or did you? Was that how you punished her, Father? By offering her up to the executioner?”

The heated remarks, raised to near shouting, had caught the ears of the crew, and they began milling nearby, pretending not to listen.

“Is that what you think happened?” Frederic queried plaintively.

“Not what I think—what I know!”

“John, I had no idea—”

“Shut your goddamn mouth! There will never be an end to your evil! I blame Agatha and Blackford, yes. But I blame you more!”

His agony increasing, unbearable now, Frederic exploded. As John turned away, he grabbed his shirt and threw him back into the railing. John gaped at him, unable to react. “Let’s get one thing straight,” Frederic growled, “Colette was my wife. Accuse me of turning a blind eye to what was happening, but you were just as blind! Where were your eyes when Pierre was snatched from the house? I’ll tell you where: on that damn horse of yours!”

“I should kill you for that!” John snarled, fists at the ready.

Frederic stepped forward, his face inches from his son’s. “I’m sick and tired of your self-pity—your vicious ridicule— your tantrums!”

John laughed diabolically. “Tantrums? Ridicule? Self-pity? You wrote the book, Father! They’re the only reason Colette didn’t leave you!”

“You’d like to believe that!” Frederic fired back. “But if she really loved you, she wouldn’t have given me a backward glance when you begged her to leave!”

“Damn you! Damn you to hell!”

John lunged at him, but Frederic caught him by the wrists, warding off the assault. John shoved harder, and they staggered across the deck, crashing into the capstan with such force the gears shuddered.

“Enough!” Jonah Wilkinson shouted, jumping into the escalating brawl. The sailors took his lead and pulled them apart. “Are the two of you mad? Save your fight for the murderer!” he admonished, planting himself squarely between the two men, knowing they’d go at each other again if he stepped aside. “What’s gotten into you?” he demanded of Frederic. “He’s your son, man. And you—” he said, turning his eyes on John in a deep scowl “—this is your father. You’d best respect him.”

“He’ll never gain my respect,” John vowed tightly, “not while there’s a breath left in my body!”

They stared each other down, and not another word was spoken that day.

John fumed over his father’s declarations, and they turned his mind inside out. If she really loved you, she wouldn’t have given me a backward glance … He picked up the chair in his cabin and slammed it into the wall, wood splintering in all directions. His anger spent, he studied the rungs he clutched. Your vicious ridicule, your tantrums … He sat hard on the cot and put his head in his hands. Damn the man! He will not have the final say!

The sky was dark when he left his cabin, but the deck was bathed in moonlight. He couldn’t sleep, and the sea breeze might clear his churning mind. At the stern, a skeleton crew cast lots while they kept vigil under the star-studded sky. Their banter and the serenity of the ocean provided a peace he’d not enjoyed for two long days. Leaning on the rail, he contemplated the choppy water, the small waves catching the moonlight and sparkling brilliantly as they clapped together.

He was surprised when Jonah Wilkinson drew up alongside him. He respected the man and made an effort to smile.

The minutes gathered before Jonah spoke. “Why do you hate him, John?”

“You know why, Jonah.” John swung round and leaned back. “Some things will never change.”

“But you have a wife now and a baby on the way, possibly a son. Isn’t it time to bury the past?”

“If only it were that simple,” John murmured, his chin tucked to his chest, arms folded. “You know what’s gone before and what’s happened over the past two days. The wound has been opened again. It was left untended, and now it festers with poison, waiting for the kill.”

“The two of you have made it so,” Jonah said. “Why can’t you accept the fact your father loved this woman—deeply—and she loved him as well?”

John’s head came up. “Why is everyone trying to convince me of this? She didn’t love him—not ever.”

“That’s not how I saw it,” Jonah countered. “When I returned to Charmantes after they were married, I watched them together, in town and at the estate. Frederic invited me to dinner, as he always did back then. Colette was radiant; there was no doubt she was in love with him. And your father, he doted on her as if she were a princess—acted like a young man again.”

John’s turbulent eyes did not faze Jonah. He had known John since he was old enough to climb the Raven’s gangplank and had weathered this expression before. Suddenly, it became imperative to make the younger man see reason. The resentment that ate away at his heart would destroy him if he didn’t let it go. “I know you loved her, John,” he continued, “and perhaps she loved you. But she loved your father as well.”

“If she loved him,” John ground out, “why did she turn to me?”

“I don’t know,” Jonah replied. “Why don’t you ask your father? But when you do, listen to his answer. Your father is a good man, John. It would be a shame if you left this world not knowing that.”

Tuesday, August 28, 1838

Paul swore under his breath as he dumped out the last drawer and tossed it to the cabin floor. George kicked a stool aside and, wiping his hands together, said, “That’s it. He must have spent it all, like he said.”

Paul shook his head and rubbed the back of his neck. “I doubt it. Yvette said Agatha handed him jewelry. He wouldn’t have been able to pawn that so easily—not here on the island.”

George sighed. “Well, there’s nothing here.”

“I don’t trust him, George. I’m going to move him out of the bondsmen’s keep to a place where he’ll be isolated, where it will be difficult to escape.”

“What do you think your father will do with him?”

“I don’t know. But I want him alive and well when he and John return.”

Paul strode to the window and stared at the wooded grounds beyond. “I can’t go back to Espoir,” he murmured. “If I do, I might strangle her.”

George walked over to his friend and placed a reassuring hand upon his shoulder. “It’s not your fault, Paul. None of this is your fault.”

Paul nodded, tears stinging his eyes. “I know it’s not. But I’m so goddamn angry, I feel like—”

“We’re all angry, and we all feel helpless,” George reasoned. “Give it some time. We’ll recover. You’ll recover. As for Agatha, Jane Faraday will keep an eye on things there. And, if you’d like, I’ll venture over every so often.”

Paul faced him. “You’re a good friend, George. I’m lucky to have you here.”

John found his father at the rail, leaning forward, contemplating the vast Atlantic. He steeled himself for another confrontation. He doubted Jonah’s words. His father had raped Colette. How could she have loved such a man?

“So, Father,” he said as he came abreast of him, “she didn’t love me?”

Frederic turned around and folded his arms across his chest. “I shouldn’t have said that to you.”

John was not happy with his answer. “So, you’re saying you were wrong.”

“No. I’m saying I shouldn’t have said that to you.”

“If she didn’t love me, Father, why did she come from your bed to mine?”

Frederic didn’t answer, and John pressed on. “And unlike you, I didn’t have to force her. She came to me of her own volition.”

Frederic bowed his head, and John reveled in the delicious pain he was inflicting. “So what was it, Father?” he smiled crookedly, virulently, “you tired of forcing her or—”

“You’re not ready for the truth,” Frederic cut in.

“Try me.”

Frederic eyed him speculatively. “Colette chose you because I hadn’t made love to her for five long years. She was lonely.”

John laughed outright, the comment insane, but his father’s sober eyes gave him pause. Shaken, he blurted out, “I loved Colette!”

“That is where you and I are different, John. For I love her still.”

“How touching!”

“But true,” Frederic responded, turning back to the ocean. “I was also hurt.”

“You brought it down upon all of us—not I!” John accused.

“Yes, I did,” his father ceded, “but not for the reasons you think.”

“Then why?”

Frederic inhaled deeply, held the breath, then released it, all the while staring across the water as if he could see beyond the barriers of time. “The moment I saw Colette, I was struck by her resemblance to your mother—not in her looks, but in her mannerisms: the way she walked into a room, her self-confidence, her smile, the mischievous fire that lit up her eyes. Even the small things: the sweep of her hand and the lilt of her voice. They disturbed me, and though I struggled to ignore the similarities, the attraction only grew.”

“So, because she reminded you of my mother, that gave you the right to rape her?”

“No,” Frederic replied softly.

“Then why did you force her? Why did you steal her away? Do you really hate me that much?”

“I don’t hate you, John!”

“No?” John cried, spurred on by the malice he’d endured and suppressed the whole of his life. “Were you so angry I took Elizabeth from you that you took Colette from me? I loved her, couldn’t you see that?”

Frederic stood stunned, moved by his son’s unmasked torment. Dear God, is that what he thinks?

“How could you do that to me?” John demanded.

“I didn’t do it to you, John,” Frederic refuted. “And though you may never believe it, I am sorry.” He paused, at a loss, fearful of saying more. John continued to stare at him, his disbelief and misery increasing, an awesome front. For Frederic, it was now or never. “I misjudged Colette,” he began hesitantly, his chest constricting. “I was certain she was playing you for the fool—me for the fool. I’d overheard a few conversations between her and her friend and could see her mother’s fear of poverty. So I assumed Colette didn’t love you at all, that she was simply out for a rich husband. That night, I only thought to confront her, to make her realize she was playing with fire. But that fire got out of hand. Once I’d kissed her, the years fell away, and it was as if I had your mother back in my arms again. I know it’s not an excuse, but I was lost to desire.”

Frederic breathed deeply, the ache in his breast acute now. “She didn’t fight me. I realized later she was too frightened to fight. But when it was happening, I believed I was right about her: she had had other lovers. I couldn’t stop. I didn’t want to stop. I didn’t hurt her, John, not physically, anyway.”

He gulped back his pain. “When it was over, I realized my mistake. She was pure and innocent, and I was ashamed over what I had done. At the same time, I was elated my speculations had proven wrong. The next day, I couldn’t concentrate for thinking about her. That night, I went to her and offered marriage. I promised to help her family. Yes, I wanted to set things right, but more than anything, I wanted her to be my wife. I convinced myself what happened between us was destiny: she belonged with me and not you. You were young, I reasoned, too young to be married. You weren’t in love, merely infatuated. Eventually, you’d find another. So, I brushed your feelings aside.” Frederic closed his eyes, struggling valiantly to rein in his rampant emotions. “I convinced Colette this was true and warned her she might already be with child, my child. She realized she couldn’t go to you a soiled bride and agreed to marry me.”

He regarded his son, wondering how his words had been received. The ignominious story had to be as difficult to hear as it was to tell. “It wasn’t planned, John. It just happened.”

“I don’t want to hear any more,” John sneered.

“Very well,” Frederic rasped, grabbing hold of John’s arm before he could walk away. “Answer me this: If I am willing to accept your love for Colette—forgive your affair—why can’t you consider that I loved her, too?”

John yanked free, unmoved by his sire’s beseeching voice. “I’m not asking for your forgiveness, Father! I didn’t do anything wrong. I took what belonged to me in the first place.”

Frederic shook his head, knowing John couldn’t possibly believe that. “I should have released her,” he murmured. “I tried to deny loving her for those five years. It would have been easier to let her go.”

“Then why didn’t you?”

“Because I loved her,” he said simply. “I loved her, and I couldn’t bear to see her walk out of my life. Having her there, even without her love, was preferable to never seeing her again.”

“So, you admit she didn’t love you,” John rejoined.

“I thought she didn’t love me,” he corrected softly. “The first year we were married, we were happy—I was happy, happier than I’d been in a very long time. I had a reason for living again. I thought Colette was happy, too. Though she never said it, I felt in my heart she’d grown to love me.

“Then she was expecting and we were overjoyed, until the night the twins came into the world. It was a terrible ordeal, the labor long and hard. Blackford gave her something for the pain. I stayed with her, frightened I was going to lose her all over again, as I did the night you were born. Then the laudanum took effect and she became delirious. She called for you over and over again, leaving no doubt as to whom she really loved.”

Frederic bowed his head with the painful memory, and John recalled the fierce argument he’d had with Colette that night, one that had induced her labor, perhaps ravaged her mind.

“I begged God to spare her, John— vowed I’d never touch her again if He’d just let her live. And so, when she recovered, I stayed away. At first, I was able to accept my promise, but as time passed, I began to pray she would come to me. When she didn’t, I ached with the belief she had never loved me.

“I threw myself into work—first on Charmantes, then on Espoir. Then you came home, and things went from bad to worse. I don’t blame you, John, and I don’t blame Colette, I blame myself. At that time, however, I wanted to blame everyone but myself.

“After the stroke, I prayed to God to take me, so you and Colette could be together. But death never came.

“The years passed, and suddenly, she was gravely ill. I was going to lose her all over again, and I damned myself for the pain I had caused her, the time I had wasted. I bared my heart to her—told her I had always loved her and asked her to forgive me. She said she’d forgiven me years ago—said she loved me, but thought I hated her for what she had done—thought I no longer wanted her. Dear God, how could she think I wouldn’t want her?”

His eyes grew glassy, his hoarse voice nearly inaudible. “She died in my arms that night, John. When I awoke the next morning, she was gone. She died in my arms … ”

Frederic’s tears fell freely now, and John, with eyes stinging, walked away.

Wednesday, August 29, 1838

In less than four days, the Raven reached Richmond. John threw his knapsack over his shoulder and rushed down the gangplank, bent on abandoning his sire. He glanced back to see Frederic laboring far behind him, trying his level best to keep up. It wasn’t planned—it just happened … That’s how it starts—with a slip, an innocent slip …

“Shit!”

John hailed a carriage, then turned back to his father, grabbed his bag, and helped him into the conveyance.

“Good luck!” Jonah Wilkinson shouted after them.

“Don’t leave port until I speak with you tomorrow!” John called back. “We may need the packet.”

The bank was busy for a Wednesday, but John and Frederic went straight to the platform and inquired for the bank manager, Thomas Ashmore, an acquaintance of John’s. “I need some information on a Robert Blackford,” John stated, once his father had been introduced and handshakes exchanged.

“Well, John,” the bank manager proceeded cautiously, “what kind of information are we talking about?”

“Robert Blackford left Charmantes four months ago,” he offered. “At that time he had closed out a sizable account with the island’s bank and had a promissory note drawn up payable to this bank. We are trying to track him down. Therefore, I need to find out when he deposited that note, if, in fact, he still holds an account here, or whether the money was endorsed to another bank.”

“Well, John,” Thomas Ashmore replied, “you’re asking for personal information. Can you give me a good reason why I should release it to you?”

“The man is a murderer.”

“Well, John, why don’t you go to the authorities?”

“Because I want to track him down myself, Ash-hole,” John replied through clenched teeth, missing Frederic’s snigger.

“Well, John—”

“Is ‘well John’ the only thing you know how to say?” Frederic interrupted.

Thomas gave Frederic a sidelong glance. “Well, sir—”

“Obviously, it is,” Frederic bit out. “Mr. Ashmore, this institution was one of the few unscathed by last year’s bank panic, was it not?”

Thomas nodded, but his eyes grew wide as saucers.

“I daresay, I had a lot to do with that, considering my substantial backing here. Now, if this bank wishes to avoid another such panic today, you had best go and find the information my son has requested. If you are not back here in ten minutes’ time, information in hand, I will close out every account I have in this establishment, and demand each balance in cash. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir,” Ashmore gulped out before fleeing his desk.

Very good! John thought.

Joshua Harrington overheard the dispute at Thomas Ashmore’s desk and was taken aback when John Duvoisin turned around and flopped down in the nearest chair as the banker scurried away.

“Mr. Duvoisin?” Joshua inquired, determined to speak to him.

John looked up and, canting his head, tried to place name to the man’s face.

“Mr. John Duvoisin?” Joshua asked again.

“What can I do for you?” John responded. Frederic looked on in interest.

“I’m Joshua Harrington. We met quite a few years ago … I was wondering if your wife was with you—here in Richmond?”

“Charmaine?” John asked in bewilderment. Who is this man? His name sounded familiar.

“Yes, Charmaine lived with my wife and me before becoming governess on Les Charmantes.”

John rubbed his forehead. Of course!

“We are concerned about her,” Joshua rushed on. “Her last letter— well, we’d love to see her and make certain she is—in good health.”

“Yes,” John breathed, irritated by the tacit message Charmaine was in peril married to him. “Unfortunately, she did not accompany me. I had urgent business to attend, and she wasn’t able to make the voyage in her condition.”

Joshua’s brows raised in what appeared to be ghastly comprehension.

“She is fine,” John quickly added, “but preferred to stay behind.”

Thomas Ashmore returned, and with a nod, Joshua retreated.

Frederic and John left the bank with the information they needed. Blackford had deposited the monies on the fifteenth of April and drawn on the new account immediately. The family’s finances had facilitated his escape: The Charmantes’ seal guaranteed the note and the Duvoisin funds were held against it. He had taken a quarter of the money in cash and the remainder in another note payable to a New York bank.

They headed back to the harbor to check the ships’ manifests for the month of May and ascertain exactly when Blackford had headed to New York City.

The carriage was quiet. John stared out the window. Frederic watched him. “Do you love Charmaine?” he abruptly asked.

John faced him, brow creased. “What do you mean, do I love her?”

“It’s a simple question, John.”

“Yes, I love her.”

Frederic turned and looked out his window.

“That’s it, Father?” John queried. “That’s all you wanted to know? I know you better than that. What was your real reason for asking that question?”

“You certainly didn’t give Mr. Harrington the impression you love her,” Frederic replied, ignoring John’s dismissive grunt. “The man was obviously concerned. You did nothing to alleviate his disquiet. In fact, he appeared more worried when he walked away.”

“He’ll get over it,” John replied dryly.

“Yes, but what of Charmaine? Do you think she’ll get over it?” He gave John a moment. “You may have told her you needed to do this for Pierre, and I understand that. But on the ship, your anger was about Colette.”

“My anger, Father,” John ground out, “was directed at you, no one else. Do you want to hear how I hate you for robbing me of the three short years I could have spent with my son? If you had seen Agatha for what she was, Pierre would still be alive, wouldn’t he?”

“Yes, he would,” Frederic capitulated softly. “But Charmaine sees only one face when she thinks of you running off and leaving her, and that face is not Pierre’s. You should go back home and allow me to find Blackford.”

“No,” John snarled. “You’re not going to deprive me of the satisfaction of seeing his face when I confront him. He will wish he had died and gone to hell.”

“We’re of a similar mind, but are you willing to forfeit Charmaine for that?”

“Charmaine has waited for me before, Father. She will wait for me again.”

“Are you certain?” Frederic probed. “Your brother loves her, too, you know. I’ve seen it in his eyes.”

John grunted again, and again Frederic paid him no mind. “Your eyes, when you looked at Colette after I married her.”

“My eyes were filled with loathing.”

“And deep pain and longing,” Frederic finished. “Strange how one can desire something the most when it is no longer his to claim.”

“Charmaine doesn’t love Paul,” John reasoned, “or she would have gone to him long before I returned.”

“I pray you are right. But she has a woman’s heart now, one that you’ve broken. In her pain, she may turn to the nearest arms that offer her solace.”

John was ill at ease with Frederic’s words, but as the carriage drew near the docks, he refused to be deterred. He resolved to write Charmaine that night and let her know he loved her despite their strained good-bye.

Charmaine sat at the piano, absentmindedly picking out a disjointed melody. Mercedes and George had taken the girls into town, for she had been dismal company the past five days. Even the news of Mercedes’s pregnancy had not lifted her spirits. In the quiet solitude, her mind wandered to the sea and Richmond. Any hope John would change his mind and turn back dwindled by the day. She had been a fool to ever love him—a stupid fool! She did not hear Paul step into the room.

He considered her momentarily, her sorry state. Nobody could make her see reason. His assertion on her wedding night had met its mark. How easy it would be to exploit it now, to side with her and bolster her doubts. He walked over to the piano and put his hands on her shoulders. “It is quiet now,” he said when she turned to face him. “We need to talk.” He drew up a chair and took both of her hands into his. “Charmaine, I know you’re angry with John, but you can’t go on like this. He and my father may be gone for weeks. Do you really want to be miserable the entire time they’re away?”

“You are right,” she said. “Why should I sit here pining for John, when I know he hasn’t given me a second thought?”

Inspired, Paul agreed. “Exactly! I told you I’d always be here for you, Charmaine. When you’ve had enough of this, my arms are wide open.”

She was aghast and jumped to her feet. “If you think I could forget John that easily, you insult me! I may be angry with him, but—”

Her anger instantly ebbed, for Paul’s eyes were laughing up at her. “I thought you hated him,” he said.

“I do,” she sputtered, sinking back down to the bench. “I do hate him and when he gets back, he’s going to hear it! But—”

“—you love him, too,” he finished for her, “so much so you hate him for leaving you in pursuit of Blackford. And there’s nothing wrong with that.”

“But what if he doesn’t come back, Paul?” she implored, voicing her darkest fear. “I’m so worried for him.”

“Charmaine, nobody is as slick as John. He knows what he’s doing. If he can’t find Blackford, no one can. And Father is there to watch out for him. I doubt anything will happen to either of them.” He paused for a moment and added thoughtfully, “Don’t you find it strange they’ve been thrown together to set this terrible thing right, as if it is meant to be? Providence perhaps. Maybe they will come home reconciled, not only with the past, but with each other.”

Charmaine listened quietly, wishing his wisdom true. Clearly, he had been pondering the nefarious events almost as much as she and cared enough about her to offer comfort. She lifted her hand to his rough cheek. “I pray you are right,” she said softly. “And I promise not to be so very miserable from now on.”

He took her hand and pressed her palm to his lips. “I want you to be happy, Charmaine.”

The Duvoisin ship manifests revealed Blackford had left Richmond on the Seasprit on the sixteenth of May, which put him in New York by the eighteenth. He’d had over three months to dissolve into the hubbub of the burgeoning city.

With Frederic waiting on the wharf, John boarded the Raven and spoke to Jonah. They would set sail on the morrow, and the cargo of tobacco and sugar intended for England would be sold at auction in New York instead.

They settled back in the cab, and John turned to Frederic. “I would like to make one last stop. It won’t take long.”

Frederic nodded, wondering what John had in mind.

Joshua Harrington arrived home, heavy of heart. He entered the front parlor with head down, wondering how he would tell his wife what he had learned.

Loretta immediately knew something was wrong. “What is it?”

“I encountered John Duvoisin at the bank today.”

Her face lit up. “Was Charmaine with him?”

“I’m afraid not, my dear, and I fear things are not good between Charmaine and her husband. She was left behind because she is expecting. I knew no good would come of this.”

Loretta wondered if he meant Charmaine’s marriage to John or her idea to send Charmaine to Charmantes. Over the last two years, the letters they’d received from Charmaine often conveyed a disconcerting gloom. She wrote of Colette’s death, Frederic’s marriage to Agatha, the prodigal son’s return, and little Pierre’s terrible drowning accident. Both Loretta and Joshua surmised something more dreadful than Pierre’s death had happened to this family, and they had second thoughts about Charmaine living there. Yet, she gave no indication she wanted to return to Richmond. Instead, she wrote of her resolve to stay by the twins’ side, John’s departure, Frederic’s slow recovery, and Paul’s preparations for the unveiling of his fleet of ships and island. Obviously, she was spending a great deal of time with Paul, though she never mentioned her feelings, nor speculated where that relationship might lead. Loretta worried often, but Charmaine was a woman now, twenty years old, certainly old enough to make sound decisions.

Michael Andrews’s peculiar visit nearly five months ago rekindled their concern. Not two weeks later, Joshua and Loretta entertained Raymond and Mary Stanton, just returned from Charmantes and Paul Duvoisin’s commercial debut. Mary was burning to recount the most unexpected and quiet wedding that had capped the week’s events.

“You knew nothing about this, Loretta?” Mary had exclaimed, reading Loretta’s surprise, ravenous for more gossip. “Surely Charmaine wrote she had feelings for this man—that he was courting her? No?”

When Loretta remained speechless, the woman rushed on, tickled to tell what she knew. “It was so strange—the whole thing.” Then she paused, reliving the grandiose event. “Oh, it was a most impressive affair. Charmaine, however, was there in the capacity of governess, nothing more. I spoke with her before the ball. She was plainly dressed, with the children at her side. She said nothing about having an escort for the evening and disappeared not two hours later, settling the girls for the night, no doubt. I can assure you no one expected her to return—certainly not on John Duvoisin’s arm, anyway, and so elegantly garbed! She remained at his side for the rest of the evening, danced nearly every dance with him. As for Paul—he may have squired the widow London to the festivities, but everyone could see he was preoccupied with Charmaine. He appeared highly agitated. Either he did not want her there or he disapproved of her partner.” Mary shook her head as if she could not fathom it. “My, you should have heard the talk when he danced with her! Something was amiss to be sure!”

Loretta shuddered, displeased Charmaine was the subject of much Richmond gossip. Though she dreaded the rest of the scandalmonger’s narrative, her desire to know was greater than the woman’s humiliating glee, and so, Loretta allowed her to prattle on.

“I heard that, at Mass the following morning, John was seated beside her again, a most unexpected sight, as everyone who is anyone knows he never attends church services. They say Charmaine’s head remained bowed for the entire time, feeding speculation as to her involvement with the heir to the Duvoisin fortune. But nobody was prepared for the announcement John made at the conclusion of the service. They were wed not two hours earlier! And I have it on good authority Paul was furious.”

“What of Charmaine?” Loretta probed worriedly. “What was her reaction?”

“Anne London maintains she couldn’t stop blushing, as if—” Mary lowered her voice to a whisper “—as if she had something to be embarrassed about.”

“Mary,” Loretta chided sharply, “you don’t know that. After all, Mr. Duvoisin must feel strongly for Charmaine if he proposed marriage to her.”

“Really?” Mary rejoined. “Well, if he feels strongly for her, why didn’t he arrange a proper ceremony and celebration? He can well afford it, can he not?”

Why indeed?

For weeks, Loretta and Joshua fretted over Mary Stanton’s news.

Eventually, they received word from Charmaine, the correspondence lively and gay. She had married John. I know this will come as a shock to you and Mr. Harrington, she wrote, but nearly two weeks ago, I married John Duvoisin. Tell Mr. Harrington not to worry. I am very happy. As I insisted some months ago, John is not the man I thought him to be when first we met.

Though Loretta remained confused, she was at ease with Charmaine’s decision to wed. She had no reason to feel otherwise. The young woman had, in fact, done very well for herself, even if the man she had chosen was notorious.

But today, all of Loretta’s concerns were revived. She was dismayed Charmaine was already pregnant and left behind while her spouse traveled abroad. She considered her husband woefully. “What has happened, Joshua?” she whispered. “What do you suppose has happened to our dear Charmaine?”

“I’m afraid to guess,” Joshua bit out, “but I intend to find out.”

“How?”

“I will book passage to Charmantes,” he said determinedly. “And if you’re willing to brave the voyage, my dear, you are welcome to join me.”

“Do you think I’d allow you to travel there without me?”

The carriage pulled to a stop in front of the St. Jude Refuge, and Frederic allowed John to help him down to the cobblestone. “What are we doing here?” he queried in surprise.

“A bit of investigating,” John explained, as they entered the sanctuary. “I have a friend here who may have the means to provide information on our good Father Benito. We mustn’t forget the part he played in this atrocity.”

A nun opened the door. John pulled off his cap, and she led them into a tiny interior room, a makeshift office with sparse, worn furniture. They were seated for only a few minutes when a tall priest entered. His face brightened when John stood to greet him with a handshake. “John,” he breathed, belatedly noticing Frederic. “This must be your father.”

Frederic read the priest’s stunned expression and surmised he knew of their stormy relationship. As John introduced them, Michael stepped forward to shake hands. Something in his manner, his directness perhaps, put Frederic at ease.

“Please, have a seat,” Michael offered, pulling up a chair close to them. “I’m glad you decided to stop by. I’ve tried to get in touch with you for months now.”

“We’ve just arrived in Richmond,” John said.

The priest’s eyes returned to Frederic. “I gather your visit went well?”

“At the onset,” John answered grimly, “but this is not a social call, Michael. We learned the deaths of my son and Colette were not accidents. They were murdered.”

He recounted the evil plot that had taken the lives of Colette and Pierre. Michael listened without a word, reading the pain on each man’s face. “May God rest their souls,” he murmured compassionately when John had finished. “I’m very sorry. What can I do?”

John marshaled his emotions. “We’re seeking information on a Father Benito St. Giovanni. He shipwrecked on Charmantes almost twenty years ago and, when he recovered from nearly drowning, was asked to stay on as the island priest.”

“He claimed to be a missionary,” Frederic explained, “his destination another Caribbean island. During his recovery, he grew adamant about ‘converting’ Charmantes, assuring me the Vatican would approve such a mission, eventually boasting he’d received papal blessing from Rome. Of course, his work on my island could hardly be called missionary, but suggesting it afforded us a priest.”

John snorted. “If you could call him a priest.”

“Why do you say that, John?” Michael queried.

“He knew of the murders and was blackmailing my aunt.”

“Are you certain?”

“Oh, I’m certain,” John affirmed. “He confirmed all of Agatha’s mad ranting and raving. We even have a letter, penned in his own hand, as proof.”

“Dear God,” the priest sighed. “I’ll do what I can. It may take some time to receive word, but I’ll write to the Vatican and find out whatever I can about Father Benito St. Giovanni of Italy. When do you think you will return to Richmond?”

“That depends on how long it takes me to find Blackford in New York and—” John stopped short, but his manner and the fire in his eyes shook the priest.

“And?” Michael pressed, but John would say no more. “You don’t intend to take the law into your own hands, do you?” The silence collected and Michael looked to Frederic. “You’re not planning to murder this man, are you?” With Frederic’s muteness, Michael grew alarmed. “John, you must not do this! You may think retribution will satisfy you, but I promise, it will not. Please tell me you will not seek revenge on this man.”

“I can’t promise you that, Michael.”

Michael shook his head fiercely. “John—track him down, call the authorities, but leave it in their hands and in the hands of the Good Lord.”

“The Good Lord,” John bit out venomously, “allowed that man to take my innocent son, hold his head under the cold water and callously watch his arms and legs flail in unfathomable distress until the life was snuffed out of him.” Suddenly, he was crying. “Don’t tell me seeking revenge won’t satisfy me—bring me peace—because, goddamn it, I won’t know peace until the very last breath is snuffed out of him!”

Again Michael looked to Frederic. “You have to talk him out of this. He’ll be a wanted man—a murderer!”

“I can’t,” Frederic stated solemnly. “I want to see Blackford suffer as much as he does.”

“You are not in your right minds! Can’t you see this man is not worth your own souls? He’s already damned. Do not damn yourselves!”

Silence.

When the answer congealed into a knot of cold dread, Michael implored, “Is there nothing I can say to change your minds?”

“Pray for us, Father,” Frederic replied.

Michael shook his head, and John hurriedly stood, wanting only to end the meeting. “Depending on how long we’re in New York, we may head directly back to Charmantes. When you receive word from the Vatican, I’d appreciate it if you would send it to Stuart. He’ll make certain it gets to me.”

“I may deliver the correspondence myself,” Michael said softly, still shaken.

The statement piqued John’s curiosity. “Why?”

“I need to check on someone there,” Michael replied. “Actually, someone in your employ, Frederic.”

“Who?” Frederic asked, equally befuddled.

“The governess to your daughters—Charmaine Ryan.”

Though Frederic was surprised, John’s confusion ran rampant. “Charmaine?” he queried. How does Michael know her?

The priest was smiling again. “I took your advice, John, and contacted Loretta and Joshua Harrington shortly after you left for Charmantes. Charmaine was working for them when Marie passed away.”

Michael had never seen John speechless, let alone dumbstruck. “John, are you all right?”

“He’s in a bit of shock,” Frederic interjected. “You are the second person today who has inquired about his wife.”

“His wife?” Michael uttered. Impossible! The incredible coincidence had instantly grown fantastic. “But you never told me you knew her!”

“You never mentioned her name!” John rejoined.

“But surely you knew she was Marie’s daughter?” the priest pressed.

“I never knew,” John murmured, his memory jarred. That first morning he had come home, Charmaine had looked familiar. Marie—Charmaine was Marie’s daughter! His mind raced—John Ryan had killed Marie! His eyes darkened once more. “My God,” he breathed as all the pieces fit together. John Ryan isn’t Charmaine’s father! The insanity of it all hit him full force, and quite abruptly, he threw back his head and laughed. “Wait until Charmaine hears this!”

“No, John,” the priest warned, eyeing Frederic, intent upon keeping the story confidential. “You mustn’t tell anyone! I want to see her first.”

“Not tell her?” John queried in waxing glee. “Of course you’ve got to tell her! She hates the man she thinks is her father.”

“John, please,” Michael cut in, searching Frederic’s face.

John’s eyes traveled to his father as well. “Your little secret won’t shock him, Michael. He’s done plenty of things of which he’s not proud. Believe me, he keeps secrets better than you keep confessions.”

Later, as John and his father traveled to his town house, Frederic asked him about Charmaine’s mother.

“I met her a few years ago. She was working at St. Jude’s and came to my aid when I no longer wanted to live. Like Charmaine, she was my savior of sorts, and through her, I befriended Michael. Together, they turned my life in a new and, I think, better direction. If I had known about Marie’s hardship, I would have helped her. But I’m ashamed to say we only spoke of me.”

He looked out the window, introspective with the wrenching revelation. He thought of Charmaine and realized how much he missed her.

They spent a quiet evening together. After dinner, John withdrew to his desk and wrote to her, carefully choosing the words he put to paper, telling her he loved her and longed to put this ordeal behind him. He then penned a quick letter to Paul. When he was finished, he said goodnight to his father.

Frederic stayed awake long into the night, contemplating all that had gone before, all that had been revealed today, and all they had yet to face. He walked to the hearth and studied a small sketch tacked there. It was a picture of a black horse rearing high in the air with the words: Fantom misses you, Johnny! So do we! Love, Yvette. With a sad sigh, he traced a finger over the drawing. It was faded and curled at the edges. What was I thinking when I tore this family apart? He retired, praying to God that, for once in his life, he was doing the right thing.

Michael prayed fervently that night as well, kneeling before the crucifix that hung above his bed. By dawn, he had come to a decision, inspired by his prayers. He found Sister Elizabeth, told her about his plans and, throwing some clothing into a threadbare satchel, left St. Jude’s.

Silence stalked the halls, cloaked the rooms, and seeped into the cracks and crevices, joining the darkness in an eerie, unholy communion. It was near midnight. Agatha crept up the staircase, her head cocked to one side, listening, groping, grasping the balustrade. “Frederic?” she whispered. “Is that you? Robert! Where are you? Is it accomplished?”

She found a lamp on a table and blindly lit it, chasing the dark away to lurk with the shadows. “Who is it?” she cried. Sensing a movement far off to her left, she whirled around. “Elizabeth—is that you?” Undaunted, she stepped closer. “I told you never to come back here! Frederic is mine now!”

A cold gust of air swirled about her lithe form, carrying upon it a whisper. “He’s gone now … never to return … ” Her eyes darted about the corridor, tracking the breeze back down the cavernous flight. It was true; Frederic had left days ago, hadn’t returned since she’d explained everything to him. She thought he would understand, but now, she was apprehensive.

Paul hadn’t awakened. He should be hungry by now, should have wanted to nurse. Panic seized her. Had Frederic taken her babe away? Or had Robert taken him again? She’d told him to take Pierre! The air whispered from below, as if reading her thoughts. “Pierre, mon caillou … ”

Agatha flew down the stairs, tripping on her robe and nearly dropping the lamp. She followed the wraith into the drawing room, her eyes distended in recognition. There stood Colette, grasping the hand of her small son.

“You!” Agatha hissed. “Where is Robert?” she demanded, searching the room. “He was supposed to take your boy away!” She laughed truculently. “Frederic will now know how it feels to have a child ripped from his arms!”

“My boy is safe,” Colette whispered, “with me.”

Again Agatha’s eyes darted about. “Where’s Robert? Where is he?”

Colette smiled. “He’s gone … with the other babe … ”

“Elizabeth’s bastard?”

“No, John is with Frederic … is safe with his father.”

Fear seized Agatha. “Paul?” she cried, flying to all corners of the room and out to the foyer. “No! Robert promised me! He promised to make me happy—promised he’d never take Paul from me again!”

“But you didn’t make him happy,” Colette breathed. “He’s angry with you.”

It was true; Robert hated her now. Agatha had used him, and he knew it.

The front door flew open and the night air beckoned to her. “Where did he go?” she pleaded. “Where did he take my baby?”

Colette led the way. “You told him to drown the boy … ”

Instantly, Agatha knew. Desperate, she ran after the apparition that remained out of reach. “Oh God!” she sobbed.

“Agatha … you deserted Him long ago … ”

“Please!” she shrieked. “Not my son! Please, not my son!”

The dock was just ahead, and Agatha flew across it, possessed. She could see a dinghy bobbing in the waves. “Robert! No! Please! You have the wrong boy!”

There were cabins near the wharf. The men inside thought they heard a cry, but they stepped out too late, rubbing sleepy eyes. They heard a splash. Or was it the clapping waves? They shrugged and returned to their quarters.

Thursday, August 30, 1838

The Richmond harbor was already buzzing when John and Frederic arrived at the Raven. Jonah was on the quay with Stuart Simons, and John was pleased. He thought it would be months before he saw Stuart again.

“John,” he greeted, “I was expecting the Destiny to land today, but certainly not the Raven and you.” He noticed Frederic and politely extended a hand. “You must be Frederic,” he said jovially. “I’m Stuart Simons.”

John let Frederic reply, then took Stuart aside, walking the length of the boardwalk with him.

“Jonah told me what happened,” Stuart said. “I’m sorry, John.”

“I’m dealing with it,” John replied, abruptly brushing the matter aside. “Remember when you made inquiries about John Ryan?”

“Yes. What about it?”

“Have any of the longshoremen seen him?”

“I don’t know.” When John frowned, Stuart added, “I never really pursued it, so he may have been around.”

“Spread the word I’m offering a reward to anyone who can identify him. When you know who he is, pay him so well he can’t wait to come to work each day.”

“Why?” Stuart asked in bewilderment.

“Once he’s consistent about showing up, promote him to a better paying job on board a Charmantes-bound packet. When he’s on that ship, notify me.”

“But how am I to know where you are?”

“Send the information with the cargo invoices. If I’m not on the island, Paul will be there and know what to do. I’ve written to him.” John pulled two letters from his shirtfront. “Make sure these are on the Destiny.”

“But she’s headed for Liverpool. We’re packing her hold with tobacco.”

“Load only half,” John directed. “The Raven will return to Richmond by next week, ready to take on a full cargo. As for the Destiny, Paul can fill her hold with sugar.” He handed Stuart the letters. “It’s important these get to Charmantes.”

John didn’t know Michael Andrews had boarded the Raven. Frederic told him to stay below deck until they were far from port. When he did emerge, John was annoyed. “What’s this?” and he looked from his father to Michael. “Now I have two fathers with whom to contend?”

“You’re stuck with me,” Michael said, casting his eyes heavenward. “Rant and rave all you like, but I’ve been sent by a higher authority.”

“I hope you can walk on water, Michael. Any preaching, and I’m throwing you overboard.”

The news of Agatha’s death reached Paul when he arrived in town early that morning. In less than an hour, he stepped onto Espoir. The corpse was left as it had been found on the beach, with a blanket draped over it. With a mixture of disgust and guilt, hatred and sadness, he looked down at Agatha’s bloated body. His heart heavy, he ordered two men to construct a pine box for the burial.

That night, he sat in his grand mansion, alone and lonely. So this was what commercial success meant. In the past four months, three vessels had departed his island; their cargo would fetch tidy purses. Yet today, he didn’t feel the deep satisfaction he’d always experienced when he’d worked hard for his father. He retired, the empty hallways echoing his desolation. He could not sleep.

Michael knocked on John’s cabin door, then entered the cubicle on an indrawn breath and a prayer. John was seated at a small desk, his brow furrowed. “I’m not here to preach,” Michael promised. “I’d like to talk about Charmaine.”

John leaned back and propped his feet atop the desk, inviting him to sit on the small cot. He was smiling now. “I love her,” he said decisively.

Michael returned the smile and asked, “How did this happen?”

“God, Michael, I don’t know. When I returned home to find Colette had died, Charmaine was already there caring for the children. I didn’t like her at first. Actually, I misjudged her.” I misjudged Colette … John frowned with the unbidden thought, rubbed his brow, and addressed Michael again. “We were thrown together day after day. I wanted to spend as much time as possible with Pierre, and of course, she was always there. She was a mother to him. When he died, she was as devastated as I was, and yet, she comforted me. Looking back on it now, I know I was in love with her when I left last fall, but with everything that happened, I wasn’t ready to admit it until I went back home last April and saw her again.” He grinned with the heady memory. “It was a taste of heaven to find she felt the same way about me.”

John grew thoughtful. “If your God is out there, Michael, he planned this one pretty well, didn’t he? And I promise you this: we couldn’t protect Marie, but you needn’t ever worry about Charmaine.”

“What of Colette?” Michael mused. “You said you couldn’t love another.”

“I didn’t believe I could,” John murmured. “But I do.”

“Enough to forgive your father and yourself?”

John’s face hardened. “I don’t know.”

“He’s forgiven you, hasn’t he?” Michael probed.

John was uncomfortable and rose swiftly from the desk. Michael wisely changed the subject. “When were the vows spoken?”

“On the island, after Paul’s party. It was very private with Father Benito—” John’s words broke off, and Michael followed his thoughts: What if the priest isn’t a priest at all? “When we are finished in New York,” John decided, “we will have a ceremony on Charmantes with you presiding this time, Michael.”

“I would be honored.”

“There is something else you should know. You are going to be a grandfather.”

Michael wondered if the surprises would ever end, but this was the sort of announcement he could capitalize on. “A baby on the way,” he pondered softly. “When is he or she due?”

“Around Christmastide.”

“And you think it wise to be away from Charmaine at such a time?”

“You sound like my father,” John pronounced as he began to pace.

“We’re concerned for you, as well as for your new son or daughter.”

“Yes, I’m sure you are,” John muttered, then he stopped in his tracks. “So—is the sermon coming now or are you still leading up to it?”

“John—”

“You’re wasting your time, Michael.”

“John, you are one of the most honorable men I know. For that reason alone, my time is not being wasted. But you are also married to my daughter now. I can’t keep silent. We each have our missions here.”

John’s tumultuous eyes mocked his crooked grin, but he did not argue.

Friday, August 31, 1838

Agatha Blackford Ward Duvoisin was not buried beside Frederic’s other two wives. Paul had her grave dug on the far side of the cemetery. Charmaine, George, and Mercedes were the only ones attending the small funeral, for the girls had refused to go, and even for Paul’s sake, Charmaine could not force them to pray for the woman who had murdered their mother and brother.

Without a priest, it fell to Paul to offer a eulogy, one sad sentence that chilled Charmaine’s soul: “May God forgive you and bring you the peace you never found in this life.” With bowed head, she allowed her tears to fall, not for Agatha, but for her son.

Late that night, Charmaine found Paul in the dark library; he’d allowed the lamp to burn out. She stepped into the room, the hallway sconces sending a shaft of light across the chair in which he lounged. As she moved closer, she found he slept. Her eyes filled with tears again. It would have been easier to love this man, she realized. Today, he had desperately needed someone to love him. Her mind wandered back to that time of innocence, when a bare chest and a lazy smile made her legs go weak. She’d always treasure those profound feelings of first love.

“Paul,” she whispered. “Paul?”

He stirred, his eyes fluttering open, and then, almost in a daze, he realized where he was. He rubbed his brow and then his eyes. “I must have fallen asleep.”

“Why don’t you go to bed? You’ve had a draining day.”

“No, no,” he dissented. “I wouldn’t be able to sleep if I retired.”

He stood, stretched, and went to the decanter to pour himself a drink. “Would you like some?” he offered, but she only shook her head.

“I felt the baby move today,” she said, attempting to break the melancholy.

His half-smile told her she hadn’t succeeded. “And how have you been feeling?” he asked.

“Better. Rose was right. The first few months were the worst.”

“You look beautiful, Charmaine,” he told her, his smile finally reaching his eyes as if he’d read her thoughts, “even if you are in the family way.”

Why this silly small talk? She inhaled, then plunged headlong into the source of their misery. “Paul, we haven’t spoken about this, and perhaps now is not the time, but John told me everything about your father and Agatha, and—” she paused, searching for the right words “—you should know you’re one of the finest men I’ve ever known. I hope you don’t hold yourself responsible for what’s happened to this family. I don’t, and I’m certain John doesn’t, either.”

He was listening intently, but she was uncertain of his reaction.

“I’ve lived with that terrible feeling of helplessness,” she continued, “and I’ve finally realized I could never have changed my father or prevented what he did. Agatha is only a bad memory now, but she did bless this world with something very good— you.”